She’d leave no man to that death, no matter how impulsive or crazy her purchase had been. Red had complained, but she’d fought their pursuers as Bethral had mounted and fled, the slave in her arms.
The cook moved off, and Bethral slipped into the pantry, not wanting to be caught staring. She took a deep breath of the herb-scented air, then went to where the dried meat and hard biscuits were kept. Bethral grabbed one of the small cloth sacks on the shelf and busied herself filling it.
She’d lost her heart when Ezren had opened his green eyes and stared at her, cradled in her arms and safe from their pursuers. She’d caught her breath at the secrets those eyes held even as he slipped back into unconsciousness.
Bethrel had stayed in Edenrich to see if there was a chance that those green eyes might focus on her.
Ezren Silvertongue had recovered with the aid of magical healing and a grim determination to survive what had been done to him.
Beaten, abused, he’d been as close to death as any man Bethral had seen on the battlefield. But even with his tongue cut from his throat, he’d clung to life with a strength of will that astonished her. And his voice . . .
Bethral had been told that his voice had changed, but all she knew was that his voice sent a small thrill down her spine every time she heard him speak.
Which wasn’t often. For Lord Silvertongue had immersed himself in the Court once again, rejoining the life he had lost during his captivity. In particular, he seemed very adept at avoiding her.
Bethral shrugged. What was, was. She could no more change than that barn cat could change the color of its fur. At least she caught glimpses of him occasionally. If she was careful, she could stand in the shadows and listen to him talk to others. And if the day came that he courted and won a lady of the Court, well . . .
She’d deal with that when the time came.
Bethral sighed, and slipped back through the kitchen without drawing attention to herself. Time to meet Gloriana in the courtyard and then be on her way.
THE bright sun blinded Bethral as she stepped through the double doors and into the courtyard.
A quick sweep of the area told her that her orders had been obeyed. Lady High Priestess Evelyn stood off to the side with Orrin Blackhart, who was talking to his men as they clustered near their horses.
The walls were manned, and the guards at the gates of the courtyard were at attention.
Bethral felt a pang of envy that she hoped did not show on her face. Evelyn had found her love, and had fought her way to his side with an unshaken faith in him, despite his past.
“Is it safe?” A soft voice came from behind her.
Bethral glanced back, giving the young girl behind her a nod. “All’s well, Your Majesty.”
Gloriana nodded in return, then started across the courtyard toward Evelyn. Oris and Alad waited by the door, watchful in their own right.
Bethral frowned slightly as she watched the two women hug. This would be a hard day for Gloriana, having to say farewell to the woman who had raised her for over half her life. Evelyn was leaving this day to return to the Black Hills, taking over as the Guardian until the new High Baron could be named.
Hard for the girl, who sat so new on her throne. Bethral frowned again, not sure that her decision to leave for a few days was wise. The bandits who were harassing the main road into the City needed to be stopped, but . . .
Bethral’s men were gathered at the other side of the courtyard, near the stables, preparing to ride with her. One was leading her horse, Bessie. The roan mare stepped out with pride, her barding gleaming in the bright sun. Bethral chuckled softly to see the cat walk over to the horse and rub against a foreleg. Bessie nuzzled the small creature, giving it a welcoming chuckle.
Bethral turned back to her duty and followed Gloriana, focusing on Blackhart’s men. She didn’t know them well, and it paid to be watchful.
Gloriana was still hugging Evelyn. “All we need now is High Mage Marlon.”
“My father is not known for his promptness.” Evelyn returned the hug with a warm smile.
But Bethral’s attention had been caught by one of Blackhart’s men. The sight of him confused her. What was he doing in Palins? A big black man, dark of skin, his face and arms covered in ritual scars. Bethral was willing to bet the scars also covered his chest. “Greetings, warrior,” Bethral said in a tongue she had not spoken in many years. “You are far from the Plains.”
The black man’s eyes went wide. “You know my—”
A sound from behind her, and without turning, Bethral knew that Ezren had come out of the castle. He emerged into the light, blinking and looking about. “Blackhart”—Ezren’s voice cracked as it rang out over the courtyard—“about your men and their activities.” Ezren started across the courtyard.
“Uh-oh,” said the short man.
“Told you not to put it on account,” the tall one said.
Bethral had been about to turn, but stopped at the sight of the black man’s face. It turned ashen, his eyes wide, as he stared at Ezren.
“About these charges”—Ezren came right up to them, the roll of parchment in his hand—“it seems . . .” Before he could finish, he stopped with a gasp, as if in pain, clutching at his chest. “What—”
Bethral risked a glance his way as Evelyn reached for him. “Ezren, what’s wrong?”
Ezren yanked back his sleeve, revealing one of the manacles of a spell chain. Bethral frowned; the metal band looked like day-old bread, crumbling off Ezren’s wrist.
A pop, and High Mage Marlon appeared out of nowhere. “Ready?” he said. “I can’t be all day—”
White-hot flames surged around Ezren, exploding with power.
Ezren pressed his hands over his heart, the roll of parchment falling from his hands. He stumbled back as the manacles crumbled away. With a cry he collapsed in the center of the courtyard, barely able to keep his head up. “No, no, no,” he rasped.
With a roar, more light surged from his chest, a huge column of light and fire that started to spin. A wave of heat and force washed over the courtyard, knocking everyone off their feet and sending the horses into fits.
Fear surged through Bethral, fear for Ezren, but her training made her lunge for Gloriana.
The power had begun to turn, spiraling in on itself with a sound like a thousand running horses. The very stones beneath them vibrated with its fury.
“Rogue!” Marlon bellowed. The big man was on the ground, his silk robes spilled around him like a deflated tent. Bethral wedged Gloriana behind his bulk, and stuffed her between them.
Ezren had rolled to his side, and Bethral caught the glint of his green eyes. White-hot power flared about his body, and the sound grew louder. The power lashed out, hitting the area around him. His eyes closed, and he started convulsing on the cobblestones.
Terror caught Bethral’s throat. If his wild magic had gone rogue, everyone in the courtyard would die, including Ezren.
Bethral caught the glance between Marlon and Evelyn, saw Evelyn stop her apprentice from aiding Ezren. Her heart contracted in her breast. Marlon was going to kill Ezren. He was staring at Ezren, reaching out as if to—
Bethral raised up on her knees, reached over, and jerked Marlon’s arm to the side. “NO!”
Marlon didn’t struggle. He just turned on his side to look up at her. “He’ll kill us all.”
No. Not while she breathed. She needed to get him away, away from the City, from people. No matter the cost. Bethral jerked her head up and caught Evelyn’s gaze. “Open a portal,” she screamed. “As far distant as you can.”
The wind whipped at their hair and clothes, and the fury of the power grew.
Evelyn shook her head. “You’ll be killed.”
As if that mattered. Bethral released Marlon’s hand, still focused on the priestess. “As far, as remote as you can,” she yelled. “Where he’ll not kill anyone else.”
To her relief, Marlon nodded to Evelyn. They’d do it. She just had to get
Ezren up and through the portal. Bethral took a deep breath, but before she could stand, a pale hand grabbed her arm.
She looked down and saw Gloriana staring up at her, her brown hair tossed by the winds.
“Bethral, no, no! Don’t leave me!”
There wasn’t time. Bethral had to choose, and she had made that choice long ago. She rose to her feet, fighting the winds. Marlon reached out and wrapped his arms around Gloriana, keeping her down. He was talking, but she was protesting, struggling against him.
The power lashed out, as if understanding Bethral’s intent, striking cobblestones with white shards of lightning, as if the magic itself sensed a threat.
A portal appeared behind the fury, its soft curtains a contrast to the chaos around them. It wavered, then solidified as Evelyn and her apprentice concentrated.
Bethral did not look back. She fought her way forward through the waves of raging power around Ezren. The flares danced around her, striking her again and again. She took the blows as she reached his side.
He wasn’t dead. Bethral gasped in relief. But he was unconscious, his face turned up to the sky, barely breathing. Once again, as she had that fateful day, she reached for Ezren Storyteller, to lift him from the ground.
But this was no starved shadow of a man. She staggered as she gathered him into her arms, barely managing to heave him over her shoulder.
The winds grew wilder still, their roaring almost a scream in her ears. They battered at her, as if to tear Ezren from her.
Bethral bared her teeth, took a step, and then another, trying to walk into the portal. But the magic threw itself at her, and when she tried to step forward, she staggered again, almost falling. Bethral wept in frustration as she strained. She had to—
Bessie was beside her, snorting, nervous, her nostrils flared. Terrified, but standing firm. The cat was on all fours, claws hooked in the saddlebags, every inch of fur standing on end, mouth open in what had to be a hiss of defiance.
Bethral reached for the saddle, pulling herself up and over in one smooth move. Ezren slid off her shoulder, but somehow she managed to keep him in her arms.
The light, the wild magic surged around them. Ezren’s entire body convulsed and Bethral struggled to keep her hold. She leaned forward, and cried out to Bessie. “Heyla! Heyla, girl, go! Go!”
Bessie gathered her hind legs, and started forward.
The raging fury lashed out, striking both at the portal and behind them. A thick strand of impossibly bright white whipped out. Bethral glanced back, saw the strand lashing at the others. It would kill—
The big black man stepped in front of them, naked from the waist up. He stood, arms wide, shouting, “That which was lost is now found!”
Bessie moved, and Bethral’s attention returned to the portal that danced before them. The roan leapt forward, as commanded, bolting into the portal. They surged straight through the raw power. For just a moment, Bethral saw open skies and smelled the scent of wildflowers.
Then the world disappeared in a flash of white. Bethral cried out as Bessie slipped out from under her legs, as Ezren tumbled from her arms.
Bethral fell as well, smashing into pain and the deep darkness of her own failure.
TWO
GILLA’S heart stopped when the sky tore open above the Plains.
She’d been tending to the gurt drying racks, turning the pebbles of hard cheese so that they dried evenly. It was boring, a child’s task, not fit for one of her maturity. But she’d gritted her teeth and done it nonetheless, because being an adult meant that you did what had to be done without protest, now didn’t it?
She cast a quick glance behind her to see if anyone was watching her be responsible. But none of the Elders were in sight.
She sighed as she moved to the next rack, shooing gurtles out of her way. A few had wandered between the racks, looking for sweet grass. “Muwap.” One of them shook its head, protesting. This part of the herd had just been shorn, and they looked funny, stripped of their fur.
Gilla sighed again as she continued her chore. It was spring on the Plains. Soon, within days, the theas would be releasing the young adult warriors to seek out the armies of the warlords for service, and she’d qualify, if they felt she was ready. And she was more than ready, more than . . .
The sky crackled. The hair on Gilla’s arms stirred, as before a summer storm. The land shook with a pounding of thunder, under a cloudless open sky. She looked up and saw the blue sky tear open to show a white glow beyond.
Her heart froze, the gurtles stilled, everything was silent for a long moment. The edges of the tear pulsed above her, as if waiting.
In the next breath, a horse jumped through the tear, as if clearing the banks of some unseen shore. Gilla had a brief glimpse of two people, one astride in armor, one cradled in the other’s arms as they hung there in midair.
They fell in the next instant, plummeting down, loose and free-falling, and disappeared in the tall grass.
The rip in the sky exploded with light, and disappeared.
“Muwap! Muwap!” The gurtles around her exploded into action. Gurtles feared what they did not know, and once feared, all they knew was “away,” as fast as their hooves could carry them. Gilla grabbed at the nearest rack and struggled to stay upright as the gurtles bolted by her, bleating their warnings and running straight through camp.
Cries arose from the tents behind her, but Gilla did not glance that way. She kept her eyes on where the enemy had fallen, and warbled a cry to summon warriors to face this threat. She waited as the last of the gurtles ran past, then drew her dagger and started forward.
The young grasses were already springing back as she moved, their flowers torn and shredded by the gurtles’ hooves. She got low, taking what cover she could, and crawled toward the enemy, the hilt of her dagger in her hand, the blade pressed to her forearm. She’d worn her armor this morning, as a warrior should, and her blade was sharp and ready. Her heart beat faster as she moved closer. . . .
The horse staggered to its feet, shaking its head. It was huge, a big roan, and wearing armor the like of which she’d never seen, although she recognized the saddle and saddlebags. The animal stood there, its legs splayed out, head low, as if exhausted. Amazing that it hadn’t broken a leg in the fall.
Gilla watched for a moment, then eased the grasses back in front of her face, keeping a careful eye on the horse. There’d be others coming, but she wanted to be able to report the danger. She needed to see. . . .
Her blood singing in her ears, she slowly raised her head. Two people were sprawled in the grass. The one with the armor . . . Gilla winced at the sight of that one’s leg. Twisted like that, it had to be broken.
The other figure stirred, groaned, and sat up, his hand raised to his head. He was hurt as well, but there was no blood that Gilla could see. No armor, no weapons, either.
He saw the other person and cried out something, then crawled over to remove the helmet. Bright blond hair spilled out, and Gilla could see the still, slack face of a woman. The man grew distraught as he examined her, and raised his head to look around.
Gilla sucked in a breath as his bright green eyes stared directly into her brown ones.
EZREN Silvertongue awoke to pain.
A dull pain, as if his entire body had been wrung out like a cloth. It hurt to breathe, hurt to move. He had known beatings in the time he had been enslaved, and thought he had learned every manner of ways that a body could hurt.
He had been wrong.
Ezren concentrated on breathing for a moment, keeping his eyes closed. He was conscious of the sweet smell of grass crushed beneath him, warm sun, and a gentle spring breeze on his skin. Which was wrong. He was not sure exactly why, but it should be cold. . . .
A rasping purr and a wet nose in his ear made him jerk upright.
Lord of Light, that hurt. He wrapped an arm around his stomach and groaned. But the next breath was easier, and the next after that.
The hideous ca
t from the barn, the one that had attached itself to Bethral’s warhorse, sat next to him. With its mottled coat of black, brown, yellow, and a kind of green, it almost blended into the shadows in the grass. Its watery yellow eyes stared at him unwaveringly. Accusingly.
Ezren frowned, staring back. Last he recalled, he had been in the kitchens of the Castle of Edenrich, being presented with a bill for damages at the Flying Pig Tavern. He had taken it up, and gone to confront the miscreants, but now . . .
He looked out on nothing but grass and wildflowers, as far as the eye could see. Wide blue sky that stretched from horizon to horizon and filled his vision. His heart skipped a beat at the sight. He had never felt so exposed as at this moment; one man in an ocean of grass. He looked down, trying to steady himself.
The cat stirred, and slipped into the grass. Ezren watched it go, and then lifted his eyes and saw—
Bethral, sprawled on the ground like a broken doll. “Bethral.” He lurched onto his knees and crawled to her side, ignoring the rough grass that cut his hands and the pain that lanced through his bones.
She was still as death, and pale, so pale, under her helmet. He fell at her side, and pressed his fingers to her neck. Please, Lady of Laughter, let her not be dead.
She lived. Her heart still beat.
Relief flooded through Ezren as he fumbled with the chinstrap, then eased the helm from her head. Bright gold hair spilled out, covering the ground and his hands with its silken glory.
Lady of Laughter, she was lovely.
He had called her an angel once, one of the Angels of the Light, come to escort him to paradise. He had thought himself dead at that time, and had opened his eyes to find himself in a small hut with an angel at his bedside. He had never called her that again, unable, unwilling to try to place any claim upon her. But in all truth she was glorious to look on. Her lovely face, and those bright blue eyes.
Eyes now closed, in a face pale and still. Crumpled, broken, her leg twisted.