Destiny's Star (22 page)

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.

Hail Storm wiped himself clean, and then treated the body as he would any lover, arranging it on the pallet to sleep and drawing the blankets over its shoulders. “Sleep, little one.” He spoke just loud enough to be heard by anyone outside the tent. “I’ve work yet to do. But I will return, and we shall share again, shall we?”

He gathered up his trous and his dagger, and went to the main room. With a sigh, he looked around at his tent as he dressed.

The large brazier in the center of the room was still glowing with coals. Hail Storm helped himself to the warm kavage, then added fuel slowly, until the flames jumped about eagerly.

“Elder,” a voice came from outside the tent flap. “Sweet Grasses sends word that they are ready for you.”

“Very well.” Hail Storm swept up his cloak and let it cover his shoulders, then took up his staff. With a casual flip, he put the tip of the staff under the brazier, and tipped it over on the wooden platform. The coals made a gentle hiss as they tumbled out, the flames following playfully. A shame, really. This tent had served him well.

He stepped from the tent, letting the flap close all the way behind him.

 

 

HAIL Storm had not anticipated that he’d have an audience for this casting. Mist was waiting with Sweet Grasses when he arrived, looking over the arrangements with a eagle’s eye.

The center of the tent had been cleared, and the sod cut away. The earth beneath had been dug down for a hand’s breadth in a circle as large as a man’s height, and lined with leathers that had been oiled and sealed. At the very center sat a large tree trunk, cut so that the top just emerged from the water. Next to that was a large flat stone, also just above the surface of the water.

“So, it represents the Plains,” Mist said. “And the wood is the Heart.”

Hail Storm nodded as he removed his cloak. “The rock is the lake beside it.” He drew a deep breath. “I think I can cast a blessing spell in such a way as to tell us where magic is in the Plains. When the Sacrifice loses control, as he will, there will be a flare of fire in that location. I have warrior-priests ready to sit and watch and wait.”

“A powerful spell, if you can manage it.” Mist eyed him closely. “You think there is enough power here to do this?”

“With care.” Hail Storm moved to the northernmost corner, where a precious wood fire burned brightly. “I would prefer to do this under the bells, Mist.”

“I am sure you would,” Mist replied. She planted her feet and crossed her arms, causing the two skulls on her staff to clatter together. “But I would learn from you, Hail Storm.”

Damned old mare! She’d rattled her skulls on purpose. Hail Storm’s temples pulsed with anger as he set his staff, empty of skulls, against the side of the tent. But there was little he could do. For now. He wondered briefly how much magic he could pull from her dying, but then he forced himself to focus on the task at hand.

He started with the fire element, then worked his way around to each corner and each element, chanting softly, pulling the magic from the land as he went, gathering it in his hand. He knew he’d have to move with care, so that the old mare wouldn’t see the source of power at his belt.

Easily done.

Finally, he stood at the southern point and turned to face the center of the room. He knelt, and held out his arms, palms out, fingers wide. He softly chanted the traditional words of the blessing spell, with but the slightest of changes.

Blessing spells watched over the thea camps of each tribe, helping to keep their people strong and fit. In the old times, when the magic had been strong, the warrior-priests had been warned of any sickness or threat to the People.

So Hail Storm changed the words, changed his focus, seeking only to know when strong magic would flare anywhere on the Plains. The Sacrifice would lose control sooner or later, and with any luck it would happen before he could leave the Plains.

Hail Storm lowered his arms, letting his palm brush against the hilt of his sacrifice blade. He didn’t even have to pull—the magic flared up within him. Hail Storm raised his arms again, this time to cross them before his chest and clench his fists. He wove this new power into the spell, and let it settle gently over the water. Only then did he let out a breath, allowing the tension to ease from his body.

“Well done,” Mist said grudgingly. She came to stand next to him.

“There will need to be watchers.” Hail Storm rubbed his face with both hands. “At all times. I cannot—”

Mist nodded. “I’ve young ones waiting. They will keep watch, and we will rotate them so their eyes stay sharp.” She hesitated, giving Hail Storm a careful look. “It seemed to me that the magic surged while you were casting. It had an odd feel to it, a kind of—”

Shouts came from outside. “Hail Storm!” Someone thrust the tent flap open. “Your tent is afire!”

“Go,” Mist said. “I will see to this.”

With a curse, Hail Storm ran from the tent, perfectly prepared to mourn the death of Arching Colors.

“
THE Plains bathed in new life is lovely, Bethral.” Her mother’s eyes were bright as she looked off to the west. “I hope someday you can see it.”

“I believe, Mama,” Bethral whispered to her mother as she looked about her.

It was amazing. The grasses were filled with color, so many different flowers it was hard to take in. Great swaths of blue and yellow, mixed with the white of the clover. Birds clung to the stems, eating the insects that buzzed about each blossom. The air was sweet with fragrance. The enormous blue sky stretched above it all, the sun warm and welcoming.

Her mother had told her that in the fall, all the grasses turned red and yellow so that the entire Plains seemed to be on fire. That would be a sight to see.

But after four days of travel, she’d had her fill of spring. If she saw one more mare mounted by the herd stallion, or yet another courtship display by hawks, or if the young ones didn’t stop sharing at the top of their lungs every single hour of the night . . .

They had more energy and enthusiasm than Red Gloves.

Of course, Red Gloves would’ve laughed her head off by this time. “Get that itch scratched, Bethral, or it will drive you crazy.”

That’s how Red had always seen sex. As just a physical act, for the pleasure of the moment. Well, that was how she had treated it until she had met her goatherder. Bethral shook her head at the memory. Red had resisted, but Josiah had won her, that was certain.

That was what Bethral wanted. Not just the physical, but the other aspect. Someone who stood at your side, and not just in a fight, but in all those moments that made up life. She’d been close to Red, they’d been sisters in all ways. But Bethral wanted more than friendship. Someone who wasn’t interested just in her body, or how she swung her sword.

Truth was, all this spring was making her itchy.

And it wasn’t going to get scratched anytime soon, Bethral thought ruefully as she looked over at Ezren Storyteller.

He was riding along, surrounded by Cosana, El, Chell, and Arbon. The sunlight picked up the reddish tint in his hair, and with the brown of his leather armor, he looked . . . Bethral turned away.

“Pawn to queen’s bishop five,” Arbon said.

There was a pause, then laughter. Bethral looked back and saw Ezren shake his head. “No, I have lost it. Again.”

“You made it ten moves that time,” Cosana said kindly. “That’s better than before.”

“Not good enough for an entire game, I fear.”

“You truly cannot remember the board?” Arbon asked.

“I cannot,” Ezren said firmly. “But that does not mean that all city dwellers cannot. We are not all the same.”

“But how do you track the details of your life,” El asked, “without a memory?”

“We have memories,” Ezren said. “And we have writing.” He paused. “I may not be able to remember a chessboard, but I do not forget stories.”

They all perked up at that. “Would you tell us a story?” Chell asked. “Here? Now?”

“Why not?” Ezren glanced around as they brought their horses closer. “I can repeat it later for those on watch.”

He thought for a bit as his horse moved on. “Hear now a tale of the land of Palins, from long ago, when time and tide sat young upon the land,” Ezren started. “This is the tale of the Lord of Light and the Lady of Laughter, and how the Lady brought Night to the Land.”

“We will remember,” the warriors chorused.

Ezren looked about, making sure he had their attention
. But once, as he traveled the sky, his light happened upon a lady fair sleeping in her garden. The light and warmth touched her soft skin, and she awoke with laughter on her lips.
He paused for dramatic effect.
And the Lord of the Sun paused in his journey.

Bethral listened with one ear as she scanned the rises around them, looking for signs of pursuit. So far, they’d had no evidence that anyone was searching for them, but it had been only a few days. They needed to stay alert, just in case.

Ezren’s voice was husky and mesmerizing. She wondered if he realized how different he sounded when he was telling tales.

The Lady rose from her bed, her skin warm, her nightclothes disheveled, her face alight with joy. She smiled, and held out her hand. ”Come down, Great Lord, and break your fast with me.”
Ezren swept his hand up toward the sun
. Without a care, she sat at a table bright with berries and sweet cream, fresh bread and soft butter and kavage, dark and bitter.

Ezren paused again and lowered his voice.
And the Lord of Light was tempted.

Tenna laughed as the others chuckled. Bethral saw the satisfaction in Ezren’s face as he continued.

The Storyteller’s horse had stopped, standing patiently as he waited for his rider to urge him on. But Ezren was lost in the tale, in the faces of his audience, who had stopped beside him. Bethral listened as well, but kept her awareness of their surroundings.

“Beg pardon, Lady.” The God of the Sun spoke softly.
Ezren’s voice changed slightly as he took the role of the God.

The warriors were shaking their heads at that. Arbon looked up at the sun in the sky, as if to chide it.