Destiny's Star (36 page)

Bessie surged under her, charging forward, unconcerned about the humans between her and the goal. Bethral knew full well that few warriors could face a charging horse easily; and a fully armored warhorse was a fearful sight.

Bethral nodded in satisfaction as the eyes of the warrior-priests went wide. They dodged to the sides, scrambling to avoid the charge. The path became wider, and wider still as Bethral swung her mace.

Then Bessie’s hooves rang on the stone, and they were headed straight for the man who had to be Hail Storm.

He’d pulled Gilla up, keeping her before him, his blade at her throat. But his eyes grew wide as Bessie covered the distance between them, headed straight for her target. Bethral almost laughed out loud at the look on his face. She swung her mace high, with every intent of crushing his skull.

Hail Storm jerked back, dodging the charge, dragging Gilla with him. Bethral had her mace ready as she passed, but Gilla was thrust toward her as a shield. Hail Storm ducked his head, his arms wrapped around Gilla as Bessie charged past. Bethral hesitated, checking her blow, cursing.

A yowl cut the air, and the cat launched itself off the bedroll, and straight for Hail Storm’s arms. Claws and teeth bit deep, raking long scores down his tattooed arms.

Hail Storm cried out, releasing his hostage. He flailed with his dagger, fending off the enraged animal.

Gilla dropped and rolled clear as the big roan horse leapt over her, pivoting on its hind legs.

The cat fell to the stone, its fur puffed out. It streaked off, disappearing into the grasses at the stone’s edge.

Bethral clung to Bessie’s back, her mace swinging up in preparation. But Hail Storm was fleeing, running for the far edge of the stone, clutching his bleeding arm to his chest.

Bethral cursed, and made to follow. But the warrior-priests around the stone allowed Hail Storm to disappear into their ranks, and brought their bows to bear on her. She could hear the bastard shouting behind their ranks, and some of the others were drawing swords and coming toward her. They wore nothing but their tattoos and their trous. Fools!

“Ezren, free Gilla,” Bethral said as she tried to guard them from all sides at the same time. Hopeless, perhaps. Eventually, they could overwhelm her. But a few broken heads and arms might keep the others at bay. One of them was more foolhardy, rushing toward her with sword and shield high.

Bessie pivoted again and kicked out, striking him in the chest. Everyone heard the ribs break as he was tossed back into the crowd.

Screaming her battle cry, Bethral fell to with a will, trying to be everywhere at once.

 

 

GILLA rolled free, avoiding flying hooves as best she could, struggling against her bonds.

“Gilla,” came a voice. She looked up and saw Ezren Storyteller swinging his leg over the horse, preparing to dismount. Bethral was holding off the warrior-priests, but they didn’t have much time. She watched as his boot touched the stone, relaxing at the thought of rescue.

The stone rang with a bell-like tone.

Gilla gasped through her gag. The warrior-priests at the edge of the stone all exclaimed as they backed away, looking around for the source of the sound.

Ezren Storyteller spread his arms, hands out, as if afraid of losing his balance. Gilla half expected him to sink into the stone as if it had turned to water beneath his feet.

Instead, the stone began to glow.

Gilla struggled to sit up, and saw the entire stone under and around her lit up with a white light. It wasn’t on fire, thank the elements, there was no heat. The stone was still hard and rough under her, but the glow was getting brighter and bigger.

The warrior-priests had seen it, too, and they backed away as the glow expanded to the edge of the stone.

Ezren stood there, as if frozen.

Gilla’s struggles drew Bethral’s attention. She maneuvered Bessie close, and reached down. Gilla strained up, and found herself hauled to her feet by the collar. A cold blade slid against her wrists, and then the bonds gave as it sliced through them.

Gilla rubbed her wrists and took the offered blade to cut her legs free. Bethral stayed close, watching all around them for attack. “Up,” she commanded as soon as Gilla was free to move. “Get to Ezren’s horse.”

Gilla yanked her gag free and scrambled to the free horse, calling it to her side. It came willingly, although its eyes were rolling with fear.

“What’s happening?” she asked.

Bethral grabbed her collar and heaved her, sprawling, over the saddle. Instinct made Gilla seat herself and take the reins.

“Go.” Bethral pointed. “Head for that rise. The others are there.”

“You’ll be killed,” Gilla cried, wanting to deny the truth. She jerked her head around, looking at the warrior-priests, who were recovering from their shock. Their eyes were focused on Ezren; it was only a matter of time before—

Bethral smacked the horse, which leapt forward with no other urging. Gilla sobbed, then leaned forward and let the horse run through the warrior-priests. She’d no weapon, no way to fight. She’d be more obligation than aid. Tears in her eyes, she risked a glance back. No hand was lifted against her; they were all focused on the glowing stone. And the man and the woman at the very center of the Heart of the Plains.

 

 

THE world changed when Ezren stepped onto the Heart of the Plains.

A tone sounded, like the deepest bell he’d ever heard, resounding in his chest. The magic leapt within his chest, washing Ezren with joy. Home. It was home.

The mages he had talked to were wrong. Magic—this wild magic—had emotions. It was powerful, strong, and flared within him, bringing with it knowledge and power. And an offer . . .

Of power, beyond his understanding. His for the taking. At a price.

And for a moment he hesitated.

But he’d never wanted this kind of power. And that thought was enough. Regret flowed through him, but it was the magic’s sorrow, not his.

Joy, then, and anticipation. Eagerness for home and freedom. Images flashed before Ezren’s eyes, and he knew what needed to be done.

“Ezren.” Bethral’s voice broke through, and Ezren looked up. She was looking down from Bessie’s back, extending her hand.

 

 

“
EZR EN.
” Bethral moved Bessie alongside Ezren and extended her hand. “Mount. If we charge—”

“No.” Ezren looked up at her. His voice sounded odd, echoing ever so slightly. “You are so lovely, my Angel of Light.”

“Ezren.” She tried very hard not to let her impatience show. “Come up. If we are to—”

“You would take them all on, would you not?” Ezren asked.

Bessie shifted, her hooves chiming on the stone. Bethral frowned at Ezren. With all the light, it was hard to tell, but she thought that he was glowing now. “Ezren?”

He looked at those around them. Bethral looked as well. The one they’d driven off, who had to be Hail Storm, was in the second rank, screaming commands. So far, not one had the courage to step on the stone, but it wouldn’t hold them back long. “Ezren,” she repeated, trying to get his attention.

Ezren looked at her, his green eyes bright. She could see it now, the glow under his skin. But there was more. As if he understood everything that was happening. That would happen.

“Willing sacrifice, willingly made,” he recited. “Are you willing, my Angel?”

Her heart full of the inevitable, Bethral dismounted with a smooth move, and stood next to him. “Yes.”

EZREN’S heart soared at Bethral’s acceptance. He watched as she slid from the saddle without hesitation.

“I am sorry, Bethral,” Ezren said regretfully as she stepped to his side, “for what we will not have.”

Bethral took off her helmet, shaking out her long hair. “I’m grateful for what we have had. And who can say what comes after this life?” She hung her helmet on Bessie’s saddle, and her mace from her belt. “So, if you aren’t going to let me kill them all, and I’m not going to let them kill us, what are we going to do?”

Bessie snorted and shook her head, jingling her harness as if asking the same question.

Ezren laughed. The warmth in his chest grew as the wild magic laughed with him. He turned to face the crowd. “Bragnect!”

His voice rolled over the heads of the warrior-priests. That got their attention, and they all went silent. Even Hail Storm, the one that had held Gilla; he now stood at the edge of the stone, glaring with hate. Glaring with cold, dead eyes. Ezren knew that look all too well. Hail Storm’s eyes were the same as those of the blood mage. The one that had driven the stone knife into Ezren’s chest.

“Bragnect, all of you!” Ezren raised his voice, letting it carry above the crowd. He had a sense that his voice was carrying over the land, clear to all, even to those on the rise. “Horse killers! Slayers of young warriors! Arrogant, self-righteous fools, filled with your own importance and pride! What else have you done over the years in order to protect your rank and standing?”

Those around the stone raised their weapons, their faces filled with rage. But not one of them stepped on the glowing stone.

“I do not know the answer,” Ezren said, “but the Plains know. The Magic knows.”

Ezren focused on Hail Storm. “You want power and magic, and you are willing to do anything to make it happen. Even distort the words of your own tales and history to make it work for you.” Ezren could hear his voice—it had never sounded so powerful before, so strong. It was still not the voice he’d had before, but it was his, and it resonated as he spoke.

“Yes!” Hail Storm drew his sword with one hand, and held his sacrifice dagger with the other. He stepped past the cowering fools and put his foot onto the stone. “That which was lost is now found, and it is up to us, the warrior-priests of the Plains, to restore it.”

Bethral stepped forward, her mace back in her hand. But Ezren caught her elbow, and stopped her.

 

 

BETHRAL paused, watching the angry warrior-priests that surrounded the platform. It was only a matter of time before they gathered their courage to charge the two of them. Why was Ezren holding her back?

“Call them, Bethral.”

She tilted her head. “Who?” she asked in a whisper.

“Summon them,” Ezren said. His eyes glowed in the light. But there was something else. Something more in his green eyes. “Summon them here to witness and judge, Bethral of the Horse, Avatar and Warrior.”

Like that, Bethral knew exactly what he meant. She’d done this before, opened herself to that power; embodied all of the Spirit that was within her.

She whispered a prayer, put her hand on Bessie’s neck, threw her head back, and cried the call to summon horses of the Plains.

Bessie reared, neighing, adding the call of the lead mare.

A trembling started underfoot. Hail Storm jerked his foot off the stone.

Bethral felt it under her feet, and shared a delighted glance with Ezren. She called again, and the thundering grew, now clearly heard. All of the warrior-priests started to look around.

“There is an old saying in my land, Hail Storm.” Ezren’s voice rang with satisfaction. “Be careful what you wish for. You just might get it.”

 

 

GILLA sobbed with relief as she saw Lander running forward when she topped the rise. She leapt from her horse and into his arms, hugging him. Chell and Ouse were there as well, laughing and hugging her.

They dragged her over to the crowd of warrior-priests at the top of the rise who were watching the Heart. Gilla jerked back, but Ouse shook his head. “We’ll explain, after.”

So they were standing close to the oldest of the warrior-priests, who was being supported by two younger ones. It was the one who had conducted the rites, the one who had spurned Hail Storm in the center of the Heart. Gilla gave him an uncertain glance, but the others were ignoring him.

“Look,” Ouse said.

Gilla’s eyes were drawn to where Ezren and Bethral were standing, just standing, in the glow, next to the roan horse. Why didn’t they . . .

“Bragnect!”

Gilla gasped as she heard every word, as clear as if the Storyteller was standing before her. Then the ground below their feet started to shake.

A group of horses came over the far rise, glowing with their own light. Horses like the ones on the Longest Night, when the dead appeared to bid farewell to the living. Spirit horses, too, ridden by . . .

Was that El?

Gilla’s grief spilled over. El was there, riding hard. Her tears fell as she recognized Cosana at his side. There was another as well, a young warrior-priestess, and from the gasps around them, she was known to the others.

The spirit horses plunged down off the rise, galloping straight for the Heart. Behind them streamed real horses, hundreds, thousands. Gilla had never seen so many horses in one herd at one time. They ran, tossing their heads, neighing, following the spirit horses as they charged the warrior-priests.