Authors: Elizabeth Vaughan
Destiny's Star (4 page)
The hand squeezed once, and Gilla breathed again. She looked back and saw Urte’s calm face. Relief washed over her. Urte was an elder. She’d know what to do.
Urte crawled forward, followed by Helfers, his dark face so serious. Both in leather armor, armed and grim. Relief flooded through her. Helfers was also a strong warrior, his skill with a sword well known.
They came up on either side of Gilla, until their heads were level. “Report,” Urte whispered.
“Two people, a man and a woman. A horse, too.” Gilla spoke fast. “Urte, they fell from the sky!”
“I saw,” Urte offered reassurance. “Continue.”
“They are not of the Plains. They seem hurt. The woman and horse wear armor. No weapons that I saw. Something small moved at the man’s side, but I didn’t see it clear.” Gilla stopped. “He saw me, Urte. I—”
Urte’s look silenced her. “Did he attack you?”
“No.” Gilla shook her head.
“What does that matter?” Helfers whispered. “They are not of the Plains, and therefore must die.”
Urte ignored him and considered the path Gilla had left in the grass. “The horse. Hurt?”
“It’s up, legs splayed. It looks exhausted,” Gilla said.
“Helfers, to the right. Make no move until I give the command.”
Helfers grunted, and wormed off through the grass. Urte started to crawl as well, angling away from Gilla’s path. Gilla sighed. She’d be ordered back, she just knew it, and wouldn’t get to see anything.
Urte looked back at her. “Go back up there, and wait for my command.”
With a thrill of pride, Gilla obeyed.
THE girl had disappeared, but Ezren suspected she had gone to summon others. Frankly, it was the least of his concerns.
He got to his feet slowly, easing up as his muscles protested. A pause to catch his breath, as pain and exhaustion washed over him. Then he staggered over to Bethral’s horse.
Bessie stood motionless, her legs splayed, head hanging down. Poor beast. She didn’t react as he pulled the saddlebags and bedroll off her back, trying to get to the waterskin.
Ezren cast a glance back toward Bethral, but she was still silent and motionless. She’d want him to see to her horse before anything else, so he knelt by Bessie’s head and dug around for anything he could use. Finding a bowl, he filled it with water.
“Come, now,” he said softly, putting his wet hand under her nose. “Come on, Bessie.”
The cat emerged from the grass and started to rub against Bessie’s foreleg, a deep rumble coming from its chest.
Bessie snorted, started to lick at Ezren’s hand, and then put her nose in the bowl. Ezren struggled to give her as much water as he could, but the bowl wasn’t really deep enough for her to drink.
“Better?” he asked as Bessie lifted her head and straightened her legs.
It was all he could do for now. He crawled back to Bethral’s side, dragging the waterskin, saddlebags, and bedroll with him. He fumbled with the buckles and got the bedroll free. He settled the blankets around her as best he could. He didn’t dare move her, but she’d stay warmer this way. Besides, he wasn’t sure what else to do.
As he tucked the blankets around Bethral, Ezren used the concealment of the covers to pull one of Bethral’s daggers from her belt. He stuffed it in the grass by his leg, out of sight but well within reach.
He settled back on his heels and looked down at her.
He doubted there was much in the way of healing supplies in the bags. What he wouldn’t give for the Lady High Priestess and her healing magic to be standing next to him. But he might as well wish Edenrich Castle would appear around them.
Not a bird in the air, yet the meadowlarks seemed to be singing all around him. Ezren pulled the waterskin close and wet his fingers. He reached out and stroked Bethral’s pale cheek, and blew gently on her face. “Lady Bethral, wake for me.”
No response.
“Lady Bethral.” Ezren tried to keep his voice soft, but the rasp of it grated in his ears. His finger traced a damp line over her forehead. “I have no clue where we are, or how we came to be here, but I need you to wake up, Lady. We both know that I am a man used to city comforts. You are a skilled warrior, Lady, used to the trials and travails of the wilds.”
Bessie jerked her head up, and snorted.
The grasses moved, and armored warriors rose to surround them, swords and lances in hand. One of them barked out something in a language that Ezren did not comprehend.
“I do not understand you,” he responded as he fumbled under the blanket for the dagger.
LADY
Bethral, wake for me.
Bethral, wake for me.
She was dreaming. She had to be. She’d heard that husky voice call her name only in soft, sweet dreams.
There was a dull throb in the background of her dream, and it seemed to be her leg. It was a promise of pain to come, and she recognized it well. She’d enough experience with injury to know not to move without learning more. She knew full well it would be bad.
Better to float, and listen to that voice.
But . . .
Duty called her forward, demanded that she respond. But she didn’t want to answer. She wanted to listen to the dream, to pretend. . . .
Duty was a bitch.
A different voice spoke then, harsh, demanding, in a language she knew. Her eyes snapped open at the words, as fear surged over her.
“Intruders! Explain yourself, or die!”
THREE
EZREN froze as Bethral spat a word, and then yanked him down to sprawl in the grass. With one smooth move she sat up, took the dagger from his hand, and threw it.
Shouts came as the warriors dived for cover.
“Bragnect!”
Bethral cried the word again as she twisted around, up on her good knee, drawing her other dagger. “Stay down,” she hissed, her face gray with pain as she scanned the grass that surrounded them. “How many?”
Bethral cried the word again as she twisted around, up on her good knee, drawing her other dagger. “Stay down,” she hissed, her face gray with pain as she scanned the grass that surrounded them. “How many?”
“At least four,” Ezren said, trying to remember to breathe as he stayed flat in the grass. “I have no idea where we are—”
“The Plains.” Bethral cut him off, reaching for her helmet. “We need to get to my horse and—”
A voice shouted from the grass. Ezren stared at Bethral’s face, watching as she hesitated, then called a response.
There was silence then, as if their enemy was considering her words.
“A reprieve?” Ezren whispered. “What is going on?”
“I confused them.” Bethral kept her voice low, and her dagger ready. “What happened before I woke?”
“I roused, got water for Bessie, and then tried to wake you when a child appeared in the grass—”
“Child?”
“A young girl. She disappeared as soon as she saw me.”
“A thea camp, then,” Bethral mused. “Not a war camp.” She glanced at Ezren, then back out at the grasses. “The children here can be as deadly as the adults.”
“Lady, how did we get here?” Ezren asked. “I remember . . . I was upset. Something about a bill for damages . . .”
Bethral snorted. “Blackhart’s men. You came out into the courtyard—”
“There was a man, a black man, standing there, covered in scars.” Ezren paused as it came flooding back. “Lord of Light, the wild magic flared. Those manacles—”
“Failed.” Bethral nodded. “They crumbled away to nothing.”
“It is a wonder that the Lord Mage Marlon did not kill me.”
“I stopped him.” Bethral didn’t look at Ezren. “When it looked as if the wild magic would destroy us, Evelyn opened a portal, and I brought you through.” Her blue eyes flickered in his direction. “How do you feel?”
“Sore.” Ezren frowned. “I am not sure why.”
“You were wracked by convulsions,” Bethral said calmly. “But I meant the magic. Do you feel like it will flare again?”
“No.” Ezren put his hand to his heart, but felt nothing. “It is quiet. It would appear that I owe you yet again, Lady. It seems—”
A voice called out a question from the grass. From the tone, Ezren could tell it was making a demand.
Bethral replied. From the sound of her inflection, she was making demands of her own.
The voice responded.
Bethral grunted. “It seems we might have a chance, after all. Help me with this. I need to remove the plate from my right arm.”
Ezren rose carefully to his knees. “What if they attack while—”
“They promised not to.” Bethral gave him an odd look. “While they have odd ways, they have honor, Storyteller.”
He did not doubt that, but didn’t say anything. He rose to his knees. “How do we get this off?”
“There’s two straps.” She held out her arm for him, all of her weight on her good knee. This close, he could hear the pain in her rough breathing. “Just under there.”
Ezren fumbled a bit, but the piece came off to reveal the thick, quilted gambeson beneath.
“Cut it.” Bethral handed him her dagger. “At the seam, if you can.”
Ezren sliced the sleeve at the shoulder.
“Help me up.” Bethral clenched her jaw. Ezren slipped her arm over his shoulder and helped her to stand. He wrapped his arm around her waist, and let her brace herself against his hip.
Once she was stable, Bethral glanced his way. “For now, stay silent. I’ll explain this later, I swear.”
“I will hold you to that, Lady,” Ezren whispered.
Bethral called out to their unseen enemies, then reached around and tore her sleeve down to display her upper arm. Ezren glanced over, surprised to see a row of tattoos. There were two columns of four lines each, black ink against her skin.
A warrior rose from the grasses and stepped forward slowly, showing empty hands. Ezren watched as she approached. Bethral tensed, but took no further action. Together, they waited as the woman came close, and studied Bethral’s arm.
BETHRAL held her breath until the warrior stepped back and smiled. “So now those of the Plains fall from the skies? There’s a song here, I am certain.”
Bethral sagged a bit against the Storyteller, and felt him take her weight easily. “And long in the telling.”
The woman considered both of them. “Bethral of the Horse, I am Urte of the Snake.” She tilted her head to one side. “You missed with the dagger.”
“No,” Bethral said, keeping her gaze on Urte. “I did not.”
Urte barked a laugh. “Is this one also of the Plains?” She jerked her chin at Ezren.
“No,” Bethral said. She could only hope she remembered the right words. “He is Ezren Storyteller, honored Singer of Palins.”
Ezren frowned when he heard his name, but said nothing.
“Palins.” Urte’s eyes flicked off to the distance and back. “Far from his home, then. What is he to you?”
Bethral bit her lip. Never had the temptation to lie been so strong within her. She’d always believed that honesty was the best course, but . . . how she wanted to claim him as her own. Instead, she chose a phrase that those of the Plains would understand even if Ezren Storyteller did not. “I am his token-bearer. We know not how we came here, and our only wish is to depart in peace.”
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