Ezren gave him a withering glance. “I meant Lady Bethral.”
“Ah.” Oris returned to his work, deciding then and there that he’d shut his mouth. The Storyteller was a complicated man, and it wouldn’t do to offend. He’d been thinking there was something wrong since they’d left the bog, but he hadn’t pressed the man.
Now, lovesick might be one explanation. Either that, or the man was bound up inside. A good dose of butternut oil would take care of the second problem.
Nothing was gonna help the first.
Oris lifted his eye from the stone for a moment, looking at the blonde warrior. A good one in a fight, that was sure, but to lose his heart to such a one? No thanks. Hells, he had to admire Lord Josiah for bedding the Chosen. The very idea made his manhood shrivel up. Now, a nice plump wife with a cheery smile, that was more to his taste.
His gaze went down to the blade against the stone, and Oris frowned at it. Better than nothing, but he could wish for his own steel back in his hand.
“What is that?” Ezren straightened.
Oris looked up. They’d opened that wooden box, and Larrisa was pulling out flannel bundles. The cloth in Alad’s hands unfolded to reveal a piece of a suit of armor—plate, by the look of it. Oris stood, admiring its silver curve and its soft sheen. Even from this distance, he could see the quality. “That’s a suit of plate, I do believe.”
Now everyone was reaching down, pulling out pieces and unwrapping them. Oris walked closer for a good look, the storyteller right behind him. “Gods, is that horse barding, too?” Oris asked as he peered over Alad’s shoulder.
“Aye.” Larrisa looked at him, her worn face softened into a smile. “’Twas my man’s.”
Bethral frowned. “Larrisa, I can’t take this. I did not…”
“No.” Larrisa smiled. “He’d not have minded.” She looked at the horse. “They were a grand sight, he and the lass, all decked out in it. A grand sight.”
Like kittens at cream, they dug it out of the trunks. Oris studied the pieces as they were held up. “Not true plate. Looks like a mix of plate and chain.”
Larrisa nodded, as she held a piece up to Bethral’s chest. “Jeran wanted something he could move in.” She looked at Bethral. “You’ve the size to wear it.”
Lady Bethral protested, but in a moment, she had more handmaidens around her than a virgin at a Goddess Wedding. Oris joined in, with everyone talking and laughing and trying to get the straps and buckles adjusted for fit. The padding underneath went on, a bit snug, and from there Bethral was slowly encased in metal, gleaming in the soft sun. When they had almost finished with her, they started putting the barding on the horse, their eagerness spilling over onto the beast.
Bethral frowned. “Isn’t that too much of a weight for her to take so soon?”
Larrisa shook her head. “’Twill be good for the lass. Won’t hurt her none.”
Oris had to admit that the horse seemed to be enjoying the whole fuss. The cat snarled, and jumped down, strutting back toward the barn.
Finally, Bethral stood, in full armor, helmet on her head. The horse stood next to her, dressed out in full barding. Bethral took a breath, then mounted, pulling herself into the saddle with ease.
Oris winced. That flat chest plate must be pushing down on her breasts hard. But even with the poor fit, even with the tired horse underneath, they were a sight to behold, there in the sun.
The others had backed off, drinking it in. A full outfit like that was rarely seen outside of royalty. Oris had to admire the work. It was an impressive sight, and it deserved to be paid tribute.
Larrisa made a soft sound, and Oris turned to see her eyes brimming. He stepped closer, and laid his hand on her back. She smiled at him, and opened her mouth, but a yowl cut through the air.
Oris jumped when a dark streak ran from the barn and launched itself onto the horse, using its claws in the chain to pull itself up, not stopping until it reached Bethral’s shoulder. The cat yowled, a high, angry cry.
“Raiders!” Bethral bellowed.
Oris spun, cursing. He had a brief glimpse of an archer, then dragged Larrisa down to the ground. Larrisa sprawled flat, crying out in surprise. She struggled to rise, but he pushed her flat, cursing himself for a thrice-damned fool. Them all out in the open, and the weapons in the forge….
RED cursed as she turned to see a large group of men charging their way, a few on horse but most on foot. She’d pay for her stupidity now, standing here, out in the open, nothing but a shard in her belt.
She’d pay. But the others—
Josiah scooped up the girls, and ran for the barn. Red saw Oris go down as she ran forward. Alad was behind her, at the forge, getting swords—but too late, too damn late, as one of the mounted raiders bore down on her, intent on riding her down, sword raised for a blow. She bounced up on her toes, waiting until the last minute to dodge, maybe get her shard—
A battle cry sounded, freezing her heart in her throat.
Bethral, mounted on the horse, charged past. Red drew in a breath, the small hairs on the back of her neck rising. For they were changed, those two, horse and rider. They glowed, the very image of perfection. Horse and rider moved together, smooth and powerful. There was no tiredness here, no ill-fitting pieces. And as fast as that flashed through Red’s head, they moved on the charging raider.
Red had it in her to pity the poor bastard.
The man raised his sword, and they clashed together, but he had no chance, in leather, his sword a mere toy in comparison to the mace Bethral swung against him. Bessie slammed into the horse, knocking it off balance.
“Chosen!” Alad ran up, swords in his hand.
Red reached for one as Oris struggled to his feet. Larrisa scrambled away, toward the barn, screaming for Therrin.
Red, Alad, and Oris spread out, waiting for the rest of the band. Red knew that one mounted warrior would not hold them. She looked up as she moved into position, and realized that she was mistaken.
Bethral and her mount danced before the men, almost daring them to draw close. One stepped too close, and the horse spun and kicked, high and clean.
The man collapsed.
Bessie danced away, as if there was no burden on her back. The raiders paused, but they pressed forward, surging to get around them. Bethral kneed the horse, and Bessie lashed out with a hoof, catching one in the knee. He screamed in pain, and Bethral used her mace to drive him to the ground.
But a few of the men on foot slipped past, running toward Red and the others. Red screamed her own battle cry, moving forward to meet the attack with blade and shard. The others formed a line with her, intent on protecting the barn and the children within.
Red lunged in first, feinting. Her attacker’s blade cut the padded quilting, just under her breast. Red showed her teeth as she rammed the shard home in his groin. It scraped against the bone, which made her smile as she pulled it free.
Red turned to aid Alad when Therrin ran from the smithy with a sword and a shield. Larrisa screamed as one of the raiders turned to meet this new threat, a vicious grin on his face.
Therrin held his shield high, taking the blow from his attacker’s sword. Red wasn’t close enough; no one was.
Bethral cried out, and then they were there, horse and rider. Bessie plowed the man into the mud, and crushed his head under a massive hoof.
Red turned back to the battle, but there wasn’t one left. Oris and Alad had defeated their remaining opponents. All that was left was the stench of blood, and silence.
Larrisa ran to Therrin’s side and fell to her knees, embracing the lad and crying.
The barn door opened slightly. Red noted that, but her attention was on the horse and rider. “Bethral?” Red called out.
There was no response. The horse stamped its foot, dancing a bit from the rage of the battle.
“Bethral?” Red’s voice rang out in the chill air of the yard.
Her head turned. Red caught her eye. And yet, not quite Bethral’
s eye.
Now the hairs on Red’s arms joined the ones lifting on the back of her neck. There was a power there, surging through the two of them. It looked through Bethral’s eyes, and smiled, as if secretly amused.
Red glared back.
The figure nodded toward the barn.
Red turned her head slightly, and stepped back.
Ezren was standing at the barn door, his eyes wide with fright. His hands were straight out before him, and they held fire, or rather, were wreathed in flames.
The storyteller stared at them, terrified.
“Ezren,” Red breathed, and moved forward.
“Is it safe?” Josiah’s voice came from behind, and suddenly the flames were snuffed out, as fast as a candle in the wind.
Ezren stood for a moment, then collapsed to the ground. Josiah appeared behind him, leaning over to check the man.
Red turned back.
Bethral was gazing at her from beneath the helmet, with a puzzled look on her face.
Larrisa came over to Red, her arm around Therrin’s shoulders. The boy was protesting bitterly, but his mom was crying with relief. Larrisa smiled, but then her smile froze.
Red gave her a look. What the hells?
Larrisa knelt down, pulling Therrin with her. As Red looked down, Larrisa raised her hand slowly and carefully and tugged at Red’s slashed jerkin. She stared at the birthmark below Red’s breast. Her gaze darted from Red’s face to her chest and back.
Then, trembling, she reached for Red’s hand.
“Larrisa…” Red really had no words as she shifted her blades and took the proffered hand. What could she say?
Larrisa swallowed hard. “You are the Chosen of the prophecy.” She clutched at Red’s hand with damp fingers and stared up into her eyes. “We’d heard you’d come.”
Red’s throat closed and she nodded, more for a lack of words than anything else.
Therrin gaped at her, kneeling next to his mother, clutching his sword and shield.
Larrisa came up on her knees in the blood and the mud. She pressed her free hand against the mark. She lifted her face to Red. “I, Larrisa, once of Penature, pledge my life to the Chosen, now and forever, binding my blood and the blood of my children to your service….”
IT took time to sort it all out, time they didn’t have.
Josiah watched as Red snapped orders, getting bodies disposed of, getting people moving. The girls had been very brave, going right up the ladder to hide in the hay, just as he’d told them to do. But it took their mother’s voice to get them to come out of hiding, and many hugs before they settled down.
The raiders were stripped, their bodies dragged into the fields. Which was where their horses were found, and three pack horses as well. Alad discovered their stolen gear in the packs.
Josiah helped stand watch as Red dressed in her regular armor and buckled on her sword belt. She muttered under her breath as she did the same service for Oris and Alad, darting glances at Bethral and her horse.
Ezren claimed he was fine, and denied that anything out of the ordinary had happened. He’d just collapsed with relief. He mounted his horse with seeming ease, and stared at the surrounding area, claiming to be on watch, thus cutting short any talk.
Bethral stayed in her armor. It had been changed, fully fitting her curves. Josiah had pointed that out, but Red really didn’t want to talk about that at all. She wanted them moving, as soon as possible.
But there were Larrisa and her children to consider. Josiah looked at the woman, who was loading one of the spare horses with their personal items. Oris and Alad had the girls on their horses.
“They’re coming with us,” Red said. “There’s no choice.”
Josiah nodded. “They can homestead in Athelbryght. Larrisa would be useful in the rebuilding.”
There was a silence, then Red looked over at him, as if seeing him for the first time. She nodded solemnly. “That’s very true.”
Josiah frowned, as he realized that Red’s eyes were shadowed. “What’s wrong—”
Therrin came around the corner of the building, driving three pigs before him. “Ma says to bring them with us!” His eyes lit up with excitement.
Red groaned.
Ezren looked over, a sly smile on his face. “When I tell this story, Chosen”—he paused for effect—“and I will tell it, someday.” His smile grew to a grin. “When I tell the tale of the Chosen, I will leave out the pigs.”
Red snarled.
Ezren chuckled.
Red pulled herself into Beast’s saddle. “I’ve had more than enough mayhem, magic, and gods for one day.” She looked back as the others mounted as well. “Let’s be about it, shall we? I’ve a prophecy to fulfill.”
TWENTY-SEVEN
GLORIANA stepped through the portal and into the darkness of the shrine in Athelbryght; from bright sun to cool shadows in an instant. A trip through the portal was usually a treat, but Gloriana’s stomach wasn’t churning with happiness or excitement.
She swallowed the lump of fear, and stepped forward into Aunt Evie’s waiting arms.
“Gloriana.” Aunt Evie’s voice was warm, her white robes soft and comforting. Gloriana buried her face in them. She felt safe, wrapped in the hug, and didn’t look as she heard Vembar and Arent emerge from the portal.
“What word?” Arent asked quietly, in her firm, steady voice.
“None.” Gloriana felt Evie sigh as she spoke. “Red and the others are overdue to the meeting, and no word has come. Lord Carell has people searching from his end, and I’ve sent a scouting party from here. We should know more soon.”
Aunt Evie’s arms tightened around her, then eased her back. Gloriana looked into those kind eyes. “Lord Carell is here, awaiting word,” Aunt Evie added, then hesitated. “And I sent for more assistance. Lord Mage Marlon is here.”
“Marlon?” Vembar asked, leaning on his cane. “I thought you’d kept him out of this.”
“I did, up to this point.” Evelyn nodded as she headed to the door of the shrine. “But now…”
Her voice trailed off as she walked out.
Arent followed, and Gloriana turned to lend Vembar her shoulder. The old man gave her a smile. “Relax, Little One. You bear the mark of the Chosen. You’ve the birth and the training, and you will make a wonderful Queen.” He leaned over, and put his hand on her shoulder. “Display the mark, Gloriana. They need to see it when they see you. To be reassured.”
Gloriana gave him a weak smile, and nodded as she reached for the lacings. It was getting harder to display the mark without blushing. When she’d been younger, it hadn’t bothered her. But now…
She undid the clever lacings, and fastened them so that the mark was displayed. Red had pointed out to her that it could be worse. “What if it was between our cheeks? How do you display that, eh?” She could hear Red’s voice in her head, and it made her feel better.
“Good.” Vembar smiled at her. “That will reassure them that the Chosen still leads the cause.”
Gloriana had her doubts. Always before, it had been “when.” When you are older, when the High Barons support you, that’s when you will lead us. But now, Red Gloves had turned “when” into “now,” and if something had happened to her—
Vembar stumbled on the steps, clutching the door frame with a frail hand. Gloriana reached to help him. She needed to stop fretting, and focus on helping Vembar down the path.
Arent was standing outside, waiting. “I’ll do this, child. Walk with Evie.”
Gloriana looked into her face, seeing the strain there. Auxter was one of the missing, but Arent stood tall and patient. Gloriana wished she had that kind of strength.
Vembar reached for Arent’s arm. “Go on ahead, child.”
Gloriana walked forward alone. She was wearing the armor that Connor had made for her, as he had for Red Gloves. She was the Chosen Heir, and Red had insisted that she look the part, right down to the armor. But right now, all Gloriana knew was that there was a bead
of cold sweat forming in the middle of her back, trickling down her spine.
Aunt Evie had waited for her, and they emerged from the trees together. Men were milling about the barn, keeping clear of the command tent. Evie walked steadily toward the tent, and Gloriana kept the same pace, as much as she wanted to run. All eyes were on them, and she could feel the weight of their stares.
Gloriana stiffened her shoulders as they drew closer to the men, and concentrated on not stumbling over a rock or root. She nodded to some of the warriors and gave them what she prayed was a relaxed smile.
It seemed to work. Men returned the nod, and then went back to their work, breaking up the stares to some degree. But even if they weren’t looking at her, the responsibility was still there, pressing on her shoulders.
She breathed a small prayer to the Lord of Light and the Lady of Laughter. Let Red Gloves be safe, let her ride into the camp at any moment, cursing and ready to take command.
The command tent had its sides rolled up. Gloriana stepped onto the platform, where two men were waiting. One was a tall, handsome black man, with black hair and dark eyes. The other was seated, an extraordinarily fat man wearing a silk robe that swirled with color.
“High Baron Carell, let me make you known to Gloriana,” Evie was saying.
“Chosen?” The black man stood, his expression puzzled.
Gloriana stepped forward, and smiled. “The Chosen Heir, Lord Carell.”
The fat man snorted. The black man gave him a frown, then smiled at Gloriana. “A pleasure, Chosen.”
Gloriana gestured. “Please, be seated. Have you been offered food? Wine?”
“We have, girl. Not up to the standards of Athelbryght, that is certain,” rumbled the fat man.
“Athelbryght will recover.” Evelyn spoke calmly, but Gloriana could tell she was irritated. “Gloriana, this is Lord Mage Marlon.”
“Lord Mage.” Gloriana inclined her head.
Marlon sniffed. “You have the bearing, chit, I give you that.”
“And manners,” Evelyn snapped. “Are you so far gone that you can’t rise to an introduction?”