Fate's Star

by Elizabeth Vaughan

  A warmth at her side, and Verice was beside her. She feared the worst. His face was shuttered as he gazed up into the empty space.

  He lifted a hand, and whispered under his breath. She followed his gaze to see the empty space fill with the golden light of a magical barrier.

  Warna sighed with relief, and slipped her hand into his. Verice pressed his cheek to her head, and then led the way out and down the stairs.

  Outside, Dorne took the lead, with Charrin singing, chanting a hymn to the Lord and Lady, asking for blessings upon the dead. He’d made no protest when Warna had asked him to sing the songs, even though they were of human crafting. His voice was lovely, and Warna was content as she walked at Verice’s side and into the gardens between the walls.

  A trench had been dug in the garden, and the wreckage of the hall piled within. The contents of the buckets were poured at the feet of the rantha bushes, and the buckets and cleaning cloths added to the pile.

  Off to one side a small tent had been set up. Warna and the others went inside, to wash and change. Verice too, Warna insisted.

  Once they were all reassembled, Dorne stepped forward, and struck his bowl again, letting the tone wash over them all, bringing them to silent attention.

  Dorne handed the bowl to an acolyte, and took up a small pitcher. “With this oil, I ask the Lord of Light and the Lady of Laughter to bless this pyre.” He poured the oil into the trough.

  Warna watched in silence, standing close to Verice. She knew that the trough had been treated with oil, and given a base that would ensure that it burned through the night.

  Dorne took up a torch offered to him by another acolyte. “Let this fire cleanse our hearts and bring us peace.” He tossed the torch into the center of the trough. The flame flickered, and caught.

  Charrin started to sing, an elven song this time, of loss and sorrow.

  Verice stiffened suddenly. Warna glanced up, gasping at the rage and pain she saw in his eyes. She felt a tremor wrack through his body. His whispered words were in her ear. He was casting a—

  The pyre flame roared up, blasting them all with the heat, towering over them.

  Charrin faltered, his song lost in the clamor of the flames. Everyone stepped back, taken by surprise. Dorne cast a stern look at Verice, but his expression eased as he took in Verice’s face.

  The tower of fire raged, dancing in the night sky, consuming everything within. Verice’s eyes were narrow, filled with malice and hatred.

  Warna leaned in to him, not quite daring to break his concentration. Verice glanced over, frowning, and the flame sputtered and collapsed in on itself.

  “Lord of Light, Lady of Laughter, we know that our loved ones are at peace.” Dorne’s voice cut through the crowd’s murmurs of surprise. “We ask for the gift of your grace for our grief and pain. Give us strength to bear our sorrow, until the moment we are reunited in your light.”

  The fire eased down, the pyre already collapsing into coals.

  “Let us go, to our homes and our hearths, and remember our dead this night,” Dorne said, releasing them all.

  The crowd started to disperse, moving off towards the garden door slowly. Dorne bowed to Verice and left with his acolytes. Charrin walked with him.

  Verice didn’t move, staring at the embers.

  Warna waited beside him while the others left. They’d planned to attend the midnight services at the church, but that didn’t feel right somehow. She felt so bone weary, so drained. And Verice…

  She moved closer then, tucking herself under his arm, wrapping her arm around his waist. Verice put his arm around her shoulders, still staring at the pyre.

  “Come,” Warna said. She gave a tug, and he turned with her, allowing her to lead him away.

  She wasn’t certain why, but some instinct guided her to lead him back to the keep, back up those stairs and through the doors.

  The Great Hall was silent now, the mage lights dimmed.

  But at some point, Verice took control, guiding them to the point on the floor where the high table had been. He wrapped his arms around Warna, buried his face in her hair, and crushed her close.

  Warna returned the embrace fiercely, allowing her tears to flow once more.

  Verice’s body shook. He was weeping, sobs of pure anguish. His knees gave out and he collapsed to the floor. She followed him down, supporting him until they knelt together, wrapped so tight that not even breath separated them

  She sheltered her beloved as he finally allowed himself to grieve.

  Chapter Sixty-Three

  “Lord and Ladies, on this, the Third Night of the Festival, the Night of Music and Dance, I propose a toast,” Lord Mayor Pernard held his cup high. “I propose a toast to our gracious Lord High Baron Verice and the Lady Warna!”

  “Hear, hear,” was the response from those seated in the Great Hall, raising their own glasses in response.

  “My thanks,” Verice said, glancing at Warna, seated next to him at the high table. “We thank you for your attendance, and offer you welcome. Enjoy the food and wine, my friends, to fortify ourselves for the dancing to come.”

  The servers piled into the Hall, carrying steaming platters, to noisy appreciation.

  “It seems to be going well,” Verice whispered to Warna.

  “Until one of the servers dumps a platter of sliced beef on the floor,” Warna whispered back. But her eyes were grateful as she turned to Charrin, seated at her side. “Bard Charrin, would you let me pick out some choice slices for you?”

  Charrin’s response was lost in the sounds of the hall, but his tone was snappish. He’d been remarkably pleasant when he’d arrived, agreeing to the details of the mourning ceremony, and to otherwise participate in Warna’s plans. But his goodwill hadn’t lasted long, and Verice could not blame him. For this night was the actual anniversary of the attack, and Summer’s death.

  It felt bizarre to be seated here once again, entertaining as if naught had happened. As much as his heart cried against it, the castle and keep were at the heart of Tassinic. Life had to go on, as painful as that was to think on. Warna and the entire staff had put every effort into easing back into the use of the Great Hall.

  It still hurt.

  Verice glanced at Narthing, seated at his side. His captain caught the look and returned it with a nod. They were both conscious of the hour.

  So far, the Festival had been without incident. But if any were to plot against them, this would be the night. They’d taken every precaution, drilled all in attendance, servants, staff and warriors alike. All knew what they had to do.

  Even Warna. Verice glanced at her waist, pleased to see that the dagger was still at her side. He’d given her one that he’d sharpened himself, and belted it around her when she’d hesitated. “I’ve no skill,” she’d protested.

  “Even so,” Verice had said. “I’d have you armed.”

  She’d huffed at him, but she hadn’t removed the blade as she returned to dressing her hair for the night’s celebration.

  Verice had made a pretense of sharpening his sword as he watched her.

  She’d refused all but the plainest of clothes, but he had to admit that she looked lovely in her dress of brown and gold. She’d taken diamond hair pins from his jewel vault for this night, settling them in her hair in such a way that they had seemed to catch all the light in her golden tresses.

  Verice drank his wine, and watched Warna, who was trying very hard not to help Charrin with his plate. Even now, those jewels sparkled in the mage light whenever she moved. She was a simple vision of beauty, and he ached to pull those pins from her hair, and let it fall over his naked skin.

  Verice shifted in his seat with a sigh, raised his cup and took another sip.

  He’d much to be grateful to Warna for. That first night, after he’d broken down, she’d stayed with him, protected him from any prying eyes. Somehow, she’d gotten him back to their bed with no one seeing them. He’d slept deeply, and in the morning, she’d handed him
strong kav and urged him up before the dawn ceremonies had begun. Since that consisted of a choir of small, off-key, shrill children gathering in the courtyard to sing to him, he’d been more than thankful.

  Warna and Ersal had planned this Festival with the anniversary in mind. They’d kept things subdued, allowing people to ease into the celebration. In years past, Verice could remember trying to plan events ever bigger and brighter, but this felt right. Maybe in the future—

  But there was no future. Warna would leave when the Festival was over.

  He stared into the depths of his cup. She’d never said a word about what had happened that First Night, never faulted him for breaking down. She’d wept with him, supported him during those dark moments, and then held him as he’d slept.

  Verice started as Warna leaned over. “Best eat, m’lord. You’ll need your strength for the dancing.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “You will be dancing as well,” he pointed out.

  “Only the rustic ones that I know,” Warna said. “I’ll not risk one of your quadrilles, with those fancy steps and hand gestures.”

  “They can be complicated,” Charrin chimed in. “But you could learn with practice.”

  Verice glanced at his sightless, scarred eyes, but he could find no hint of sarcasm in the elven bard’s tone or expression.

  Warna simply laughed, taking the words for what they were worth. “A great deal of practice,” she smiled. “Can I offer you more bread, Charrin? Or wine?”

  “My appetite is not what it should be, m’lady,” Charrin’s voice was cool. “But some wine would not go amiss.”

  Warna poured for both of them. “As soon as the tables have been cleared, we can start. Songs and dances alternating, for so long as you wish to sing,” Warna said. “Some of the players have asked to perform for us as well.”

  Verice stiffened, hiding his surprise.

  “But at midnight?” Charrin’s voice cracked.

  “Priest Dorne will lead us in prayer,” Warna said. “And we’ll make an early evening of it here in the keep, but the celebration will continue in the rest of the castle.”

  “Aye,” Charrin said, and he slumped in his chair.

  Warna glanced at Verice, but he shook his head, and shrugged.

  The dancing was marvelous.

  Warna clapped with joy as she watched the intricate moves of the dancers. They filled the area before the high seat, interweaving a pattern with swirling skirts and flashing feet. They’d link arms one moment, and then barely touch fingers as they twirled away.

  She’d finally convinced Verice to dance, and she enjoyed every move he made. He was dressed in his black leathers, his silver hair braided back, a circlet of gold on his head. He looked every inch the Lord High Baron he was. Part of her felt a bit overawed that a mael like him could desire her.

  Part of her just wanted a chance to strip the leathers from his legs and spend a night worshiping the body beneath.

  She shifted in her seat, and sighed.

  “All’s well?” Charrin asked. He’d sung on and off all evening. Warna was grateful that he’d chosen tunes that were appropriate, neither too sorrowful or too raucous.

  “Oh, yes,” she said. “It’s just so lovely, that I don’t really want it to—”

  Alarm horns split the air.

  The room froze, everyone stopping in mid-word, mid-step. The awareness flooded all of them at the same time that this could not be a drill. Then all at once, everyone moved, warriors pulling their weapons, others heading for their assigned places and or duties.

  Verice cast Warna a look, but she was already standing, her heart racing but her feet knowing exactly what to do. He gave her an approving look, then ran for the main doors.

  “What is happening?” Charrin asked, a note of panic in his voice.

  Warna took his wrist. “Come with me.”

  She led him through one of the rear serving doors, and into a side hall. Charrin didn’t resist her, but his voice was anxious. “Warna, please—”

  “There’s a disturbance,” Warna said briefly, as she urged him toward the nearest cubby-hole. “Everyone knows their roles, Charrin. Ours is to hide.” She pressed the wall, and glanced around as it slid open. “Kneel down, and crawl in,” she covered his head, protecting it as he obeyed. She followed him in, careful to pull back her skirts as the wall slid shut.

  “What will happen?” Charrin asked, his hand on her shoulder as if asking for reassurance.

  “Verice will deal with anyone who’s breached the peace of the Festival,” Warna said as calmly as she could. Her heart felt like it would fly out of her chest, and she took a breath to try to slow its pace. “The ‘all clear’ will sound, and Verice will come to us. We aren’t to leave until he opens the door.” She laughed weakly. “Our job is to wait.”

  “Ah,” Charrin’s voice changed, its tone dark and determined. He wrapped one arm around her waist, tugging her into his lap awkwardly.

  With the other, he pulled the dagger at her waist, and set the blade to her throat. Warna gasped, and grabbed his wrist trying to push the blade away, but Charrin had a strength greater than her own.

  “Then we’ll wait,” Charrin murmured in her ear. “And when he comes, he will see you die at my hand.”

  Chapter Sixty-Four

  The courtyard was eerily silent when Verice burst from the keep with Narthing at his side. It made Verice pause on the top of the steps, surveying the area.

  The torches crackled in their braces, the light spilling all around. His warriors were spread around, their weapons gleaming in the torch light. The men on the walls were still on watch, flags flying in the night. Every doorway had a posted watch, but the windows were filled with Festival-goers, all staring down into the courtyard.

  Scattered around were the various low wooden platforms that had been set up for dances and musicians. But Verice’s eyes were drawn to the acting troupe’s stage, which had been set between the main gates and the keep. His guards were standing over prone men, swords at the ready.

  Ustov came forward. “Report,” Verice snapped.

  “Lord High Baron, the crowd was lively, drifting about a bit, watching the various dances,” Ustov said. “We heard a scream, and saw a group of the actors dashing off the stage with drawn swords. The alarm sounded, and the closest warriors responded. There was a quick skirmish, but then the actors flung themselves down, crying mercy.” Ustov glared at captives. “Seems they say it was part of the performance.”

  “Or not,” Verice said softly.

  “None of our people were hurt,” Ustov continued. “But a few of the actors got sliced up.” He straightened his shoulders.

  “Let’s see what there is to see.” Verice kept his own blade out as he walked to the prone men.

  Humans they all were, he noted as he prowled around them. Their weapons had been piled to one side, and most of them lay face down, spread eagle on the ground. A few were still on stage, clustered together, eyeing Verice warily.

  Master Zester was seated cross-legged, off to one side, breathing like a man who had no experience with pain. He clutched at his arm, where red seeped through the cloth.

  Verice sheathed his sword for the moment, accessing the man before him. Zester kept his head down, but he darted a glance up. His eyes had an odd, pleading look.

  Verice stared at him, but Zester glanced around at the other captives and then hung his head as if waiting for sentence.

  Something wasn’t right.

  Verice rose, mounted the platform, and pulled down the cloths that had been used to create a ‘backstage’. He noted the barrels holding swords and spears, and frowned at a pile of shields and cloaks, more than the number of the company it seemed.

  Finally, he moved off, gesturing Narthing to his side.

  “The main gates are closed?” he asked softly.

  “They would have shut the moment the horns sounded,” Narthing said softly. He turned slightly, stretching his neck a bit. “The constab
le is there, so it’s secure.”

  “I want the grounds searched,” Verice murmured. “And a quick check on all the sentries on the inner and outer walls.”

  “Aye,” Narthing said. “I’ll see to it.” He headed off toward the main gates at a trot.

  Verice gestured to Ustov. “Come,” he said as he returned to where Zester was seated.

  “I thought I instructed you to announce a comedy, Master Zester.” Verice knelt close to the man.

  “M’lord Verice, I swear we were just having a bit of play-acting,” Zester said loudly, but then he winced. “My arm,” he pleaded.

  “Quality work, there.” Verice tilted his head at the pile of weapons. “I’d expected wooden swords, or more pot metal than steel.”

  “More realistic that way,” Zester hissed through his pain. “The crowd likes it better with the ring of true steel.”

  “You’re paying for it now,” Verice said as he knelt next to the man. “Let me see that.”

  He peeled back the sleeve. Zester leaned closer in. “Help us,” was his desperate whisper.

  Verice didn’t react.

  Zester winced as Verice exposed the wound. “Prisoners. We’ve been prisoners in our own—”

  “Arrest these men,” Verice barked. “Arrest these men.”

  His warriors closed in. There were a few that resisted, but they were secured quickly.

  “Tell me,” Verice growled.

  “They took us prisoner in our own theater,” Zester said shakily. “There’s more men, outside the walls, waiting for a signal.”

  “Do we have them all?” Verice asked. “All those within these walls?”

  “Yes,” Zester was starting to sag. “We thought maybe, if we did something, we could foil their scheme—”

  “Almost cost you your life, Zester,” Verice said. “Still, I owe you much for—”

  “Bastards,” Zester said. “Hiding behind our good name and reputation.”