Destiny's Star

  So, they’d taken turns watching, setting up their sleep tents, bathing, and preparing their meal. Although Bethral had said that the women must all bathe together, as would the men.

  Gilla had stared at her. “Why?”

  “Is that the way of your people?” Chell asked, her eyebrows raised.

  “Yes.” Bethral glared, her voice clipped. Although Gilla thought she saw a faint blush on her cheeks.

  “Well,” Tenna said carefully, “I think we should honor your customs as you honor ours.”

  “That would be best.” Bethral said.

  City dwellers were so strange. So very different, but still people. Gilla thought that surprised her the most. They ate and drank and laughed . . . but some of their ideas were very odd.

  “So explain to me again,” the Storyteller asked. “If we let the horses wander out into the herd, how do we get them back again in the morning?”

  “We’ll call, and horses will answer,” Ouse said.

  “The same horses?” The Storyteller looked puzzled.

  “No, not unless they want to,” El said.

  “They want to be ridden?” The Storyteller looked over at Bethral as if sharing a joke.

  “Of course,” Gilla said. “Don’t yours?”

  “It’s part of their training, both the horse and the human,” Bethral said. “A Plains warrior who cannot summon a horse to ride is a dead Plains warrior.”

  “It is said that to anger the Spirit of the Horse is to slay your own,” Ouse said.

  The Storyteller nodded. “Which is why ‘bragnect’ is such an insult. To slay a baby horse would anger the Spirit of the Horse.”

  “Regardless of one’s tribe, all honor the Spirit of the Horse,” Bethral said softly.

  “As your token honors Steel,” the Storyteller said. His voice was so soft, yet filled with admiration.

  “Aye,” Bethral replied, just as softly.

  “I—” Cosana broke the moment, her voice very hesitant. “I have a question, if I may, Storyteller? Please?”

  “How can I aid you?” the Storyteller asked.

  “I have this—” Cosana pulled a small bag from behind her, and struggled with the knots at the top. Gilla was fairly certain she’d brought it with her after bathing, working up the courage to ask about it.

  The bag spilled open, and small pieces of wood went flying. Cosana gasped, and started to pick them up. The others helped her, even rescuing one from the flames. The Storyteller was looking at the bag, which was really a large square piece of leather, marked with lines in an equal pattern. He held out his hand, and Cosana handed him one of the wooden pieces.

  Ezren held it up to the light. “I’m not sure, but it looks like a chess set.” There was an exclamation from both Tenna and Chell, but the Storyteller was looking at Cosana. “Where did you get this?”

  “Cosana”—Tenna gaped at her, holding one of the pieces—“we’re not allowed . . .”

  “Children are not allowed,” Cosana said defiantly, jerking the piece from her hand. “I am a warrior, and I can have—”

  “Haya and Seo banned it from the camp,” El explained. “It’s from Xy.”

  “The Warprize brought it with her,” Arbon said. He’d been quiet during the meal. Gilla wasn’t surprised, given his black eyes and the bruises on his face and body. The cut had sealed, but she was certain it would scar.

  “Do you know the rules?” Cosana asked the Storyteller. “Will you teach me?”

  “Sure,” the Storyteller said.

  Cosana squealed with pleasure and dropped to her knees in front of him.

  “Anyone wants to learn, gather round,” the Storyteller instructed. “First thing you need to know . . .”

  Gilla didn’t move, she didn’t want to disturb the cat that now slept in her lap. The others all surrounded Ezren Storyteller, listening to him explain the pieces and the moves. Bethral didn’t stir, but something made Gilla look in her direction.

  Her expression caught Gilla, who managed not to gasp out loud. Need, with desire . . . the pure want on her face. Gilla knew in that instant that Bethral of the Horse loved Ezren Storyteller.

  But . . . She looked away and made as if petting the cat was her only concern. She was almost positive that they’d never shared bodies. True, they had been alone in Haya’s tent, but on separate pallets. And Gilla was fairly sure that sharing was not on Bethral’s mind when her leg had been broken. So how could they love each other and not know it?

  She bit her lip, thinking.

  “Yes, that’s it.” The Storyteller’s voice cut through her thoughts. “The knight is on horseback, so he makes a very different move.”

  “Agility.” El was looking over his shoulder. “That makes sense.”

  “And just think of the queen as a very powerful female warlord.” The Storyteller flashed them all a smile. “Like Bethral.”

  “Or a Warprize,” Chell added.

  “It’s getting late.” Bethral’s voice came out of the darkness. “Time to relieve Lander and Ouse, and bed down for the night.”

  Cosana gave her an anguished look. “But can’t we play just one game?”

  “Tomorrow.” The Storyteller smiled, then stood and stretched. “It will give us something to look forward to after the day.”

  Cosana looked at him, and smiled back. “Yes, Storyteller.” She paused, then reached for his hand. “Would you share with me this night?”

  HAIL Storm stood before the warrior-priests that had gathered in his tent with calm assurance. “When Wild Winds arrives, he will answer my challenge. But until then we must prepare for the Sacrifice to be brought to the Heart. Warriors have started to gather early for the spring contests. They must be moved off, far enough that they will not see or note our doings. It is not the first time we have claimed the Heart as our own for a space of time. This is no different.”

  “It is different in that we interrupt the contests,” Sweet Grasses spoke up from the ranks, her braids filled with gray. “We will be asked ‘For how long?’ How will we answer?”

  “As we have always answered. With a silent stare.” Morning Dew snorted. “They need not know, and they will obey.”

  “No doubt.” Sweet Grasses nodded. “The early warriors will obey. But those who would contest for warlord? Those of the Council of Elders that may come? Not all will obey without question.”

  “I have sent summons to all the warrior-priests to come to the Heart after they have conducted the Rites of Ascension.” Hail Storm held his temper.

  There were grunts and nods of agreement.

  “Morning Dew, if you would see to the clearing of the Heart. Once the warriors have been moved out of sight of the place, please begin the cleansing and blessing.”

  Morning Dew nodded his head slowly, clearly pleased.

  “And have you found the Sacrifice?” Sweet Grasses spoke again, her eyes sharp.

  “No.” Hail Storm kept his expression neutral. “And the groups that I have sent to do a physical search have not been able to pick up their tracks. The thea camp of the Tribe of the Snake has moved. We are looking for them as well.”

  “Wild Winds said that the city dwellers were going to go home, and that home was the Kingdom of Palins.” The woman’s voice from the back of the tent was dry and cruel. “Have you tried to the south?”

  Hail Storm’s anger flashed, and he had to pause before he could give a reasonable answer. “Yes, Mist.” Old mare! But he must tread lightly, she was no fool. None of them were.

  “You have also drained this place of its faint magics,” Mist continued. “How do you propose to continue to scry when you have wasted—”

  “I do not. The scrying will stop. Our people will be needed to clear the Heart and to patrol so that no one violates our privacy.” Hail Storm lowered his head, shaking it slowly. “I regret the use of the magics, but our path is a clear one. Once the magic is restored to our land . . .”

  He paused for emphasis.

  “If .
. .” Mist said, and there were nods of agreement.

  “I believe that with your help,” Hail Storm continued, “we can use the blessing spells on the land in such a way as to detect the magic the city dweller carries. We need only concentrate on the southern lands, since we believe the Sacrifice is headed in that direction.”

  “How many groups are in the South?” Morning Dew asked.

  “Enough,” Hail Storm replied.

  “And how will you cast this spell of yours?” Mist pointed out. “Without—”

  “We will move the camp,” Hail Storm snapped. He drew a deep breath, furious at his loss of control.

  Mist had a smug look on her wrinkled face as she rose from her seat. “Then let us be about it, Hail Storm.” She turned and slipped through the tent flap, the others following.

  Hail Storm stood still, trying to control himself. Damn her! Once he was eldest elder, he would . . . but he wasn’t yet, and there were those here who would be willing to challenge him but wouldn’t challenge Wild Winds.

  Arching Colors, one of the youngest of the warrior-priests, slipped into the tent. Her tattoos barely covered her shoulders. Her eyes widened when she saw Hail Storm. “Pardon, Elder.” She dropped her gaze. “I thought to clear the tent, and didn’t know—”

  “No need.” Hail Storm gave her a hopeful look, and held out a hand. “In fact, I’d ask you to help me with something. A spell I want to try. Would you?”

  “Of course, Elder.” Her eyes were alive with curiosity. “How may I help you?”

  He lowered his voice and drew closer to her. “We would have to prepare ourselves by fasting, lovely one. And the spell itself, it involves sharing our bodies.”

  Her eyes melted as a shiver ran through her. “I would be pleased to aid you, Hail Storm.”

  “My thanks,” he whispered, as he pressed his lips to hers.

  EIGHTEEN

  “I can’t believe you asked him that,” Gilla whispered.

  “I can’t believe he said no,” Cosana whispered back. “I think Landers is right, else what’s wrong with the man?”

  Gilla rolled her eyes.

  They had combined their tents with those of Landers and Ouse for the night. El and Tenna were on patrol, and Bethral and the Storyteller were asleep, each in their own tent. Chell and Arbon had squeezed in with them, and they were all folded in together, talking it out.

  Landers was shaking his head. “No, we checked as we were all bathing. He’s whole, and normal, as far as we could see. Scarred, though. All over his back and chest. Wrists, too.”

  “Did you get a good look at him?” Chell asked.

  “Well, we didn’t get to hold it, if that’s what you mean,” Arbon said scathingly. His eyes peered out from the bruises around them. Cosana giggled as he continued. “But he’s fine.”

  “Could you get him to talk about her?” Gilla asked. “Did you—”

  “Talk? Skies above, we could not get him to stop!” Landers laughed, and the others shushed him. He lowered his voice. “I asked if all city women were as lovely as Bethral . . .”

  “They are not,” El said in a dry voice. “They in no way compare to her. ‘She is Light incarnate, a woman warrior of amazing skill. She represents all that is good and true in this life and the next.’ ”

  “Wow!” Gilla blinked.

  “But he is not worthy,” Arbon said. “For reasons that seem important only to him. The fact that she is a skilled warrior, and he is not, seems to be the main obstacle.”

  “But he is a singer!” Cosana protested. “He’s of a status above hers.”

  “He also thinks he is too short,” Arbon added.

  “Why would her height matter?” Gilla asked.

  “Why would his?” Arbon shrugged. “City dwellers!”

  “Well, she’s certainly made well. Her body is very defined and strong,” Chell said. “Even for one of us. She said it was because of the armor. Carrying the weight of it.” Chell shrugged. “I do not know for certain, but I was attracted enough to ask her to share.”

  “You did?” El arched an eyebrow. “And?”

  “She thanked me, but declined. Said her taste ran to men.” Chell sighed. “Pity. I bet she’d be good in bed.”

  “She didn’t want to talk about the Storyteller, that was clear,” Cosana said. “I tried to ask her, but she cut me off.”

  “I thought she was going to kill you, there by the fire, when you asked him to share.” Chell shook her head. “The look on her face . . . they are bonded.”

  “Bonded?” Ouse scoffed. “They have never shared, that we know of.”

  “They have bonded without sharing bodies,” Chell repeated. “Why else her feelings of jealousy? If they are not bonded, she would not feel that way. Bonded.”

  “No,” Cosana gasped. “How could they—”

  “Each has bonded to the other but does not know that the other has bonded as well.”

  “That is so . . . so . . .” Cosana sighed.

  “Stupid,” Chell said firmly.

  “Worthy of a song,” Landers declared. “Or a story.”

  “No, it is not,” Chell contradicted. “What would you sing? That city dwellers share from a distance?”

  “If that is so, I prefer our ways,” Lander said, reaching out to stroke Ouse’s crotch.

  “So do I,” Ouse said, covering Lander’s hand with his and pressing it down. “Maybe we should show them—”

  “Maybe they do not share at all,” Cosana said.

  “Please,” Ouse scoffed. “Where would more city dwellers come from?”

  “Maybe that’s it.” Gilla said. “Maybe they need to share under the bells.”

  “Why bother with bells?” Cosana asked.

  Ouse frowned. “Gilla, I would offer no offense, but they are elders. Why do you worry yourself about this? They can solve their own problems.”

  “No.” Gilla shook her head. “In this, we are the wiser.”

  “I think that you should have more concern for their lives than their hearts,” Chell pointed out. “They are focused on getting home, not sharing.”

  Ouse grimaced. “All this thinking. My head hurts! Lander and I need to take our watches.”

  “We will trade,” Gilla said. “Cosana and I will take this watch.”

  “We will?” Cosana asked. “I want to sleep.”

  “I need to think,” Gilla said, cracking open the tent. “And if we don’t, they will keep us up all night with the sounds of their sharing.”

  “And sharing and sharing and sharing,” Ouse said proudly.

  Lander stuffed a gurtle pad over his face.

  IT took the better part of two days for the warrior-priests to relocate the camp in an area where magic still could be found in the earth. Hail Storm would have raged in anger, except that every hour saw the arrival of more warrior-priests to listen to his position and to see Wild Winds face his challenge. He’d swilled many a cup of kavage beside fires over those days, using his smooth voice and reasonable arguments to bring them to his side.

  But still the Sacrifice had not been spotted. He had no choice. It was time he used the other knowledge he’d gained in his wanderings.

  It was late before he could see to his own project. His tent was set and warmed when he entered. Arching Colors was there, with a meal and hot kavage warming on one of the braziers. She was wearing a sheer, flowing tunic of green, and he could see her tight nipples thrusting against the fabric.

  “I thought we would eat after the casting,” Arching Colors said softly.

  Hail Storm nodded. “It was well done.” He looked over at the private portion of his tent. “Our pallet is prepared?”

  “Yes.” Arching Colors shivered, her lips parted.

  “We have fasted and purged,” Hail Storm said softly. “I have cleansed myself.”

  “I, as well, as you instructed.” Arching Colors moved closer, and ran her hands over his chest, along the tattoo lines. “I hunger for you.”

  ?
??As do I.” Hail Storm swept her up in a kiss, pulling her close.

  Arching Colors sighed, and responded, walking back toward his pallet, her hands falling to his trous. Breaking the kiss, she removed his belt, placing his sacrifice dagger off to the side. She gave him a sly smile, then went to her knees before him, her hands on his trous.

  Hail Storm sighed at the wet heat of her mouth. He allowed himself to enjoy the sensation for moments. Arching Colors was well skilled.

  With a sigh he pulled away from her and gathered her into his arms. “No, sweet one,” he said as he eased her tunic off, and lowered her to the pallet. “Your pleasure first, this night.”

  “As you say,” she murmured.

  She was so sweet, hot and wet and willing. So responsive. Writhing beneath him, Arching Colors dug her nails into him and urged him on as he eased slowly into her.

  Hail Storm grunted with the effort, thrusting into her, concentrating on her pleasure.

  Arching Colors moaned his name, her skin covered with a sheen of perspiration. He watched her face, using his skills to keep her on the very brink for as long as he could, until she screamed and reached her peak, crying out her joy.

  A quick move, and his dagger was in his hand. Another instant to stab it between her ribs and into her heart.

  Arching Colors gasped, her eyes wide.

  Hail Storm continued to thrust, chanting softly under his breath, and concentrated on seizing the magic released by her dying. He kept the blade in her, holding it steady, letting it absorb her blood and her power.

  Arching Colors gasped again, dying even as her pleasure faded. There was no struggle. Her breaths just grew slower and shallower. Her body grew lax, still warm under his.

  It was well done. He was sure she hadn’t even felt the blade. Continuing to chant, he strengthened his movements, riding the wave of his own pleasures.

  After a time, he eased himself from the body, and then slowly drew out the dagger. Its magic almost pulsed in his hand, and he smiled in satisfaction.