Destiny's Star (5 page)

With that, the pain hit her hard. Bethral’s vision grayed.

“Ah, where is my courtesy?” Urte moved to help Ezren lower Bethral to the ground. “Sit, warrior of the Plains. I have sent for our elders.”

 

 

EZREN lowered Bethral to the ground, keeping a careful eye on the strange warrior. “Reprieve?”

Bethral was pale, taking deep breaths. There was a faint sheen of sweat on her face. “Yes. They have sent for their . . . leaders.”

“Lady,” Ezren said as he knelt at her side. The woman warrior knelt as well, but her attention was focused into the distance.

“My mother was of the Plains.” Bethral answered his unspoken question. “The tattoos on my arm mark my . . . lineage. My membership in the tribes. She taught all of us children the language and the ways of the Plains.” A chuckle escaped her, sounding more like a sob. “I am going to wish I had paid better attention to my lessons.”

“We need to get you to a healer.” Ezren leaned over and pulled the blanket across the grass to throw it over her shoulders.

“As to that”—Bethral drew a shuddering breath—“Storyteller, listen to me. They have no healing.”

“Nonsense.” Ezren shook out the blanket. “Of course they have healing. What do they do when someone is hurt or injured?”

“They kill themselves.”

Ezren froze, looking at her. “That is madness.”

Bethral sighed as he pulled the blanket around her. “Storyteller, do yourself a favor. Assume they are right.”

“What?”

“They live in a harsh land, and they live by very different rules. But they live—even prosper. If you want to live, best to accept their ways.”

“And you?” Ezren’s voice grated in his throat.

Bethral shook her head. “They are a nomadic warrior people and they have no supplies or time to waste on the wounded. I’ll be expected to—”

The woman warrior called out, waving her arm over her head. Two warriors appeared on horseback, headed in their direction.

 

 

BETHRAL tried to sit up as a sign of respect, but Urte pressed a hand to her shoulder. “Stay.”

The two elders rode close, and dismounted, walking through the grass toward them. An older man, wearing armor that was a mixture of leather and chain. His skin brown and wrinkled, and he was as bald as could be. His eyes were bright blue and considering.

The other was a woman, also tanned, her hair a bright white. Her armor seemed of even better quality, with more chain than leather. Her brown eyes focused on Bethral’s arm. They both drew closer.

Bethral extended her arm for consideration, and the woman took her wrist, studying the tattoos. The woman wet her thumb, and smeared it over the markings. Bethral suppressed a shiver at dampness on her skin.

“So,” the woman said, “it appears you are truly of the Plains, for all that you fell from the sky. I am Haya of the Snake, Elder Thea.”

“I am Seo of the Fox, Elder Warrior,” the man added. “We greet you, Bethral of the Horse, and offer you and the Singer shelter within our tents.”

Safe. He was safe, for now. Bethral dropped her gaze. “Thank you, Elders.”

Haya grunted, as if pleased. Seo paused, and considered Bethral’s leg. “Although, it would be better, perhaps, that our tent comes to you.” He turned, and shouted for others to bring supplies. Warriors went running at his commands.

Ezren still knelt next to Bethral, watching the faces of those around him.

“Your injury, it’s a bad one, eh?” Haya asked.

Bethral nodded. “It is, Elder. But I must see to the Singer’s safety before I go to the snows.”

“As to that,” Seo said, “there is time for talk, Warrior.”

“There have been . . . events,” Haya added.

“Events?” Bethral asked.

“Change is in the wind, Warrior,” Seo answered. “And none know if it bodes ill or good.”

“Change?” Bethral blinked away the sweat. “On the Plains? But my mother said that the Plains is as the land. Unending and unchanging.”

Haya nodded her understanding. “So it is, and so it has always been. But now one has come that brings change with her.”

“Who?”

“A Warprize.”

IT was hard to take it all in. Ezren stood watching while people swarmed around them as if from nowhere.

And such people! He was used to the different skin colors and races; Edenrich was a trading city, after all, and held a mixture of all types of people.

But here . . . the contrast could not be greater. Here all the people wore armor and carried weapons, even those he’d normally think of as children. But there was an edge to them, a vibrancy that was missing in Edenrich. In his home, people came in all shapes from fat to lanky and all the sizes in between. But here, everyone was fit and hard. A people ready and able to go to battle.

It was disconcerting, to say the least.

He sat by Bethral’s side as a huge piece of leather was spread on the grass, then trampled until it rested flat. Then a pallet was made of large swaths of felted wool, piled high.

Two warriors assisted Bethral and settled her on the pallet. As Ezren spread blankets over her, Seo and Haya settled on stools nearby. Seo angled his stool so that he could see the action, and kept gesturing and calling out commands.

Ezren could read faces well enough to know that his oversight was not really appreciated.

Haya was talking to Bethral in the strange, fluid tongue of the Plains as the activity swirled about them. Bethral listened intently, without interrupting. Ezren listened with half an ear, watching as the warriors worked. They were erecting a tent around them, one of the biggest he’d ever seen, when a familiar word caught his attention.

“Xy?” He crouched at Bethral’s side. “Did she say Xy? As in the Kingdom of Xy?”

Haya looked at him with bright eyes as Bethral spoke. “Haya says that the Warprize is from the Tribe of Xy. Do you know of it?”

“From old stories of long ago,” Ezren said. “A far mountain kingdom—it was on a major trade route at one point, according to legend.”

“Apparently the Warprize is Xylara, a princess—”

Ezren shook his head. “They don’t use that title. They would call her a Daughter of the Blood or Daughter of Xy. And if that’s her name, she is the first female child of the monarch. They use Xy—”

“Storyteller,” Bethral broke in patiently.

“Sorry.” Ezren shrugged. “Go on.”

“The Warprize is a healer and has offered her skills to all of the people of the Plains. But she has left the Plains, along with her chosen . . .” Bethral paused. “Chosen warrior or warlord, I’m not sure which. Haya and Seo can’t seem to agree. But he is named Keir of the Cat. Xylara is pregnant, and she returned to Xy to bear her child in that land.”

“Understandable, if the child will be the heir to the throne.” Ezren looked at Haya. “I take it that there are no healers here. How far is Xy?”

Bethral asked. Haya shook her head and gestured off into the distance, talking rapidly.

“Well, from what I can tell, it’s probably months,” Bethral said. “Apparently there was a senel—a gathering of the elders—and a fight . . .” Bethral sighed. “She’s going so fast, I can’t follow it all.”

Haya scowled, clearly angry, and made a spitting sound. That caught Seo’s attention, and he glared at her.

“The senel turned into a fight—and they aren’t agreeing who won,” Bethral said, closing her eyes. “But from what I can gather, the Plains is in the midst of a civil war.”

There was the hint of strain in her voice. She was hurting, and Ezren was helpless to stop it. “I am fairly handy with languages. I have learned a smattering of tongues, so that I can read some stories in their original version,” he said. “I need to learn this language as soon as possible.”

Bethral gave him an odd look. “Yes, you do.”

A young girl darted between the workers, carrying a pitcher and some mugs. It was the girl Ezren had seen hidden in the grass. Her brown eyes flashed to his face, then she concentrated on her task. She handed the mugs to Haya and Seo and poured for them. Ezren caught the scent of kav on the air.

The girl turned to him and held out a mug. He took it with a smile, and held it out as she poured. “Please tell me this is kav.”

“It is,” Bethral said. “They call it kavage.”

“How do I say ‘thank you’?”

Bethral told him, and Ezren repeated the phrase to the girl, who looked at him, then glanced at Seo.

Seo gestured, admonishing her.

The girl nodded to Ezren and spoke, then knelt to serve Bethral.

“Her name is Gilla, and she says that you are welcome.”

Ezren took a sip of the hot drink. It was the same as in Edenrich, and yet different somehow. Dark and black, but more bitter than at home. Still, it was kav, thank the Lord and the Lady. He enjoyed it as he watched the tent walls start to rise around them.

Suddenly the girl jumped, dropping the pitcher, and scrambled back. Haya and Seo both reacted as well, pulling daggers.

The cat had appeared by Bethral’s head, a dead mouse in its jaws.

 

 

GILLA’S heart leapt in her throat when the animal emerged from the grasses. She dropped the pitcher, pulled her dagger, and retreated, staying between the beast and the Elder. The animal gazed at her with watery yellow eyes, its mottled fur blending with the grasses. The mouse in its mouth was dead. Gilla could see tiny, sharp fangs.

The blonde outlander waved her hands. “It’s all right. It’s a cat. Just a cat. It came with us.”

The cat ignored them, stepping lightly to drop the mouse at Bethral’s side.

“That is not a cat,” Seo exclaimed. “It’s so small, and yet . . .”

The green-eyed man asked something as he rose to his feet. The woman—Bethral of the Horse—answered him.

The animal . . . the cat . . . couldn’t have cared less. It circled around and around, then curled by Bethral’s side. A rough, rasping noise issued from the creature. It seemed rather pleased with itself.

Haya and Seo just stared at the animal.

“They are . . .”—Bethral used a word that Gilla hadn’t heard before—“pets. This one lived in the barn with my horse.” Bethral reached out and petted the animal as she spoke.

Gilla frowned. Those were words she didn’t know. It sounded like the woman thought she owned her horse and the tiny creature. But that couldn’t be right.

Haya and Seo slowly sat down, sheathing their weapons. Gilla followed their example, then retrieved her pitcher. She stood there, staring at the cat.

The cat’s eyes were half-closed as it made the rumbling noise. But Gilla had an odd feeling that it was looking at her, as if—

“Child,” Seo snapped, “don’t gawk like a gurtle. Be about your duties.”

Gilla flushed, and hurried off.

But not without a backward glance at the strangers.

 

 

THE tent was up now, and they’d been given a private section divided off from the larger part. They’d been left alone for the time being. Ezren had offered to see to Bessie, in order to give Bethral a bit of privacy while she removed her armor.

Bethral didn’t know how to tell him that two male warriors had assisted her. She had yet to figure out how to explain the ways of the Plains when it came to the sexes. She was going to have to tell him, that was clear, because he would need to know everything he could for his journey back to Palins.

A journey she would not take.

She’d stripped down with the help of the lads and had eased the armor off her injured leg with care. The skin wasn’t broken, but the bone was. She could feel it grate within. The pain seemed to throb with every breath she took. It was bearable if she lay flat—standing or walking was not going to be an option.

The warriors had left her after they’d seen to her needs. For now, she was clean and warm. The spicy scent of gurtle fur rose from the pallet and blankets. Bethral was reminded of the old blanket her mother had on her bed back home. She was as comfortable as she could be, given the circumstances.

Time to think it through.

If a rescue was coming, it would have been there by now. Evelyn had probably lost control of the portal. Bethral knew little of such things, but if Evelyn had been able, she would have opened another portal. So she and Ezren would have to deal with the situation at hand.

A situation that had been caused by one of the Plains. That black man, the one in the courtyard in Edenrich, the one with the ritual scarring. He was a warrior-priest, she was sure of that. He’d answered her when she’d greeted him in the language of the Plains, before Ezren Storyteller had lost control. And the magic’s surge . . . Bethral closed her eyes, picturing the moment. She was certain that the magic had flared because of the warrior-priest. In recognition of the warrior-priest?

Fear coursed through Bethral. This was a harsh land, and its people lived by a rigid code. If the Storyteller lost control of the wild magic . . . if he attacked someone while holding a token . . . they would cut him down immediately.