Destiny's Star

  A cry, and Cosana collapsed. Ezren growled, the magic flared, and the warrior-priests almost as one turned to look at him—

  And they vanished.

  “Oh no,” Ezren snarled. “Let me see them. LET ME SEE.”

  A blue light flashed around him, and he could see them all, running through the grass or trying to mount their horses.

  Bethral, Lander, and Ouse were still mounted, and they went after the closest targets on foot. The others were his. Ezren clenched his fists and focused his rage.

  But the power wasn’t there.

  Ezren watched as the remaining warrior-priests galloped over the rise. He closed his eyes and forced himself to breathe as weakness swept over him. What little magic he’d had was drained again, down to the dregs. He locked his knees, and looked around.

  Bethral was finishing her opponent, and Lander and Ouse had dismounted to check theirs. Gilla’s and El’s horses were standing together, waiting for their riders, but he couldn’t see them.

  Tenna and Chell were kneeling on the ground. Tenna looked up and around wildly, her face filled with terror. She called out something, and Arbon came at a run, throwing himself down by them.

  Ezren staggered toward them.

  Cosana lay on the ground, her head in Tenna’s lap, her hands pressed to her stomach, blood seeping between the fingers.

  Ezren knelt by her side. “Cosana . . .”

  “We drove them off?” she asked, her eyes bright.

  “Gone,” Arbon said. “Fleeing like the cowardly bragnects that they are.”

  Cosana laughed, but it turned into a gasp. She focused on Ezren. “I wish we’d had three-souls-shared, Storyteller. It would have been a night you’d have always remembered.”

  Ezren nodded, unable to speak. He put his hand on her shoulder, and desperately willed the magic to heal her. To do something. Anything.

  The magic didn’t respond.

  “I’d have melted your bones. I’d have ridden . . .” She stopped, and coughed. The blood flowed faster from the wound.

  “We will have to see to that,” Bethral said as she knelt by Cosana’s side. “But I think you should close your eyes and sleep a while before we do. Save your energy.”

  Ezren looked up, and he read the truth in Bethral’s eyes.

  Cosana frowned at Bethral. “I am a warrior of the Plains, Warlord. Do not deny this truth to me.”

  “You are right,” Bethral said. “I thank you for your service, Cosana of the Snake, and I wish you well.”

  “Finish your tale, Storyteller.” Cosana’s eyes were bright, her words slightly slurred. “The one about the Lord and the Lady.”

  For a moment, Ezren’s throat tightened, but then he managed to speak. “I stopped at the hunt, did I not?”

  Cosana nodded. “I want to hear the ending.”

  Tenna stifled a soft sob as she rested her hand on Cosana’s head. Arbon touched his cheek to the top of her head, tears streaming down his face. Chell sat back on her heels, silent, her face a mask.

  The blood was still soaking through Cosana’s fingers.

  Ezren cleared his throat. The next time, the Lord of Light found the Lady sitting in her garden, sprawled in her chair, her leg over one arm, kicking idly as she read. She was frowning at the book, and he paused for just a moment. “No hunt this day, Lady?” he asked as he passed overhead.

  She squinted at the page and looked up. “Could you move just a little? Your light is making a glare on the page.”

  “Er . . .” He shifted to the side. “Better?”

  “Not really.” She sighed as she closed the book. “I’d thought this tale would help, but it has not. I guess I will make some kavage.” She set the book aside and rose to her feet. Her hair was braided, a long, fat braid that fell past her waist.

  Cosana smiled slightly, her eyes half closed. Her hands relaxed, falling away from the wound.

  “Is something wrong?” the Lord asked, curious. Usually the Lady seemed to sparkle. But this day, she seemed fl at, somehow. Sad.

  “I am just bored,” the Lady said, pulling open the door to her home.

  “But the day is a fi ne one,” the Lord pointed out. “Warm and sunny and fair.”

  “I know,” she said. “Like the day before, and the day before that.” She glanced at him with sad eyes, and disappeared into her cottage, pulling the door closed behind her.

  The Lord moved on, as was his responsibility. But his thoughts kept returning to the Lady. He frowned, puzzled as to why he felt so odd. She had been polite enough, but. . . .

  Did she mean he was boring?

  Lander and Ouse arrived, walking slowly, taking in the scene. They stood together, Ouse’s shoulder pressed to Lander’s. Lander’s face was covered in blood from a cut across his forehead.

  There was no need for words. They knew.

  Ezren continued. For the first time ever, in years—in centuries—he turned and strode back along his path. He went right up to the Lady’s door, and knocked.

  “Yes?” Her voice came from within.

  He opened his mouth, and then closed it. What if she did think he was boring? He was not quite sure what to say, when the door opened, and the Lady was standing there with one arched eyebrow.

  He stared at her. At her lovely eyes and quirky lips, and skin as soft as the wing of a dove.

  “Uh,” was all he could manage.

  “Would you like some kavage?” the Lady asked very seriously. “Or perhaps you need to use the necessary?”

  He opened his mouth to deny it, but then he saw the laughter in her eyes. How they sparkled and danced.

  “I would have kavage, Lady,” he answered. “And talk. I am concerned about your happiness, as I am concerned for all my people.”

  “Ah,” she replied. “A duty, then.”

  “No, Lady.” He shook his head. “I believe it more a pleasure.”

  One corner of her mouth quirked up. She tilted her head to look up at the sky, a deeper blue now without his presence. “And how will your people bear your absence?”

  “Shall we fi nd out?” the Lord asked.

  The Lady laughed, and so did he as she pulled him within her bower, and closed the door behind them. As the door closed, night spread out from the cottage, bringing soft pleasure and sweet rest to the Lord’s people and all his creatures. Duty and responsibility slipped away, to be replaced with the warmth and light of a fire, and the joys of the table and bed. All reveled in the night, and rejoiced at the comfort it brought their souls and bodies. Thus do we owe the Lord our thanks for our days and our duties, and the Lady our thanks for our joys and our rest.

  Cosana sighed, and stopped breathing.

  “May the Lord and the Lady welcome you with open arms,” Ezren whispered.

  Arbon put his head back and howled with wordless rage. The others stood silent, weeping. Lander wiped his face, and reached out to grasp Cosana’s left hand. “Cosana of the Snake!” he called in a loud voice.

  He then took her right hand in his, squeezing it hard. “Cosana, my friend, answer me.”

  Silence was the only reply.

  Ezren started to speak, but Bethral put her hand on his shoulder.

  Lander moved to kneel at Cosana’s feet. He squeezed each, one at a time, calling Cosana’s name.

  There was no response.

  Lander bowed his head. “Safe journey to the snows, Cosana. And beyond.”

  Ezren rose to his feet and looked over the grasslands, then back at Bethral.

  Rage burned in her blue eyes, but her face was calm. “I found El. He is dead.”

  The warriors stared at her, stunned, too numbed to react.

  “They have taken Gilla,” Bethral continued. “I saw some of them fleeing combat with a cloaked body over the front of a horse. I thought it was one of their wounded.”

  “What now?” Ouse asked, still holding his sword in a tight grip.

  “We see to our dead,” Bethral said. “We see to Lander’s and Tenna’s
injuries.”

  “And then?” Arbon demanded.

  Bethral looked at Ezren.

  “We go after the bastards,” Ezren said.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  “WHAT?” Chell said in surprise, tears running silently down her face. “Why? Gilla is dear to us all, but the mission is more important than any one member. We must go on, to the mountains.”

  “I fear we lose either way,” Ezren said. The words were hard to say, harder to hear, but it was time he acknowledged the truth.

  “Gilla is a pawn.” Arbon still held Cosana in his arms. “The king and queen are still in play. We should go on.”

  Bethral shook her head. “It’s check, Arbon.”

  Arbon frowned, and lifted his tear-stained face toward her. “How so?”

  “Check for the taking of one of our warriors hostage, and the killing of Cosana and El,” Bethral said. “We will not allow that to go unavenged.”

  “Check for the magic, that might force me to the Heart anyway, even if we made our way to the mountains in peace,” Ezren added.

  “Check for the fact that they will not be satisfied until they have Ezren one way or the other. If we continue on, they will continue their attacks. We cannot win that game,” Bethral added.

  The warriors all stood, thinking it through.

  “I’m going with you,” Lander growled. He wiped the blood from his face.

  “But—” Ouse protested.

  “No,” Ezren commanded. Both of them gave him startled looks. “He comes, if he is able. Someone must sing the truth of this.”

  Ouse closed his mouth and looked away, then nodded.

  “You are another matter.” Ezren turned to Tenna. Her ankle had been badly sprained in the fall from her horse. It couldn’t support her weight.

  “I’ll take our dead back to Haya,” Tenna said. “I will tell her what has happened, and what you are going to do.” She looked at Arbon. “Avenge them for me.”

  “No,” Arbon said. He started to lay Cosana’s body down carefully. “I will go with you. We must take word to Haya and the Tribe. If this goes badly, they will need to prepare.” He looked at Tenna. “With one, word might not get there. With two, we know that it will.” Arbon gave Bethral a rueful look. “The safety of our people is more important than anything else.”

  “What if the ankle does not heal?” Ezren asked.

  “No worries, Storyteller. We have no healing, true enough, but sprains happen in practice. I’ll take every care, I swear it to you.” Tenna struggled to her feet with Arbon’s aid. “Just get me to a mount.” She lifted her tear-stained face to look around at them. “I can’t believe they killed the horses.”

  “I doubt they will pursue Tenna,” Bethral said. “We are the targets.”

  Ouse and Chell were seeing to Cosana’s body, wrapping it in a cloak. Ezren stood, stifling a groan at his own bruises. “Any chance we can catch them?”

  Bethral shook her head. “Unlikely. They will have aid and fresh horses along the way, I suspect. We can get remounts, so we can keep up. But catch them?”

  “At least we know which direction to take,” Ezren said.

  “We’ll get El,” Lander said.

  “I’ll gather the horses,” Chell said.

  The young ones scattered. Bethral pulled a waterskin from Bessie’s packs. “Drink.”

  Ezren took the skin, and drank deeply. He wiped his mouth and looked at his lovely lady. She was examining Bessie, making sure she hadn’t been injured.

  He opened his mouth to tell her his regrets, to urge her to flee by herself, to apologize. But then she looked at him with those lovely blue eyes, and he read the same intent in hers.

  Bethral gave him a gentle smile. “If we are for each other, then we are one in the darkness as well as the light. For good or ill, I am yours, Ezren Storyteller. I will not walk away from you.”

  She’d taken off her helmet, and her braid had come undone. He reached out and claimed a strand, feeling its silkiness between his fingers. He tugged, and she stepped closer to him. “As I am yours, Bethral of the Horse.” Ezren kissed her, her mouth warm against his cold lips. His hand moved to cup her neck and he demanded more. She opened her mouth, responding to him.

  They broke it off for air, breathing hard, their heads still together.

  Ezren chuckled softly. “And they call me Silvertongue,” he whispered in her ear.

  Bethral flushed.

  Then he took a deliberate step back, and handed her the waterskin. She took it just as deliberately, and slung it on the saddle. “I’m worried that the magic is taking more and more of you,” Bethral said. “Will you be able to make it?”

  “Watch me,” Ezren said.

  Chell brought up a horse, and Ezren mounted. The others were mounting as well.

  Tenna was on her horse, and had the leads for the animals bearing the bodies of El and Cosana. Arbon was mounted next to her.

  Tenna stared at all of them, and gave them a weak smile. “I don’t know if I will ever see you all again.”

  “If not in this life, then beyond the snows,” Lander said.

  Arbon cleared his throat. “The elements go with you all.”

  Chell brought her horse in close and hugged the smaller woman. Tenna returned the hug fiercely.

  She and Arbon gave them all another look, turned their horses, and rode away.

  Ezren looked at the bodies of the warrior-priests left where they fell, and at Cosana’s drying blood. In silence, he faced the northwest, and started his horse off at a trot.

  The others followed.

  WHEN Gilla awoke, she found herself bound and gagged, riding in front of one of her captors. The horse was galloping, something it couldn’t do for long carrying two people.

  It took a few minutes to remember and understand what had happened. She’d been taken, and that could only be to lure Ezren Storyteller to the Heart of the Plains.

  She had the sense to keep her head down and her body loose. The rider had one arm around her waist, her head against his chest. With half-open eyes, rolling her head, she could just make out that they were surrounded by other riders. It was light, the sun high in the sky. But how many days had it been? Her head ached, though not as hard as one would think after being hit to unconsciousness. A full day? Two?

  She’d been stripped of her armor and was clothed in simple tunic and trous, her feet bare. She wondered who had stripped her, then how else they had used her body. Rape was rare on the Plains, but then again, they’d killed horses, hadn’t they?

  There were too many to try anything on horseback. She fought down a surge of fear, and concentrated on what she could do. Her hands were bound in front, and her legs were hanging loose. If she could get free, and get a weapon . . . they all wore those sacrifice daggers at their waists.

  If she couldn’t escape, she would kill herself.

  She tried to stay limp, but the riding was too uncomfortable if she was flopping about. She straightened a bit, and put her bare feet on her captor’s boots to steady her legs.

  He noticed, of course, but said nothing. The arm around her waist tightened; that was the only response.

  A bit more comfortable, she strained to remember. They’d been ambushed, there’d been a fight . . . El.

  She gasped, trying hard not to weep but crying anyway. The lance, the way he had fallen. He was dead, no doubt of that. She’d run toward him, and now she kicked herself for it. If she’d gone for his horse, been focused on the battle, they’d never have been able to take her.

  And the others? What about the others? What if they were all dead and—

  Enough. She stopped her wild thoughts. Thinking that way did nothing but waste her strength.

  She looked around openly now, and saw a small group of horses and warrior-priests waiting ahead. The horse started to slow. Remounts, most likely.

  She was lowered to the ground and held by two warrior-priests, one on each arm. They took care of her needs with a callousness th
at frightened her. Almost as if she was a gurtle to be cared for until the slaughter. The two dealt with her quickly as a third kept watch just a few paces away.

  The necessary details handled, the gag was removed and she was offered water. After she’d drunk her fill, she looked at the warrior-priest who bore his full tattoos. “What are you—”

  Another gag was flipped over her head, and tied tight.

  Before she could struggle, she was on another horse, another arm around her waist. And the horses tore off at high speed, heading northwest.

  Gilla swallowed hard, fighting her terror. A chance would come, eventually. They would make a mistake, and she would take advantage of it.

  She closed her eyes, suddenly aware of a hard truth. Even if she managed to deprive them of their hostage, they already had what they wanted. The Warlord and the Storyteller would give chase, and wouldn’t know of her death. They’d ride to their deaths regardless.

  Enough of that. Her hands were in front of her, and they hadn’t checked the ropes. She’d work at getting free, moving her arms with the rhythm of the horse so her captor didn’t know what she was doing. Her chance would come, for either death or freedom.

  She’d take either one.

  HAIL Storm watched over the scrying pool in the dark silence of the tent.

  The camp around him was buzzing with the comings and goings of the others. They were taking down the tents and making the preparations to move to the Heart of the Plains. Some had already left. He watched the stone that represented the Heart, and the little sparkles clustered around it.

  The largest gathering of warrior-priests the Plains had ever seen. Every warrior-priest would be there, except those that wandered the rest of the world, seeking that which had now been found. He had summoned every warrior-priest, and they had obeyed. He would guide them through the restoration of all that they had lost.

  The large swirl of sparkles was smaller than it should have been. They’d lost many good men and women over the Sacrifice; they would need to be replaced. But that would be easier with a true source of power. Hail Storm had no doubt of his ability to deal with that issue in the future.