Destiny's Star (19 page)

“We are warriors now, not children,” Chell reminded him sharply. “She will kill you.”

“She’s not of the Plains.” Arbon’s jaw was set. “And the skies favor the bold.”

“And the earth covers the stupid,” El said.

“She’s coming,” Tenna hissed.

Gilla watched as Bethral strode up and reached to help Ouse with a pack he was struggling with. “Cold camp again tonight. Five watches, two hours each. Each of you take one, I don’t care what order. I’ll take the last watch alone. I want you all sharp.”

“We will be, Warrior,” Arbon said, bold as could be.

Bethral gave him an appraising look. “See that you are.” She looked around at the others. “Tomorrow we will watch for a good camp, and stop early. Somewhere we can rest, and have a fire. Somewhere with water, and alders to shelter us, if possible. Keep an eye out as we ride.”

There was a chorus of agreement to that except from Arbon. Gilla held her breath, but Arbon did nothing else. Bethral noticed, though. But she just turned and walked away.

“Why didn’t you challenge?” El prodded Arbon. “You were insolent enough. If she’d been of the Plains—”

“But she’s not,” Arbon said. “And my time is coming.”

 

 

EZREN hurt.

He hurt in ways he wasn’t about to confess. He’d ridden before, certainly, but not like this. Never like this. He’d taken abuse as a beaten slave, and this was nothing compared to that—it wasn’t like he was going to collapse. But the muscle aches and twinges—Lord of Light, he ached.

Bethral was coming back, walking toward him easily, as if not a muscle ached. She had been riding just as hard, and encased in metal.

He needed to stop complaining and get some sleep. But even that held guilt, for he knew that the young ones were standing guard while he slept through the night.

And for the life of him, he couldn’t figure out his leather sleeping tent. It had been set up for him the night before, and he’d crawled into it, grateful for its shelter. But now it lay spread out before him, limp and useless.

Bethral walked up. “Problems?”

Ezren sighed. Yet another chance to look stupid in front of the Angel of Light. And she was speaking in the language of the Plains because he’d asked her to. The best way to learn the language was to immerse yourself in it in all ways. So now he had to think before he could say “I can’t quite—”

Bethral nodded. “Lander had to show me twice before I got it.”

“Really?” Ezren asked.

“It’s not what we think of as a tent.” Bethral lifted the circle of leather and spread it out carefully. Then she folded it over, so that the crazy quilt pattern of leather was on the outside. “It’s scraps of waxed leather sewn together with gut. Think of it more as a pocket of bread that you tuck yourself into.”

She reached for the alder branches that had been rolled in the leather. “These go into the holes and keep the leather up off your body. Allows you some breathing space.” She thrust the branches in the special sleeves made for that purpose. “Four of them are just enough. You are sheltered from the night and the elements, and can’t be seen down in the grass. With the gurtle pads under you, you’ll be as comfortable as you were in the main camp.” She looked up at him. “Hand me your bedroll, and I’ll see it right for you.”

“Thank you,” Ezren said, then stood and glanced over his shoulder at the horizon. “Shouldn’t I be standing watch? I feel—”

“The warriors are used to it—it was one of their duties in the camp. And I’m an old hand at watch.” Bethral stood. “You need rest, Storyteller. Later, when your body has grown used to this, we will see.” She tilted her head, and gave him an odd look. “What’s back there?” she asked.

“What?” Ezren asked with a puzzled look.

“You keep looking back the way we came,” she said. “Why?”

“I don’t . . .” He looked over his shoulder again, the skin between his eyebrows wrinkling up. “I don’t know. I have this feeling. As if I’ve forgotten something. Something important.”

Bethral frowned. “We didn’t leave anything behind in Haya’s tent.”

“It’s nothing,” Ezren said, shaking his head.

“You’re tired,” Bethral said. “We all are. The horses, too. I’ve told the others that we’ll stop early tomorrow once we find a good camp. Hot food, water to wash if we can manage it.” She leaned down and opened his sleep tent. “Crawl in, Storyteller.”

“Armor and all.” Ezren took a final look to the north, then crawled in.

Bethral lowered the top, and he was encased in a moment, feeling the softness of his pallet beneath him. The gurtle pads beneath were also used as saddle pads, so there was a hint of horse in the spicy scent of the blankets. But right now it felt like the finest featherbed.

“Sleep well, Storyteller,” Bethral said. He heard the slight clank of her armor as she moved off. “Tomorrow will be an interesting day.”

He frowned, not sure he liked the idea of ‘interesting.’ It was a clever little tent. He was grateful for the warmth, but the best part was being off the horse.

His body was relaxing, and he took a moment to loosen his armor and get a bit more comfortable. Sleep wasn’t far off, but he was going to try to stay awake for a while.

Ezren eased down, and settled beneath the blankets. The tent had warmed, but there was cooler air seeping through the opening. Bethral had been right, it was very comfortable. But Ezren didn’t let himself relax too much. He needed to think. Because the ache in his chest was growing, and that meant only one thing.

The wild magic was back.

And growing stronger.

THE ache in his chest was usually the signal that the wild magic was back—no, that was not the right way to think about it. More like the pressure was building within him to release . . . something. As if lying with a woman, and building toward . . .

Ezren snorted. Lord Mage Marlon had put it in less than elegant terms. He’d likened it to the need to piss.

Ezren rolled over on his back and stared at the leather over his face. “Or when I’m wandering on the Plains, where the only people who can help me deal with this want to kill me.”

“Mrowr.” There was a rustle down by his feet, and the edge of the tent lifted slightly as the cat thrust its head in and blinked at him.

Ezren eyed the cat. “You’re welcome to share, Cat. But no dead mice, if you please.”

The cat squirmed in, claiming the blankets over Ezren’s feet. It pawed and kneaded for a moment, then curled into a ball.

“Next I suppose you will start talking,” Ezren grumbled.

The cat ignored him.

Ezren sighed. He could hear the others settling into their tents or starting their watches. He should be sleeping. Bethral would want to start early in the morning.

Except the ache was growing, the farther south they rode.

It was like a pull, a tug . . . No. It was a longing. Ezren frowned as he thought about that. It was an emotion, and it wasn’t his. He’d asked Josiah about it, back when Josiah was trying to give him lessons. He’d lost control while trying to light a candle. It had felt like the magic had gotten excited. Overeager. But Josiah had shaken his head.
“Magic doesn’t have a personality, Ezren. It doesn’t have emotion. It’s a tool.”

Josiah had been a powerful mage in his time, and Ezren had no reason to think that he was wrong.

Except that Josiah had never used or wielded wild magic. Any mage that did was destroyed by the Mage Guild. Which had been why Marlon had tried to kill him the first time he had seen him.

Maybe they were wrong. Maybe wild magic had a personality, had emotions. Maybe it worked off his . . . feelings.

Which was why it had healed Bethral.

That brought a smile to his face, and deep sense of relief. The wild magic might have caused this problem, but it had healed her. It eased some of his guilt, but not all. Bethral was determined to see him—both of them—safely back to Edenrich. Which meant that she stood between him and every warrior-priest on the Plains.

Ezren puffed out a breath. Enough worry. He shifted around a bit, getting comfortable, mindful of the cat at his feet.

Very well. He’d try to use some of this power. He’d try to light a fire, if there was time, when next they made camp. Not a candle—the memory of the burning tent and singed table were fresh in his mind. No, maybe a nice, large fire pit under an open sky. His eyes started to feel heavy.

In the morning . . .

 

 

“CHANGE of plans,” Bethral said.

They had gathered together for gurt and water. The horses were all saddled, the gear ready to go for another day of hard riding.

Ezren had slept well, but the first few steps out of his tent had made him wish for magical healing powers for his inner thighs. Lord of Light, he hadn’t known he had muscles in those places, but he knew now. Walking helped, and he assumed riding would help more, but what he wouldn’t give for a hot mineral bath to soak in.

Odd. This little reality was rarely mentioned in the stories and tales of adventure that he knew.

He had a mouthful of gurt when Bethral made her announcement, so he raised his eyebrows, looking for more information.

“There’s a large herd of horses off to the west,” Bethral said as she braided up her hair to stuff under her helmet. “We’re going to mingle with the herd and travel with it for a while.”

“Cover our tracks,” El said.

Bethral nodded as she tucked her braid up. “We’ll move with the herd, stay on the edges, and watch for a good campsite. We won’t make any distance, but we will confuse our pursuers.”

Arbon stood there, his arms crossed. “If we continue to ride hard, and make good time, we will outdistance them. That is a better course.”

“Warrior-priests have magic,” Ouse said. “They will find us anyway.”

Bethral glanced at both of them. “That may be true, or it may not. Either way, I say we join the herd.”

“No,” Arbon said.

Ezren looked at the lad in surprise, but noted quickly that the others didn’t share his emotion. The young shifted about, and suddenly Arbon was facing Bethral across an open space. Bethral just stood there, pulling on her gauntlets, watching Arbon. “What is this?” Ezren asked, conscious of the sudden tension.

“I challenge,” Arbon said. “I challenge you for—”

Bethral took three fast steps, and punched him in the face.

Arbon staggered back. Blood streamed down his nose, and his eyes were wide.

Rage swept through Ezren, focused on Arbon. How dare he—

Bethral was already grabbing her two-handed sword and unsheathing it in one long move. Grim-faced, she positioned herself before Arbon, bringing the blade to bear on him. Arbon fumbled with his sword and shield, and Bethral turned her head just enough to catch Ezren’s gaze.

She winked at him.

Ezren blinked, his anger draining away.

The young scattered, giving the two contestants room. Gilla grabbed Ezren’s elbow, pulling him back.

Bethral waited, letting Arbon get his sword out and his shield in a guard position. He managed it, and stood there for a moment, breathing hard.

“Ready?” she asked, arching an eyebrow.

Arbon scowled, his lips parting to speak.

Bethral lunged.

Ezren watched in horror and fascination. Tales told of brave warriors using a two-handed sword to battle their foes. But those tales had led him to expect the wielder would slash and stab with the weapon, bringing it up over her head.

Bethral used it as a club, never raising it over her head. Her first blow smashed into Arbon’s shield, forcing him to stagger back.

Gripping the second crosspiece, Bethral let the blade slide toward Arbon’s head. Arbon blocked with his sword, forcing her blade out and down.

Bethral let him, only to smack his thigh hard with the flat of the blade, enough to make Arbon stagger again.

“Ah,” Gilla said softly. “I best go keep watch.”

“Aye,” El said.

They both slipped off. Ezren couldn’t understand how they could take their eyes off the two fighters still exchanging blows before them.

But after a few more moments, he realized what they already knew. Arbon didn’t really stand much of a chance against Bethral.