Dagger-Star

  HE’D lost her. Josiah sighed. She’d left without saying goodbye, and there’d been no word—

  “Oh, please,” Ezren scoffed. “You sound like a lovesick lass, abandoned in a tale.”

  “There’s been no word,” Josiah pointed out.

  “There has been plenty of word,” Ezren responded. “The messengers come on a regular basis. They are moving into position now; there is no real fighting going on yet.” Ezren got a smug look on his face. “And it would appear that my stories have helped them to gather forces.”

  Josiah sighed.

  “Your complaint is that there has been no form of personal correspondence,” Ezren continued. “But they are both warriors, focused on a conflict.”

  “Both?” Josiah asked, giving Ezren a look out of the corner of his eye.

  “I meant Red Gloves, of course.” Ezren set a candle on the center of the table. “Now, go over this with me again.”

  “As you wish.” Josiah moved his chair as far from Ezren as the platform allowed. The goats gathered around him, and settled down at his feet. Kavage and Dapple were chewing their nonexistent cud. Fog sat next to him and leaned against his leg, looking for a good scratch.

  Josiah obliged.

  “I can feel it when you move away.” Ezren’s gaze was unfocused. “As if it were dancing on my skin.”

  “Like a cool breeze after you’ve worked up a sweat?” Josiah said wistfully.

  “Exactly so.” Ezren frowned. “I’m sorry. Does it bother you to talk about…?” He waved his hand around in the air.

  Josiah paused for a moment, unsure how to answer. Fog put her soft gray head on his knee. Finally he looked over at the storyteller. “Does it hurt to think your voice may not come back?”

  There was a long pause, as Ezren’s eyes glittered. “Very much so.”

  Josiah sighed. “It feels as if there is a hole in my chest. I was so used to the power, so used to…”

  “As if a part of your heart is gone,” Ezren whispered.

  Josiah nodded, and they sat silent for a moment.

  Josiah stirred first. “But you need help, and if I don’t teach you, you could kill someone.” He leaned back in the chair and crossed his arms over his chest. “Magic is a force in our world, Ezren. Like the power of a flowing stream, magic is there if you can see and feel it. It can aid, it can harm.”

  “Yes, yes…” Ezren focused on the candle. “How do I light it?”

  Josiah rolled his eyes, then grinned. “I said the same thing at my lessons.”

  Ezren grinned back, his green eyes flashing.

  “But you’re dealing with wild magic, Ezren.” Josiah’s smile faded. “It’s the difference between riding an old, tame saddle horse and riding a wild stallion.”

  Ezren focused on the candle again. “Marlon said I had to bleed off the magic. Not let it build up.”

  “True,” Josiah said. “Very well. Focus on the candle. Feel the power building within you, gradually, carefully. Reach out with the power and send it to the wick. Think of fire, and heat.”

  The goats lifted their heads.

  “Think of a spark,” Josiah continued in a soft voice. Ezren was leaning forward, his fists clenched tight. “Just like you are striking a flint, but using the magic, not stones.”

  A trickle of smoke rose from the wick, just a thin wisp of gray. Brownie let out a bleat.

  “Good, good.” Josiah leaned forward. “Keep your focus.”

  The goats disappeared.

  Suddenly, the candle was engulfed in a tower of flame that roared up white hot. Ezren’s chair tipped over with a clatter, and he fell to the floor. The flames reached up, growing higher and higher—

  Josiah jumped forward, and the flames went out with a puff.

  He helped Ezren off the floor, and they both looked at the fabric above them. The flames had burned a hole clear through. The edges of the fabric were still smoldering. There was a scorch mark on the table where the candle and holder had been.

  Ezren gasped for breath. “The magic got excited and lost control.”

  The goats were about their feet now, bleating with worry. Josiah reached down to scratch random ears. “That’s the problem. Magic doesn’t have a personality, Ezren. It doesn’t have emotion. It’s a tool.”

  “It didn’t feel that way,” Ezren insisted. Snowdrop butted his knee, and he staggered slightly.

  “Maybe we should just focus on—”

  “Riders!” came the call from the woods.

  Josiah turned. Ezren turned with him, looking out as warriors ran from the barn.

  “That’s odd,” Josiah said. “The day’s messengers have already been and gone.”

  THE sunset prayers had just concluded when one of the young acolytes came up to Evelyn. “Lady High Priestess, the Archbishop requests your presence in his chambers.”

  Evelyn didn’t let her expression change as she removed the heavy sacred vestments and placed them on their hooks. A summons from the Archbishop wasn’t that unusual. One of the Court sycophants had probably overeaten and needed her to ease his suffering.

  Of course a good dose of butternut oil would work better than any of her magics. But try telling a Noble Personage that bit of priestly wisdom.

  Evelyn nodded to the lad, and folded her hands into her sleeves as they left the robing room. The Archbishop’s chambers were not far, and the acolyte was eager to complete his assignment. Evelyn followed him into the room, only to find Dominic standing there with a few of the other healers, clustered about the Archbishop’s desk. They all had worried looks on their faces.

  The Archbishop just looked peevish.

  “Lady High Priestess, we need your services.” He spoke in a solemn, stuffy tone. “Word has been sent that the sweat has broken out in a small village to the west, on the border of Summerford.”

  “A plague?” Evelyn frowned. “Are they certain?”

  “The report seems to indicate a small outbreak.” Dominic spoke with a sniff. “A small village hardly warrants our services. Surely the local healers could deal with this.”

  The Archbishop sniffed his agreement. “Still, it’s best to stop it early, before it spreads any further. Lady High Priestess Evelyn can use her skills to go to the local shrine quickly, and assess the situation.”

  Evelyn folded her hands into her robes, and prayed for patience. The Archbishop would send her because he wouldn’t have to hire the services of a mage. And she’d go, gladly. The risk of plague was not to be ignored, and if she could heal the sickest, the illness could be stopped before it spread. It was an hour or two’s delay at the most. “Where is the shrine, Holy One?”

  “Dominic has the details, Lady.” The Archbishop fixed her with a look. “Go swiftly, and return with news. Do not drain your powers to the dregs, trying to heal all and sundry.”

  Evelyn bowed her head. “As you wish, Holy One.”

  THE bad news arrived at dawn even as the scouts reported the first sight of the enemy forces.

  Red clenched her jaw as Alad knelt on the ground before her, head down, trembling and trying to get the words out. Bethral stood beside him, her hand on his shoulder, using that voice of hers. But if he didn’t start making sense soon, she’d shake it out of him.

  They were outside the command tent, and a crowd was beginning to gather. All trusted men, thankfully.

  Alad’s wounds were minor, but they spoke of a hard fight, hand-to-hand with the enemy. His gaze lifted no higher than her boots, his entire body radiated pain, and each sentence plunged a blade into her heart.

  “They took him, Chosen, took ’im away from us. We’re so sorry. We tried, honest we did, but—”

  Bethral laid a hand on Alad’s shoulder, and handed him a waterskin. “Drink.”

  More of the High Barons gathered about, as did Vembar and Gloriana. The army continued to move past. Scouts were waiting to give their reports, but Red Gloves was focused on the man in front of her. She wanted to scream at him, but she stood inst
ead. Silent. Waiting.

  She was going to explode in a minute, venting her fury. It wouldn’t help, wouldn’t get her any information any faster, but it was like a burning itch that had to be…

  “Start at the beginning.” Bethral gave Red a glance, as if telling her to be still. “What happened?”

  “Last night, after supper.” Alad gripped the waterskin in both hands. “Riders came. We thought they was messengers at first, but they wasn’t. The patrol gave warning, but it wasn’t enough. They came in hard, and we fought. Even the settlers, they fought, too. And then the Storyteller—”

  “Ezren?” Bethral asked.

  “Lady”—Alad looked up at her—“it was like nothing I’d ever seen. Some of the kids, they was playing by the barn, and the attackers was riding toward ’em. Lord Ezren, he came out of your tent, throwing fire hither and yon, screaming at them, shaking with fury.” Alad’s eyes were wide. “They was charred black.” He looked at Bethral. “The attackers, and their horses, too. The kids ran screaming, and then something happened, because Lord Ezren”—Alad sucked in a breath—“Lord Ezren, his eyes rolled back up into his head and he fell over, like the life went right out of him.”

  Bethral went still. “He’s dead, then?” The questioning tone in her voice wasn’t hopeful.

  “He’s alive.” Alad darted a glance at Red. “But that’s why we didn’t notice right away—”

  “Josiah?” Red growled, controlling her anger. Concealing her fear.

  Alad nodded, and looked back down at the ground. “They got him. We thought we’d beaten them off, but they got to ’im, and got ’im away.”

  “You stupid mucker,” Red spat. “How hard is it to protect one goatherder?”

  Alad hunched his shoulders. “They rode off with him, Chosen. Toward the Black Hills. They took the southern road.” He shot her another glance. “There’s no shrine for miles that way.”

  Fear clutched deep in Red’s gut, fear such as she hadn’t known since she was a child. She gestured to the warrior with the maps, and reached for the one she needed.

  “You’re not thinking…” Vembar was leaning on his cane, frowning at her. “You can’t be thinking to rescue him?”

  “Chosen.” One of her guards stepped forward. “The priest Dominic wishes to speak with you.”

  Bethral’s head snapped around to stare at the man.

  Red snarled, “This can’t be good. Is he alone?” At the guard’s nod, she answered, “Bring him, then.”

  “What can it mean?” Helene asked, her eyes wide.

  “It can mean only one thing,” Red said. “That the Lady High—”

  Dominic swept into the circle of warriors and horses. The cool, snooty persona was gone. This elf was shaken and afraid.

  “Well?” Red asked.

  “Evelyn is taken, and I may have played her false.” Dominic looked about, as if unable to believe his eyes. “I can’t believe that she planned all this and didn’t—”

  “What happened?” Red demanded.

  “A rumor of plague,” Dominic answered. “In a remote village on the Summerford border. The Archbishop sent us there to determine if the sweat had broken out. But when she opened the portal, and we stepped through…” Dominic looked away. “She realized it before I did, and pushed me back. It closed in an instant. There was nothing I could—”

  “How did you play her false?” Bethral growled.

  “I was at Court shortly after I met you.” Dominic looked sick, as if something was eating away at his guts. “Someone said something about red gloves, and I might have mentioned…”

  “Me,” Red said grimly. “When was she taken?”

  “Two hours, maybe a little more. It took time to find someone to open a—” Red’s glare cut him off. “It was Elanore’s people,” Dominic said softly. “I saw that much. And not far from the keep, either.”

  Carell had out the map of the Black Hills. Bethral moved to look over his shoulder. “Where?”

  Dominic’s long, thin finger pointed. “Here. We were supposed to be here. But it opened here.”

  “Miles from Athelbryght,” Fael noted. “That’s deep in the Black Hills.”

  “There’s no hope of a rescue,” Red said. “They’d have taken her into the keep by now.”

  Bethral looked at the map. “But a small team might…”

  Lord Carell snorted. “No hope for her or Josiah. We’d best just—”

  Red jerked her head around and glared at the man. “There’s hope for Josiah yet. They’d not get far with a captive, and the shrine is far from—”

  “Red,” Carell warned.

  “You can’t go after Josiah,” Vembar said. “You are the Chosen, and you must lead this army. The first encounters with the enemy are crucial. You can’t—”

  Red snarled, “Don’t tell me that I can’t—”

  Vembar scowled, the wind whipping at his white hair. “Which do you now choose, Chosen?” Vembar asked. “For you have a decision to make. Your destiny? The welfare of these warriors, sworn to your service? Or Josiah of Athelbryght?”

  THIRTY-ONE

  HOT goat breath on his cheek brought Josiah back from pain and darkness.

  He wasn’t sure he was grateful. His head was pounding, his mouth was full of grit, and Snowdrop had planted a front hoof right on his foot. Dapple was up on two legs, his hoofs scrabbling on Josiah’s thigh, as if he was trying to climb up.

  Opening his eyes wasn’t much better. They felt thick and gummy. He seemed to be hanging from something….

  Blinking to clear his vision, he shifted to stand on his feet, the tent around him swaying madly. His hands were bound above his head, and he looked up to see a tree….

  That didn’t seem right.

  He was standing, at least, and that eased the pain in his arms and shoulders. But his hands hurt now that the pressure on them was gone. They burned, tingling from the lack of blood.

  Josiah drew a deep breath, and then another. The goats about his feet muttered and bleated, pressing close. Dapple returned to all four legs, but he didn’t stop complaining.

  Josiah closed his eyes, and willed the pain in his head to go away.

  The pain did not respond.

  The attack; it came back to him then. He remembered being surrounded by horsemen, but the rest was a blur. There was enough light to see by in the tent, but whether it was morning or afternoon was a mystery. He moved his fingers, trying to loosen the ropes, and looked around for answers.

  The tent was around the tree. That made more sense. It was big, and held luxuries that you wouldn’t expect in a tent. A carpet on the grass, padded chairs, a table with bottles and bowls of something. An odd sight, especially when you were tied to a tree.

  Josiah closed his eyes again, and rested his head against his arm. The goats were still pressed close to his legs, but they’d quieted down now. He could make out some sounds from outside, but no real words.

  He spat on the carpet, trying to clear his throat. The tent must have been thrown up recently, since the grass around the carpet was fairly fresh. He wasn’t certain if that was a good thing or bad—

  A rustle of cloth was all the warning he had. The tent flap pulled back, and she was standing there, lovely as ever.

  “Elanore,” Josiah rasped.

  “Josiah.” Elanore stepped within, letting the flap close behind her. She hadn’t changed at all: still regal, still beautiful, in formal court attire. Her gathered skirt swirled on the grass, and Josiah caught a faint hint of her perfume. She was lovely, and perfect, and she left him cold.

  Elanore smiled at him, her perfect red mouth warm and inviting. She gave the goats a passing glance, looking a bit puzzled. But then her gaze returned to him, and she moved forward, reaching out as if she wanted nothing more than to touch him.

  Josiah pressed back against the tree, wanting nothing to do with her. The goats flinched back as well.

  Elanore’s face fell. “Josiah,” she said softly, “there’s s
o much to say, so much I need to tell you.”

  “What is there to say?” Josiah scowled, and spat again. “You destroyed Athelbryght, and—”

  Elanore’s concern slipped a bit, her eyes flashing with anger. But just as quickly it was gone, and her face once more filled with sorrow. “Oh, no, Josiah. You don’t know the truth, beloved.” She turned to the table, and picked up a crystal goblet. With elegant movements, she filled it to the brim, then turned to face him. “Here. Drink, beloved. Let me explain.”

  With a pleading look, Elanore advanced, offering the goblet to Josiah’s lips. She extended her hand, took another step—and then her lovely face melted away, leaving small eyes peering from scarred flesh, and bare wisps of hair on a bald head.

  It happened so fast that Josiah couldn’t hide his reaction. His head snapped back against the tree, his eyes wide.

  Elanore stopped, puzzled. But then her face seemed to reflect his horror. “What—” She dropped the goblet and her hands went to her face, covering the worst of the scars. Her eyes widened, stretching the scarred skin around them. “No, no, no!” Her cries faded as she fled the tent.

  Wounded. Ezren said she’d been wounded in the battle for Athelbryght. Josiah shook his head. Elanore had always prided herself on her beauty. But now….

  Josiah held his breath, listening intently, but he could hear nothing. The goats relaxed, settling at his feet, avoiding the spilled wine. Josiah looked down at Kavage. “Well, doesn’t this just rake muck?”

  Kavage burped up some cud.

  “I don’t suppose one of you could get a knife and cut me loose,” Josiah suggested.

  The goats ignored him.

  “Well, then, I guess I’m on my own.” He looked up and started to work at the ropes that bound him.

  HE had them looser by the time she returned.

  Josiah looked at her closely when she reentered the tent. Her beauty was back, perfect in every way. But Elanore’s angry eyes held no caring concern now. She stopped just inside the tent. “How did you do that?”