Destiny's Star (8 page)

“FIVE children?” Ezren sputtered. “Each?”

“That’s what those tattoos on their left arm mean. That’s how they keep track of their duty to the tribe,” Bethral said calmly. She
had
shocked him, but he had to know the ways of these people if he was to survive.

She watched him consider her words. Once she saw that he was really listening to her, she continued. “Once they have met their obligation, only then are they acknowledged as adults and released for service in the armies of the warlords.”

“But that’s—”

“No, Storyteller.” Bethral raised a finger to make a point. “Assume they are right and you are wrong.”

Ezren frowned but said nothing, waiting for her to continue.

They’d been served their breakfast and their needs had been seen to at dawn. The warriors had rolled up the outer wall of their sleeping area to let in air and sun, and so they had a view of the activity of the area around them.

Bethral sat on her pallet, braced by her saddle, her legs stretched out before her. Once the warriors had left them, Ezren had fussed, using pillows to support her legs and back. He’d checked the splint he’d rigged. Her leg had swollen during the night, and he loosened the ties before settling next to her.

The cat had wandered in and claimed a patch of sunlight by Bethral’s feet.

Everyone in the camp was working at something, coming and going. Bethral had pulled her sharpening stone out, and started working the edges of her blades, laying her sword and two daggers next to her.

The fact that her weapons were ready if needed was also a practical benefit.

She drew in a breath, considering what next to say. He had to understand, and she’d repeat herself until he did. “This is a harsh land, and the people of the Plains live hard lives. But they live them, which means that their way of life allows them to survive. It is not our way, that is true. You must respect it or—”

“Die.” Ezren was sitting cross-legged on the ground next to Bethral, the breeze playing with his hair. It was getting longer, starting to curl softly at the back of his neck. Bethral looked back at her blade and started to work it again.

“Still. . . . that they bear so many, then ride off, leaving the babes behind . . .”

“They are a warrior culture. They raid the lands that surround the Plains and take what they need,” Bethral explained. “Those armies are their supply lines. The young need to provide warriors to replace those that are killed.”

She continued to run her stone down the length of the blade. The Storyteller sat silent, looking out over the grasses, thinking, taking it all in.

“Very well,” Ezren said. “They have different attitudes toward sex, child rearing, and marriage. They do not marry—bond—until they have earned a reputation for military service. Everyone is free to sleep with everyone not of the same Tribe, regardless of gender.”

“Yes. Do not be shocked if you see men kissing men.”

“That’s not so shocking. It is not common in Palins, but not an issue except for the noble houses, where the bloodlines must be preserved.” Ezren drummed his fingers on his leg. “I wish I had paper, to write this all down.”

“No written language, so—”

“No paper.” Ezren flashed Bethral a smile. “And they have perfect memories. They remember what is said, all of them?” Ezren ran his fingers through his hair.

“Mother said those of the Plains never forget.” Bethral smiled. “It made it hard for us kids sometimes.”

“I would hear that story someday, Lady.” Ezren’s green eyes focused on her face.

Bethral held her sword up and ran a finger along the edge, looking for nicks. “Someday, Storyteller. But for now—” She arched an eyebrow in his direction.

Ezren nodded. “They also take offense easily unless there is a token involved. And those fights can lead to death, but no one thinks twice or will interfere.”

“Always ask for a token if you think your words will give offense,” Bethral said. “Attacking one who holds your token is a terrible violation of their ways, and they will kill you for it.”

“And a token can be anything except a weapon, but the higher a warrior’s status, the more important or impressive a token is.”

“We need to get you one.” Bethral thought about that for a minute. “Maybe one of the gold coins in my saddlebags.”

“You said they don’t use money.”

“They don’t. A gold coin is shiny and unusual. So it would work as a token.” Bethral pulled her saddlebag over and started rummaging.

“Fine.” Ezren accepted one of the coins and tucked it into his sleeve. “So. Perfect memories, five children, quick to avenge an insult with weapons . . . is there anything else I need to know?”

Bethral suppressed a smile. “Yes. But that is a good start.”

His green eyes flashed at her, as if he sensed her mirth, but then they went wide with what could only be horror. “They won’t expect us to have children—will they?”

 

 

A chill ran right down his spine. Lord of Light, would they expect him to . . . breed? He would not—

“No.” Bethral gave him an odd look. “They will not. They understand that we are from a different land with different ways.” She hesitated, then looked away. “You can expect invitations to share, Storyteller. You are . . . exotic.”

To them. Not to her. Ezren shook his head deliberately. “Let us not complicate this situation any more than it already is. How do I say ‘no’ without offending?”

“Just say ‘no,’ ” Bethral said softly. “There will be no pressure. Disappointment, though.”

“I can deal with disapp—” Ezren cut off his words as a shadow fell over him. He looked up and saw Haya standing before them. And now he saw her with new eyes.

Haya was a thea, one who raised the children of the Tribe. As Elder Thea her word was law in this camp . . . even Seo, as Elder Warrior, acknowledged her authority. She ruled the camp as surely as Gloriana sat on the Throne of Palins.

Gloriana didn’t yet have this confidence or this air of power. Haya wore her armor and weapons with ease, and he could see that they were of the best quality. Her white hair and weathered face spoke of years of experience. Odd to think of a nursemaid wearing a sword.

Ezren stood, and bowed his head to her. He spoke slowly, careful of each word. “Good morning, Elder Thea Haya.”

She studied him, then gave him a slow smile. “Good morning, Ezren Storyteller, Singer of the City.” She raised an eyebrow. “You learn fast, Singer.”

“My thanks, Elder,” Ezren said.

Haya settled down on the grass, facing both of them, and said something to Bethral fairly quickly. Ezren had a feeling that she was complimenting him, but then he caught the word “token.”

Bethral had set aside her weapons when Haya arrived. She stiffened slightly at Haya’s words, but reached within her saddlebag and drew forth a braid of gray horsehair and ribbon.

Ezren narrowed his eyes but said nothing. He knew that bit of hair. Bethral had cut it from the mane of her dead horse, Steel, a large gray gelding that had died trying to protect her during the ambush by the bog. He swallowed hard at the memory of her grief at the horse’s death.

She handed it to Haya.

Haya took it and placed it on her knee. They began to talk rapidly. He couldn’t follow the conversation, but once in a while he caught a word that he knew. Nothing out of the ordinary, except that they seemed to refer to the weather quite often.

Ezren also knew enough courtesy to stay silent. He kept his eyes on the two women, watching their eyes, their hands, trying to interpret their discussion. There was tension between them, but more on Bethral’s part than on Haya’s.

Haya leaned back, and sighed. She picked up the token and held it out to Bethral, saying something that sounded like a rote piece.

Bethral waited until Haya stopped speaking, then took the token and responded in turn. He would have to ask about that once Haya left. There was more to the token than just the exchange.

Haya stood, brushing off her trous. She gave Ezren a deliberate nod, then walked off without another look.

Bethral was playing with her token, running it through her fingers.

“Is it going to snow?” Ezren demanded. “Or did I misunderstand that word?”

Bethral didn’t look up. She just tucked the token back in the saddlebag. “We need supplies, Storyteller. Need to earn our keep, in the eyes of the Tribe.”

“We can trade.” Ezren gestured toward the horse barding and Bethral’s armor. “Much though I hate to do it, we can—”

Now she looked him in the eye. “It will not be enough. You must tell your stories, Silvertongue.”

BETHRAL hated to push Ezren, hated that she’d put that look in his eyes, but it had to be done. A singer had value, and to have the Singer of the City sing in this camp would bring them what they needed.

She knew what she asked of him. She’d held his broken body in her arms—she’d been the first to discover that his captors had cut out his tongue. He’d been broken physically, and he bore the scars to prove it. Evelyn had explained that his voice had suffered as well.

But not his spirit or his mind. Ezren Silvertongue, with the help of the healing magic of the Gods, had recovered faster than she’d ever thought possible. And his mind—that quicksilver mind—had aided the Chosen even before his body had recovered. Still, he’d refused to tell stories in Edenrich; he’d written them out instead.

Haya had made it clear that they had a few days at most. Bethral had no choice. Ezren Silvertongue had to return to Palins, to aid the young Queen, and she had to make sure that he was well on his way before she took her own path.

He’d frozen up, his hands clenched in fists.

“The young are being released soon.” Bethral picked up her stone. “It’s normal to grant them adulthood, then celebrate for a few days to let them work off their energy before sending them to serve.” Bethral ran the stone over the blade again. “Now would be an ideal time to announce a story. You honor them in your timing—and the warriors will honor you with gifts in exchange for the stories. Practical gifts that will give us the supplies we need. We need to prove your value to the—”

“Our value,” Ezren said through his locked jaw.

Bethral stayed silent for a moment. She set the stone aside and reached for her polishing cloth. She worked it over the blade once, watching Ezren in its reflection. “A wounded warrior has little to no value. There is no shame in this—but right now my only value is to interpret your words. If we get supplies and horses—you can leave.”

“You need time to heal. You can’t ride until the bone is set.”

Ah, he was so brave and so stubborn. “You forget one thing.”

“What?”

“We must get you out of here as soon as possible.”

“Why?”

Bethral looked up and met his glare. “To protect them from you.”

NOW those green eyes cut right through her, bright and angry. Bethral returned the look calmly, not looking away, waiting.

It didn’t take long before understanding flooded into his eyes. “The wild magic.”

“It may not be with you now, Storyteller, but we can’t pretend it’s not there. If—when—you lose control again, we need to be as far away from these people as possible. For if you explode in the sight of these tents, they will not hesitate to kill you.”

His head was down, his eyes hidden. Bethral drove home the point. “And who knows how many you might kill in the process?”

He sat, still and silent. Bethral finished the polishing and sheathed her sword. “You need to tell stories,” she repeated. “Soon.”

“I cannot—” Ezren stopped at the sound of footsteps.

Gilla was standing before them, looking very nervous, and a tall, handsome blond boy was next to her. When they saw that she had Bethral’s attention, both of them knelt in the grass before her.

“Bethral of the Horse, Token-bearer, we would ask you to give our words to Ezren Storyteller, the Singer of the City.”