Destiny's Star (10 page)

Still, his voice was not what it had been. And would never be again, although the Lady High Priestess Evelyn had held out some hope for the future. He had to face the fact that it was gone for good

He could accept that now, because he’d been gifted with something important tonight. He’d learned he could still tell a tale, could still hold an audience enthralled, even when his words were being translated.

Pleasure washed through him. It was so good, such a wonderful feeling, to tell a tale, to make the audience weep or laugh, or do both at the same time. He’d missed that, missed performing for an audience. To see their faces, eyes wide as they hung on every word. It was a special kind of power and joy, all in one.

It was a good story, filled with traditional archetypes. Blackhart’s restoration to honor, Evelyn having to deal with her internal conflict about Church politics. A classic villainess and horrifying monsters to top it off. There was even a descent into darkness, exploring the dungeons below the keep. . . . Classical elements, to be sure.

Still, he needed to improve. Not on the tale, but on the telling. Ezren frowned, looking at the grasses as he walked. How could he improve on the presentation when his voice was so very harsh? Perhaps he could . . .

He shook his head, as if to wake himself. Perhaps he should concentrate on surviving this little adventure before he worried about much else.

He chuckled to himself as he returned to their sleeping area. The sides of the tent had been lowered, and they were isolated once again from Haya’s portion and the main eating area. He stepped through the flap, then lowered it, making sure it closed all the way.

The young ones had left. There was a low brazier full of glowing coals between his pallet and Bethral’s. Just enough light to see . . .

She was asleep, her hair fanned out around her head. The blanket had slipped down, revealing her soft shoulders. No, those were not the right words. To reveal the soft skin of her powerful shoulders. One hand rested lightly on the pommel of the new sword.

Lust pierced Ezren through, leaving him standing trembling, breathless.

If the Gods of Palins saw into the hearts of men, the Lady of Laughter must be highly entertained that one such as he should desire a lady warrior.

He turned to his pallet, stripped off his tunic and shoes, and slipped between the blankets. He’d leave his trous on for decency’s sake. Not to mention avoiding embarrassment if his feeling should be discovered. He turned to face the tent wall, and closed his eyes resolutely. He’d recite the “Death March of Wils,” an epic poem he’d learned early in his studies. He had memorized all one hundred stanzas in his youth. The unending sufferings of Wils would bring his body under control.

He was on the eighty-third stanza when he finally fell asleep.

“I think he must be gelded,” Lander announced as he stripped off his tunic and trous.

“Lander! How do you know that?” Gilla asked as she pulled her own tunic over her head.

She and her tent mates had decided to bathe at the river’s edge after hearing the Storyteller’s tale. The night was clear, and the waning moon was bright enough to see by. They’d all walked down together, talking about the story and the Storyteller. Chell stayed back, since it was her turn to guard their gear and keep an eye out for predators.

“Why else does he sleep apart from her?” Lander demanded as he shook out his blond hair.

Ouse was seated on the ground, unlacing his boots. “City dwellers hide their bodies from each other.”

“Maybe there is a reason.” Lander folded his clothes and set them by his weapons. “Maybe he is deformed or . . .” He screwed his face up. “Maybe he is sick.”

“She is hurt,” Cosana pointed out. She’d already stripped and was testing the water with a toe.

“So? You could still share for warmth, if nothing else.” Lander started to wade into the river. “Why else hide? Everyone is the same.”

Cosana shrugged. “Their ways are different. Maybe their bodies are, too.”

“Or maybe his balls were cut.” Ouse stood, and followed Lander into the water.

Cosana ran in after him, splashing a bit. “Best have his token in your hand before you ask.”

Gilla rolled her eyes. “Best not to ask.”

Lander was waist deep in the center of the river. He turned and glared at her. “How else to learn about them and their ways, except to ask?”

“Maybe they are of the same Tribe.” El suggested. “It’s hard to tell from their names. Does he bear the tattoos?”

“Not that I’ve seen.” Gilla waded out, picked up a handful of sand, and started to rub her skin.

“Haya expects a singer and some warrior-priests to arrive in the next day or so,” Chell announced from the shore.

Everyone turned to look at her, startled into silence.

“I heard her tell Urte to watch for them,” Arbon added.

“Do you think”—Cosana whispered—“for the ceremony?”

“Probably.” Arbon started to scrub Cosana’s back. “She has said that she would make her decisions soon.”

“I hope not,” Lander said. “I want to learn more from the Storyteller.”

“Where do you think they will send us?” Ouse looked up into the night sky, as if the answer was written in the stars. “To the Heart?”

“Does it matter?” Chell replied matter-of-factly. “It’s not as if we choose. Besides, we do not fight for rank in our first year of service.”

Gilla looked down at her sandy hands. To be an adult, responsible for her own actions, finally able to make—She swallowed hard.

Her heart beat a bit faster, and she wasn’t sure if it was in anticipation or fear.

Or both.

 

 

“THIS is not a good idea.” Ezren stood, his arms crossed. “What if the person who gifted it to us is insulted?”

They were standing in front of their sleeping area, having finished their morning meal.

Bethral had wrapped the crosspiece of the two-handed sword in cloth, and was trying to use it to support her weight. Her broken leg was off the ground, with all her weight on her good leg and the sword. The tip of the wooden scabbard dug into the earth as she leaned on it.

Haya had provided tunic and trous, and Bethral had strapped on her sword belt. Which was ridiculous; she wouldn’t be able to swing a sword and keep her balance. The whole thing was—

“I’m not going to try to walk far.” Bethral tried another quick step. The pommel was jammed under her armpit, and she tried to hold it there as she hopped on the good leg. “I just want to be able to—”

“The blade will break,” Ezren snapped. He was more concerned about her leg, but he would use any argument that convinced her to be sensible. Her face was strained; she had to be in pain.

“The scabbard should hold,” Bethral pointed out with maddening logic. “This allows me some—”

“And if you fall?” Ezren pointed out. “That would do more harm than good.”

“It’s worth a try.” Bethral hopped again. “Better than lying flat all the time. Besides, I’d like a bath. There’s a stream—”

“Your wits have been taken by the wind,” Ezren snapped in the language of the Plains.

Bethral gave him a surprised look.

“But do as you see fit, Lady.” Ezren turned and stomped back into the tent to start sorting through the rest of the pile of gear they’d been given. Stubborn woman—couldn’t she see the risk if she fell? What if the bone broke through the skin—they’d be in real trouble then. But would she listen to him, a mere storyteller? No, no, and again no. He cursed under his breath and looked over his shoulder.

Bethral was standing still now, looking around, balanced on that stupid two-handed sword. He had to admit that it had not occurred to him that the sword and scabbard could be used like that. It was probably hard for one such as herself to be stuck on a pallet all the time.

But the risks . . .

She’d piled her hair up on her head, and her tunic and trous were a bit too small. The sunlight gleamed on those gold tresses—

Ezren looked down at the pile, cursing himself for a threefold fool. Fool, fool, pathetic fool—

“Come and see, Storyteller.” Bethral called. “The young ones are practicing.”

PRACTICE is practice, no matter where you are,
Bethral mused. She balanced herself with the sword and watched the group of young ones pair off and start to spar.

They were practicing with wooden swords and small wooden shields. Seo walked among them, watching their form. He’d watch each pair for a moment, then move to the next.

“They look well trained,” Ezren commented, coming to stand next to her.

He sounded calmer. Bethral knew full well he was angry with her; his body fairly vibrated with emotion. As much as it hurt to move, it did no good to lie flat all the time. Besides, being on her feet, with a weapon at her side, reminded their hosts that she was a warrior.

Bethral was grateful, though. The sword was much lighter than her mace, and easier to handle if she had to fight.

“Well, that’s one use for that huge sword.” Haya came around the corner of the tent.

“The Storyteller was just saying how good the young ones look,” Bethral replied. She had to balance herself again, shifting her weight around. The idea of using the two-handed sword as a crutch was better than the truth of it. It would help, but she couldn’t stay upright much longer.

“Of course they do.” Haya flashed a grin. “They perform for an audience.” She indicated the three of them. “They also know that I have summoned a singer and warrior-priests for the rites of passage.”

“Warrior-priests?” Bethral frowned. “Haya, what little I know of them—from my mother’s tales—should I ask for your token before I go further?”

“No need.” Haya shrugged. “Take your mother’s tales and let them breed, and you will find them no less true. I’d prefer their absence, but the rites must be observed.”

Bethral flicked a glance at Ezren. “There was trouble, back in our land, before we came here. There was a man, a large black man, who carried the ritual scars of a warrior-priest. He knew our language and our ways.”

“So?” Haya raised an eyebrow. “I could wish you had mentioned this before. Perhaps we should conceal—”

A shout caught their attention. Seo was pointing them out to a large group of riders. The young were poised with their practice weapons, trying not to look impressed.

The riders headed their way, their horses trotting briskly.

The Storyteller’s mouth had dropped open. “Who is that?”

The front rider was dressed in fine leather, and the wing of a bird was tattooed around his right eye. He had long, flowing brown hair decorated with beads and feathers. A singer of the Plains, his eyes bright with curiosity. But as impressive as he was, he was nothing compared with the others.

Warrior-priests. Her mother had said that they walked the earth in arrogance and pride, sure of their mastery of the very winds. They were said to wield the magic of the Plains, but her mother had not been impressed.

The black man she had seen in the courtyard in Edenrich had the ritual scarring over his chest and arms. These warrior-priests were pale-skinned, so they were covered with massive tattoos in red, green, brown, and black. They were all bare-chested, dressed only in trous and cloaks. Their hair was in long, matted locks that fell to their waists.

“Focus on your blades!” Seo roared at his students. “What do you mean, gawking like gurtles?”

The young ones returned to their sparring as the group of riders drew closer to where Haya stood. They all brought their horses to a halt before the tent.

“Too late,” Haya muttered. “Remember, Bethral of the Horse, that you and the Singer of the City have the shelter of my tent.” She stepped forward and raised her hand in greeting.

“Storyteller”—Bethral stepped between Ezren and the oncoming group—“I think you should—”