Josiah had known, deep in his bones, that it would be Fael.
Red mounted up. Once she was in the saddle, Bethral released her hold on the bridle. Beast danced a bit, but Red controlled him easily. Beast wasn’t a lovely horse in a classic sense, but he was the picture of strength. The horse’s black coat shone, and Red had let his mane and tail grow out. Someone had offered to braid the tail, but Red had declined with a laugh. “Beast hates to have it braided. Makes him even ornerier.”
Josiah wasn’t sure that was possible.
Bethral threaded her way through the mounted men, over to the fence where Steel was still fussing.
Red laughed again, as someone complained about Beast.
Josiah tried to memorize the sight of her, there on her horse, her sword at her side. He’d had his nights, and kept their bargain, and now the Chosen would go forth and claim her throne.
Snowdrop bleated plaintively and butted his leg.
She was so damned lovely. And she was leaving.
Josiah’s stomach was an aching pit, his mouth full of words he couldn’t say. Don’t go.
Don’t sleep with him.
Lord Fael would try to bed her. Sweet Sovereign Sun, any man would. She was as lovely as a sharp sword blade, honed to perfection. More than anything, he wanted to claim something he had no right to. If he didn’t say anything, she’d….
Josiah straightened, and took a step toward—
“Are we ready?” Red called.
Evie opened her eyes and gestured. The enlarged portal appeared. Red called out an order and the horses surged forward, then disappeared within.
Josiah took a few steps forward as the last rider vanished. A few more steps, and….
The portal “popped,” whether by Evelyn’s call or his presence, he didn’t know.
Red Gloves was gone.
STEEL neighed, complaining. Ezren watched as Bethral patted his shoulder. “Easy, boy. Your herd will be back soon enough.” She tied the horse’s head to the fence and picked up a hoof. “Let’s take a look at you.”
Ezren was quite content to sit in the sun and watch Bethral tend to her steed. His chair was well sheltered from any breeze. He had a cloak, and a blanket besides.
He watched as Lord Josiah stomped off with his goats. There went an unhappy man. Ezren was fairly certain Josiah had lost his heart to the Chosen, but he kept his tongue in his head. It would be a fine story, either way, but he suspected Red Gloves would not be pleased if he told it.
Maybe if he changed the names?
Ezren leaned his head against the barn wall and closed his eyes. High Priestess Evelyn had told him to start walking about, to get some more exercise. He’d do that later. But for now…
“Your verdict, Lady?” he asked without opening his eyes.
There was a pause before Bethral spoke, and Ezren smiled, knowing full well he’d caught her out.
“You’re doing well,” she said. “The sharp edges of your bones have filled out, and there’s more weight to you.”
“If you talk as if I were a horse,” Ezren chided, without opening his eyes. “Next you will comment on my flanks, or the look of my hocks.”
“My apologies, Story—” Her voice was soft and contrite.
“No matter,” Ezren chuckled. “It is due to Lady Arent’s cooking, I assure you. I would be well satisfied with bread and cheese, but she keeps piling meats and sauces on my plate until I burst. If I see one more potpie thick with meat and sauce, I swear I will—”
“Eat it.” Bethral finished his sentence.
Ezren heaved a much-put-upon sigh. “Eat it.” He looked down at his hands, and the scarring on his wrists. “I am quite sure, given what you told me, that in the past few months I would have desired this food above all else.”
“You don’t remember?”
Ezren looked out over the fields to where the men were working on one of the fences. “I remember being attacked.” He squinted a bit, remembering a flash of light on a copper coin and blue eyes promising his safety. But the less said about that, the better. “I remember awakening in that hut. Nothing between. It is a story I do not know…or wish to remember.”
Bethral’s gaze was on Steel’s hoof. “A mercy, perhaps.”
“Perhaps.” Ezren nodded agreement. “Although no story should be lost.” He watched as she picked at the horse’s hoof. “Tell me of the Twelve.”
Bethral glanced over before returning to her task. “I am not a follower, Storyteller. You should ask Red.”
“She is not here. Tell me what you know,” Ezren insisted. “What is the way of the Twelve?”
Bethral released Steel’s foot, and the horse dropped it down. She moved to the next, and Steel snorted as she lifted it and braced it between her legs. “What do you know of it?” she asked.
Ezren shrugged. “Only that its followers do not believe in any gods.”
Bethral shook her head, pick in hand. “That is not the full truth.” She looked over at him. “What do you wish to hear? The story? Or the tenets of the faith?”
Ezren leaned back, and pulled the cloak tighter around his body. “The story, of course.”
He caught her smile as she bent to her task and began to speak. “Many, many years ago, a plague came upon the land of Soccia. None knew its cause, none knew its cure, and it swept over the land, killing all in its path. The people cried out to the priests for aid, but the priests were dying. They cried out to their lords and ladies, but the nobles were dying. They cried out to the King himself, but the Queen was dead, and the King was mad with grief. Finally the people, all the people, cried out to the Gods themselves, but the Gods were silent.
“Now the King and Queen had been blessed with fine sons and daughters, twelve in all. These Princes and Princesses went out among the sick and dying, and rendered aid in any way that they could. Each carried a staff as they walked about the land.
“The people blessed them for it, and would have worshipped them, but the Princes and Princesses would have none of that. Instead, they urged the ones they aided to aid others in turn, and so the land and the kingdom came to be reclaimed.
“It came to pass that the King emerged from his tower to find his people praising his children. Instead of pride or gratitude, something dark twisted in his belly. He summoned his guard, and had his children brought to the center of the capital, and declared them to be treasonous, plotting to take his throne. He ordered their deaths, there in the town square.
“The people cried out in despair, pleading for the King to spare his children, pleading for the Gods to intervene. But the King ignored their cries, and the Gods were silent. The Princes and the Princesses bowed their heads in obedience to their father and liege lord, and were executed in the square, their blood flowing over the stones.
“All were silent as the last died. The King opened his mouth to dismiss the crowd, but one man stepped forward, and took up the eldest prince’s staff. ‘I will take up this man’s staff and walk in his steps.’ With that, he faded back into the crowd. Then a woman stepped forward, repeating the words of the first, to take up the staff of one of the dead Princesses. And so on, until all twelve staffs had been taken up.
“The King screamed in anger, sending his guards to find the twelve, but they were gone. The dead were buried. The King took his throne. The priests reopened their temples.
“But the people did not return.”
Ezren frowned at that, but Bethral continued. “Instead, they followed the way of the twelve who took up the staves and walked the world in aid of all men.
“Do not seek them in the halls of power, for they will not be there. Do not seek them in the temples, for they will not be there. Do not pray to them, for they cannot hear you. They are men and women who appear where there is work to be done.”
“You weave a fine tale, Lady,” Ezren said. His voice was rough, but he tried hard to keep his pain out of it. “Red follows this faith?”
Bethral nodded with a soft smile.
“Some days better than others.”
Ezren laughed. “So do we all, Lady.” He thought about what he’d heard for a while, as Bethral finished her task. “What do you believe, Lady?”
“There is a great deal of wisdom in the way of the Twelve.” Bethral released Steel’s hoof. “But I follow the ways of my mother’s people.” She patted Steel’s neck, and the horse swung its head to snuff her hair. “And you, Storyteller?”
“In Palins there is but one faith, that of the Lord of Light and the Lady of Laughter.” Ezren looked into the sky. “These many years, the Church and the Archbishop have placed more emphasis on the Lord rather than the Lady. Other beliefs are tolerated, but not encouraged.”
Bethral shrugged. “My beliefs do not require that I proclaim them, or draft others to them.”
“So there are no temples or churchs in Soccia.”
Bethral gave him a sly smile. “Once in a great while, a temple will open and the priests will invite all to a festival of worship, with food and drink for the taking. The place is packed to the rafters all day long, with many seeking to hear their words. The priests are all pleased by their efforts by the end of the day, but no one appears for services the next day.”
Ezren chuckled. “They come only for the free meal.”
“Just so.” Bethral untied Steel, and let him out the gate to the pasture.
A sound caused Ezren to turn his head. A band of warriors headed toward them. The youngest grinned as they came closer. “Lady Bethral, we are here to spar.”
“No.” Bethral gave them a steady look. “I saw that halfhearted archery practice yesterday, when I was working with Jaff on his shield work.”
Ezren refrained from laughing out loud as the men all seemed to sag at once. “Sparring is more fun,” one complained.
“It does no good to learn only one way or weapon,” Bethral answered firmly. “So we will practice this day.”
“Standing around, shooting—”
“Who said that?” Bethral took up her picks and brushes. “Go and get your short bows and quivers. We are going to set a course through the woods and run it, seeking cover and hitting small targets.”
That perked them up.
“The Chosen has started to move.” Bethral gestured to where the portal had been. “Very soon, she will need our skills. And if I know Red Gloves, things will start to move quickly from this point on.”
Ezren shook his head and stood up carefully, fully intending to watch. “Stories have a way of doing that, Lady Bethral. And usually when you least expect it.”
RED lounged in her chair her boots up on the corner of a well-worn wooden table, with a full belly, and a mug of ale in her hand. She was trying desperately not to let her face show the extent of her boredom.
It wasn’t something she was good at, so she scowled into her mug. That she could do.
Lady High Priestess Evelyn was seated next to Red. She looked over with a mild expression, and raised one eyebrow.
Red lowered her boots to the floor.
High Baron Fael was an excellent host. He’d welcomed them publicly, allowed Evelyn to present Red, viewed her birthmark with interest, and announced his desire to learn more of the Chosen. He’d invited them to sup with him, and now his hall was filled with men and dogs and the remains of a wonderful meal.
They’d been seated in all honor at the high table. High Baron told great stories of his hunts. Auxter was listening with keen interest, but the Lady High Priestess had a polite look on her face. Red was willing to wager that the woman was actually asleep with her eyes open.
Except for her boots-off-the-table look.
Auxter and Evelyn had tried to bring the conversation around to the Chosen, and Lord Fael’s support. But the man managed to dodge every question, and parry with an observation about the hunt. But from his sly looks and soft smiles, Red knew she had his attention in other ways.
Red let her head loll back to observe the great hall they were in. High Baron Fael believed in showing the fruits of his labors, and many a set of antlers were hanging on the walls. A fair number of skins as well, to cut the drafts. Red admired them, but for some reason her mind’s eye seemed to compare the hall to a small hut with herbs hanging from the rafters.
Red straightened, and scowled into the fire pit before her.
The men had been sent off to the barracks. Their host had taken pains to see to their comfort, true enough. But one more story of running down a deer and she would—
Red scowled at her mug again. Hard to get a man’s backing if he was gutted on your blade.
Pity.
To give the man his due, he was a charmer. Lord High Baron Fael was a big man, easily as tall as Bethral. Broad at the shoulder, narrow at the hips. His reddish-blond hair was thick and wavy, and his eyes sparkled bright blue.
Here was a man, a warrior, who thought as she did. Spoke her language. A man who knew the difference between a cestus and a halberd and knew how to use them both. Handsome, charming—and certain sure, if his bed was as busy as Josiah—
Red cut that thought off.
As they said, then certain sure Fael’d be a skilled lover.
Here she was, wearing fine armor that almost seemed to breathe with her, light and comfortable. Her blades were sharp, her ale was cold, her belly was full, and her itch about to be well and truly scratched….
Except she wasn’t itchy.
Red put a gloved hand to her mouth, and started to chew at the stitching on the side of the index finger.
She should be satisfied. Content. The Chosen, and acknowledged as such, damn it all to the very fire pits of the lower hells and back up the path. This polite banter would end, she’d be invited to his bed, and all would be well.
Wouldn’t it?
Although if this polite banter went on much longer, Red planned to go bed down with the troops.
But at last, Lord Fael released his men from the hall, and waved his servants away. As the room cleared, he turned to them with a polite smile. “Lady High Priestess, Lord Auxter, I wish to consider your words. Please, let me give you an answer in the morning. My servants await to escort you to your quarters.”
“Our thanks.” Evelyn rose, as did Red and Auxter.
“Stay, Chosen,” Lord Fael requested. “I’d have further words with you.”
Red didn’t bother exchanging glances with the others. She just nodded, easing back into her chair. “As you wish, Lord Fael.”
The tap of Auxter’s staff echoed in the room as he and Evelyn left.
“So, what makes you think you can restore the Throne?” Lord Fael poured them each another mug of ale, and leaned back in his chair to put his boots on the table.
Red mimicked his pose, just as relaxed and confident. “Let me tell you about our plans.”
They talked well in to the night, long enough that Lord Fael himself had to stoke the fire and add wood. To Red’s surprise, he actually listened carefully, asking good questions and letting her explain her answers. Finally, he stood and stretched. She admired the movement of his tunic over his chest.
“The night grows late, Chosen. I’m for bed.”
She nodded, drained her ale, and stood.
Fael moved closer, to stand right next to her. He smelled of metal, oil, and sweat. He stepped closer, and tugged at the lacings on her armor. His breath on her check was sweet with ale. Not an unpleasant scent.
But not marjoram, either.
Fael moved closer, and Red tilted her neck to give him access. He nuzzled just under her ear. His fingers reached under the leather and stroked her birthmark, soft and warm against her skin.
“Would you be adverse to my company this night?” Fael asked softly.
Had to give him credit for courtesy, at the very least. Red drew a breath….
TWENTY
…AND hesitated.
“Lady?” Lord Fael asked.
Red stepped away from him, and shook her head. She almost didn’t believe the words that came
out of her mouth. “I cannot.”
When she spoke, she realized that it was true. What used to mean little other than physical pleasure now meant something else. It had changed somehow. She’d just gotten Josiah’s eyes to laugh. How could she cause them to fill with pain?
Lord Fael smirked. “What? You aren’t going to spread your legs for the cause?”
Her anger flared at the insult, and it was a relief. Anger was familiar. Something she understood. Red snarled, “If I thought it would win your honest support and loyalty, I’d bed you. And leave you panting and stupid.” She put her hand on her sword hilt, but went no further. It wouldn’t do to kill him. “How do I know that your loyalty won’t shift when another woman enters your bed?”
“A shared throne would be an incentive,” Fael replied.
Red pressed her lips together. “There is”—she had to pause for a moment—“there is someone else.”
Lord Fael gave her a look. “You are bonded?”
“No.” Red shrugged, uncomfortable. “But there is someone who would be hurt.”
“And that bothers you.”
“Yes,” Red growled. She didn’t really want to think about that, but—
“You surprise me, Chosen.” Lord Fael sat back down. “I’d have thought you’d do almost anything to win my support.”
Red thumped back down in her chair. “So did I.”
“Who is this…man?” Fael asked.
“Lord Josiah of Athelbryght.”
Fael’s eyes narrowed. “You lie. Josiah of Athelbryght is dead these handful of years past.”
Red shook her head. “He lives, isolated and alone in the ruins of his land.”
Fael sat back. “Josiah was…is…a good man. A friend as well. Why didn’t he accompany you? His presence—”
Red sighed. “Call for more ale, Fael. This will take some time to explain.”