Destiny's Star (23 page)

The God of the Sun continued with his tasks, but not without a quick look at her lovely toes,
Ezren continued.
His duties had never been so heavy, or so it seemed to him.

“We need to keep moving.” Bethral hated to interrupt, but it had to be done. “And the others need to be relieved.”

“You’ll finish?” Cosana begged. “Tonight by the fire?”

“I will,” Ezren promised. “And I will repeat it until everyone has heard it.”

They all thanked him, and started to scatter. Cosana rode off, but not without a flirtatious look at the Storyteller over her shoulder.

Bethral looked away. Cosana was a lovely young woman. It had surprised her when the Storyteller had declined the offer of sharing. It had enraged her when Cosana had offered to share.

But if she wasn’t brave enough to offer, what right did she have to jealousy?

None.

Yet she could not bring herself to approach him. The possibility of his rejection—the look of pity in his eyes—she couldn’t do it. He’d avoided her in Edenrich, and now they were thrown together and she would not risk what friendship they had.

In the corner of her eye, she saw the herd stallion approaching one of the mares. Of course.

Another movement, and Ezren’s horse was beside her. There was a strip of bells in Ezren’s hand, and his expression was intent.

“We need to talk.”

GILLA rode at the edges of the herd, watching for signs of warrior-priests. But she was also stalking her prey. Only this time, the prey was information. No, that wasn’t quite right. It was understanding that she sought.

She’d always been a good hunter. Not that she was the best shot with a bow, or quicker than any other. Her success lay in being patient. By stalking, watching, and waiting . . . that was how she’d brought down her quarry every time.

So now she stalked the Storyteller and his Token-Bearer.

Tenna smiled at her, and held out a fresh waterskin. “It’s still cold.”

Gilla took it gratefully, and drank eagerly. The fresh water tasted wonderful.

“How goes the hunt?” Tenna asked, knowing full well what she was up to. “Learn anything more?”

Gilla rolled her eyes. “It’s an easy enough hunt,” she said. “Bethral never lets the Storyteller out of her sight.”

“They are each aware of the other,” Tenna said.

“If longing looks counted as sharing, they’d both be sore and chafed.” Gilla shook her head.

“Maybe we could seal them in a tent, naked,” Tenna suggested.

Gilla arched an eyebrow. “You did see what she did to Arbon, right?”

Tenna laughed. “Oh, yes, which is why you go first.” She tilted her head at Gilla. “Or do you want to contrive another way to get them together?”

“No.” Gilla handed Tenna her waterskin. “I know what I am going to do.”

BETHRAL reached over the sleeping cat perched on her bedroll to dig out her own bells from her saddlebags. She tied them in Bessie’s mane without looking at Ezren. “What would you say?”

“The magic.” Ezren drew a deep breath and continued in his own tongue. “It is growing again. And I feel . . . pulled is the best way to say it. Pulled back to the north.” He looked over his shoulder. “It is a dull ache. As if I have forgotten something or someone important back there. I feel . . . a need to turn back.”

“Damn!” Bethral looked at him carefully. “I think, too, that you are losing weight.”

“Eating like a horse,” Ezren said ruefully. “More than I normally do. But that could be the riding. All this activity . . .” His voice trailed off, then he quirked his lips. “I fear I am ignoring the truth.”

“When we were in Edenrich, the magic flared when you saw that warrior-priest,” Bethral said. “It came roaring out, lashing out almost as if it were enraged.”

“Anger.” Ezren’s eyes grew vague. “Yes, I felt anger. Yet there was joy, too.” Those green eyes sharpened and focused on her. “But Josiah said that magic has no emotion.”

“Josiah and Marlon deal with normal magic,” Bethral reminded him. “And they both said that the power you carry is wild magic. I am not sure their rules apply.”

“They knew nothing of the altar and its surroundings,” Ezren said. “Or of the knife.”

“I did not place it in my pack,” Bethral said firmly. “Last I knew, it was in a chest in my sleeping chamber. I do not know how it came to be in my saddlebag.”

“Marlon said it contained no magic.” Ezren frowned, looking down at his hands. “How did it get in your saddlebag?”

“Maybe it’s like Josiah’s goats,” Bethral said. “Linked to you by the very magic that it released.”

“Come to think of it”—Ezren frowned—“those goats do not really make much sense. I mean, if they are magic—and Josiah drains magic from the area around him, then how can they be magic? They never leave his side.”

Bethral blinked. “I never thought of that.” She thought for a moment. “Maybe that’s part of the magic?”

“Circular logic.” Ezren shook his head. “No, there has to be a better explanation than that.” He sighed. “I wish we could ask Josiah or Marlon about this. Or even the warrior-priests. They might actually be able to help.”

“Except they think that you need to die,” Bethral reminded him.

“Yes.” Ezren’s smile flashed. “That is a problem.” But then the grin faded. “It is building up again, Lady Bethral.”

“You want to try to use it?” Bethral guessed, noting the seriousness of his expression.

“Both Marlon and Josiah talked about trying to bleed it off before it built up.” Ezren grimaced. “And we saw what happened when I tried to suppress it using those bracelets that Evelyn gave to me. I thought maybe I could try to start a fire.”

Bethral looked down at her gauntlets and thought for a moment. “Don’t try just yet, Storyteller. We’ve been traveling more toward the east with this herd, and there are no signs of pursuit so far. But all we’ve been doing is drifting. I’ve been thinking of breaking out and making a run directly to the east. Once we are in the foothills, it will be easier to hide from pursuit as we try to find our way through the mountains.”

Ezren nodded. “It is not bad yet. I can wait.”

Bethral frowned, and shook her head. “Every time the magic has flared, you have had no control. I don’t want to risk you or them, if I can help it.” She looked off to the west. “That low line of clouds—see them? I am fairly sure that means rain for a time. I need to check with one of the others. If we can find a good camp and wait out the rains, then we can make our move.”

“If that is the case, I think we should also tell the young ones everything. About the magic, about the warrior-priests,” Ezren said firmly.

“Everything?” Bethral arched an eyebrow. “Haya didn’t—”

“Haya is not here, and they are risking their lives for us.” Ezren ran his fingers through his hair. “It is only fair that they know it all. No secrecy, Bethral. That’s how the warrior-priests act, and I will not have them as my guide.”

“Tonight, then.” Bethral leaned forward and removed the bells from Bessie’s mane.

“Tonight.”

 

 

GILLA saw her opportunity when they all gathered at the center of the herd. Bethral had asked them about the line of clouds building to the north and west. She and the others confirmed that it meant rain, and probably a heavy one, from the looks of the clouds.

So Bethral rode off with Lander, Tenna, Arbon, and Chell in search of a camp where they could wait out the storm in some comfort.

That left Gilla and Ouse, Cosana and El to guard the Storyteller.

Cosana was content to bring up the rear, playing a game of chess with El. Gilla looked over at Ouse as she drew a strip of bells from her pack. He rolled his eyes, but urged his horse forward a polite distance. He might not approve of her efforts, but he wasn’t going to try and stop her.

The Storyteller’s eyebrows went up when he saw the bells in her hands. “You want to talk?”

“Yes, please, Storyteller.” Gilla quickly braided the bells into her horse’s mane. “It has to do with your traditions. Concerning sharing.” Gilla drew a deep breath. “I think I understand about your bonding ceremonies. But . . .” she let her voice trail off, suddenly uncertain.

“But?” Ezren asked her gently. His green eyes were curious.

“I would ask for your token, Storyteller,” Gilla said.

“Ah, this sounds serious.” Ezren pulled his gold coin from his pouch, and gave it to her. “I will speak to your truth.”

Gilla drew in a breath, and spoke in a rush. “I do not understand why you are not sharing with your Token-Bearer, Bethral of the Horse. It is clear that she cares for you and you care for her, and I don’t—”

“Ah.” A look of sorrow passed over Ezren’s face. “Gilla, our ways are very different from yours. Bethral is a warrior. What you see as interest is really just concern—pity, really—for a friend who is out of his depth, unable to—” He stopped and cleared his throat. “Bethral wants—deserves—an equal as a partner. A man who is her equal in skill and . . .” His voice trailed off.

Then he frowned, and looked at her. “Frankly, I do not really want to talk about this. If you did not hold my token, I would be offended. This is a very private matter, Gilla. I am sure that even among your people, you do not—”

“I do not wish to offend, Storyteller.” Gilla looked down at the gold coin in her hand. “I just have one more question before I return your token.”

“Well?” Ezren snapped.

“So, when Bethral of the Horse kissed you, she was doing that out of pity?”

“KISSED?”

Gilla caught herself before she reached for her sword. The Storyteller’s green eyes were hard as he stared at her.

“Kissed,” she said carefully. “Putting your lips on another’s. You know?” She held the gold coin where he could see it and remember that she held his token.

“I know ‘kiss,’ ” Ezren snapped at her. “When is this supposed to have happened?”

He turned his head, his body stiff in the saddle.

“After you killed the warrior-priest.” Gilla urged her horse closer to his. “You collapsed. Elder Thea Haya moved to kill you—”

The Storyteller stopped his horse, staring straight ahead.

“Bethral met her blade,” Gilla continued. “Then Haya backed away. Bethral threw herself down on the ground next to you. She looked frantic. Then she—her face filled with joy, and she kissed you.”

The Storyteller was still and silent.

“I’ve never seen a kiss like that,” Gilla said carefully. “I just . . .” Her voice trailed off as she struggled for the right words. “I want something like that, Storyteller. And for the two of you to have it and not share . . .” She drew a breath. “I do not understand.”

“Neither do I,” the Storyteller said. “But I intend to.”

 

 

BETHRAL was very pleased with the new camp. Even if the rains were heavy for days, they could wait it out tucked into this sheltered area.