Fate's Star

by Elizabeth Vaughan

  “Narthing,” Verice called. “Zester, you need to help us sort them all out.”

  “They threatened to burn my theater,” Zester said. “Lord, the men outside the walls may have fled to the town. They will—”

  “No,” Verice said. “The City Watch is also on alert. We’ll get word to them.”

  Narthing returned to his side. “The sentries are being checked, and I’ve a squad to sweep the road to town.”

  “Let’s not mar the Festival,” Verice said. “Executions can wait. I want as much information from these prisoners as we can get.”

  “Aye to that,”

  “I’ll see to it,” Narthing said. “We’ll leave the castle gates closed and check any pass through.”

  “I’ll just be a moment,” Verice said. “I need to be certain Warna is safe.”

  Charrin tightened his grip around the human’s waist as she shifted. “Be still, or I’ll kill you now,” he warned.

  “I just—” he heard her breath catch, felt her slender fingers tighten on his arm. But she wasn’t really struggling against him. He’d pulled her over, half-leaning, half-sitting on his lap. She’d braced herself with her free hand, but the other remained clasped on his wrist, wedged between his arm and her throat. He held the blade angled, just below her ear.

  It was awkward and uncomfortable, but she wouldn’t feel that way long.

  Only until Verice opened the door to their hiding place.

  The air warmed quickly, with the two of them in this small space. Charrin could see no detail, but he didn’t really need to. He’d see enough to know when Verice was before him, and he’d hear the mael’s pain. A pity he’d not see his face, but it was enough. It would suffice.

  Time seemed to hang in the air, suspended as they waited.

  “Why?” Warna broke the silence, her voice hoarse and pained.

  Charrin ignored her, still straining to hear footsteps in the hall outside.

  “You accepted his bread, his wine,” she was trying to get her breathing under control, trying to calm him, distract him. “Where is the honor—”

  “Where is his?” Charrin hissed. “He takes no vengeance, and King Barathiel will take no action.” He licked his lips, and tightened his grip on her waist, drying his sweaty palm on the fabric of her dress. “He will watch you die, as my beloved Summer died. Let him know my pain.”

  Warna let out a pained sob, but she said nothing more. He felt her trying to ease herself into a more comfortable position. “Stay still,” he snapped.

  “You said you were trying to forgive,” she whispered.

  “You read more into my words than was there,” Charrin gloated. “As I intended.” He drew a breath, trying to tamp down on his nervousness. He’d planned to kill her at the high table, before all, stabbing deep within her heart and rejoicing as Verice - Verice - tried to stem the tide of blood and pain.

  But this was surer, better. He just had to be patient, to wait for the right moment. He could do this for his lady. For Summer.

  A sob welled up in his chest for his lost lady. What right did love and beauty have to exist in a world she no longer graced? He missed her so, her touch, her laugh—

  The human woman squirmed in his arms again, her hand moving on his arm. “Stay still,” he growled. “I’m warning you—”

  There were running footsteps in the hall, and the door slid open. Charrin could make out a body in front of the opening.

  “Warna,” Verice said, and then awareness flooded into his voice. “Warna.”

  Charrin laughed, and pulled the knife back, feeling her flesh part beneath the blade, and warm blood cover his hand. “Here,” he pushed her body away, and laughed again as he relished Verice’s cry of horror.

  Chapter Sixty-Five

  “Warna,” Verice’s voice was filled with horror.

  “Now you know!” Charrin’s joy grew as he saw the vague shape of Verice take the body of the woman into his arms. “Now you know what it felt like, Verice. My grief, my pain, my endless sorrow—”

  Rough hands grabbed him as the guards pulled him from the hiding place. He let the dagger clatter to the floor. They forced him down face-first, binding his hands. Still Charrin laughed, his heart light for the first time since—

  “Ow,” said a woman’s voice.

  “What?” Charrin sputtered, straining his neck up to see. That sounded like—

  “Hush, Warna,” Verice’s voice shook. “I need to put pressure on your palm, to stop the bleeding. The knife went deep—”

  “Better my hand than my throat,” Warna said.

  The world crashed in on Charrin, and he started to howl horrible dry sobs, with eyes that no longer produced tears. He laid his head back down, the marble cold beneath his cheek. He’d failed, he’d failed, and the pain of that failure welled up within him.

  Summer. His beautiful Summer.

  Warna sat in the shelter of Verice’s arms, and winced as he held her hand in both of his, putting pressure on her palm.

  He cursed under his breath, his face as pale as she’d ever seen.

  She’d not thought much other than to block the blade when she’d slid her hand up as Charrin had pulled the knife over her throat. She shivered, thinking of how close she’d come.

  And now the bard lay on the floor, crying.

  “Summon healers,” Verice commanded. The cloth he’d wrapped around her hand was red with blood. Warna decided it might be best to avert her eyes. She buried her face in Verice’s shoulder.

  “Already called,” said one of the guards. “What should we do with the bard, m’lord?”

  “Kill him.”

  “Verice, no,” Warna lifted her head from his shoulder.

  Verice’s face was cold; his eyes even colder.

  “Look at him,” she said softly.

  “Look at this,” Verice said, lifting her hand. “And this,” his finger traced a line on her neck and she flinched at the sudden pain. “He almost—” Verice stopped.

  “He didn’t,” Warna said. “Please, Verice. Don’t—”

  “Why?” Verice growled.

  “Because he’s helpless, and hurting. Because he’s lost it all now. He’s failed a king who doesn’t forgive errors and betrayed you. He’s nothing and no one, and less than naught.” Warna shook her head. “Don’t spoil the Festival.”

  There were footsteps behind her then, and she suddenly found herself at the mercies of the healers. Verice gave her up reluctantly, letting them take charge. She struggled to her feet with their support.

  Verice stood, looking down at Charrin, implacable and stern.

  “Verice,” she said, holding her hand to her chest. She took a step in Charrin’s direction. Verice frowned, and put his boot on the man’s neck as she came closer.

  “Listen to me, you treacherous bastard,” Warna leaned over the bound mael. “You accepted the hospitality of this house, and you repaid it with perfidy.”

  The hallway was still, the guards and healers silent. Verice watched her with hooded eyes.

  “I will sing of this, false one,” Warna kept her voice low and hard. “And know this for a truth, while I may not live as long as you, my song will. Our people will sing of your betrayal for a thousand years, and then some.”

  She straightened, slowly, her strength starting to wane. “Vengeance is not the answer to your pain.”

  Warna stepped away then, sagging into the waiting arms of the healers. She paused to look at Verice, who gave her a simple nod.

  Contented, she let them lead her where they would.

  Charrin lay on the floor, awash in his failure, Warna’s words echoing in his mind.

  “Take him to a cell,” Verice was speaking to one of the guards. “And keep him under guard.”

  “As you wish, m’lord.”

  There was a rustle of cloth, and then the vague shape of Verice knelt by Charrin’s head. “My Lady Warna would have me spare your life,” Verice spoke quietly, without rancor. “She is a mercifu
l woman.”

  “I pity you,” Charrin kept his voice down, but he didn’t bother to block his hate. “To see you lose your heart to a human. Are you going to start a kennel, like you do for your dogs? Place another one in your life as soon as this one dies off?”

  “Warna is kind,” Verice continued calmly. “I am not. I will not spoil the Festival, Charrin, but—” Verice stopped.

  “What?” Charrin demanded. “I do not expect to live beyond this last moment. I have failed. Execute me and—”

  “No,” Verice growled, but there was an odd-undertone to his voice. “I see now, that if not for Warna, I would be locked in the same hate as you.”

  Charrin snarled.

  Verice arose. “Did King Baratheil know of this plan of yours?”

  “No,” Charrin spat.

  “You will be confined. After the Festival, I will open a portal into Valltera, if they will have you.” Charrin felt a warm hand on his shoulder, felt magical energies stir around him. Verice’s voice was a like a shard of glass in his ear. “Perhaps you will see more clearly someday, old friend.”

  “I do not want your forgiveness,” Charrin shouted, his rage and despair eating at him.

  But Verice was already gone.

  Verice cradled Warna as she slept, her bandaged hand supported by pillows. The healers weren’t certain there’d be any permanent damage. He’d ask the Lady High Priestess to return and check with her gifts.

  Ancestors, how had it happened? In that moment after opening the door, in the seconds between Charrin’s hate, a spurt of blood, and Warna being pushed into his arms, he’d realized the truth.

  From the moment he’d been able to understand, there had been the subtle message of the taint in his blood, brought on by an ancestor and his fit of passion for a human woman. He’d never understood it, and had offered that ancestor insult when it had been thrown in his face, or he’d been denied advancement as a result.

  Now, he knew. He understood. His Ancestor’s revenge, most likely.

  Warna stirred in his arms, and Verice stroked her hair to soothe her back down into sleep. Now he knew, he understood, and he didn’t know what to do. The darkness around them held no answers, just the soft sounds of her breathing.

  She’d told him what she wanted, and he was obligated to fulfill her desires. It wasn’t fair to her to insist she stay. She deserved a man, a human, to love and cherish her, to age with her through all the stages of a normal life.

  She wanted to leave and he’d agreed, and he was a fool. For what was between them was more than physical on his part, more than just two bodies together in pleasure. The Ancestors were probably dancing in glee at forcing him to regret that thought.

  The idea of wedding a human was foolish, of course. Warna had, at best perhaps fifty or seventy years left to her. Was it fair to him to have her stay and wither away before his eyes?

  A jealous pain went through him at the idea that anyone else would share the moments she had left. Jealous that she might share her life, her joys, her sorrow with another.

  He breathed in the scent of her hair.

  There was time yet. To consider. To find a way to let her go.

  But not this night.

  “No permanent harm done,” Lady High Priestess Evelyn said. “Although the knife went deep.”

  Warna smiled as Evie held her hand, making them tingle with the power of her healing. “Verice shouldn’t have asked you to come,” Warna said. “Right during the Festival.”

  “You forget,” Evie laughed. “We have no such festivities in Edenrich. I was able to slip away with no one the wiser. You’ve disturbed nothing,” she continued. “Although I do wish to speak to Lord Verice when he has a moment.”

  “He’ll be here shortly,” Warna sighed. “He won’t be content unless he hears your report from you directly.”

  “I’ve heard of the Festival,” Evie said as she worked. “But I’ve never seen it.”

  “It’s amazing,” Warna said. She described the seven nights and days. “This is the Last Night,” she explained. “The Last Day and Night celebrate the gifts of magic. I wish you could stay,” she added. “They say the displays of power are amazing.”

  “I wish I could,” Evie said, as she gently pulled away from Warna’s hand. “But my duties require me to be at the church this evening.”

  “Our loss, Lady High Priestess,” Verice said as he came through the door.

  “Lord High Baron.” Evie rose, and bowed her head.

  Verice settled next to Warna. “How does the Lady Warna?” he asked, taking up Warna’s hand. Warna shivered at his touch. Verice glanced at her, a gleam in his eyes. But he turned back to Evie with all due attention.

  “She’s fine,” Evie said, standing before them, suddenly looking serious. “There’s no lasting damage, and the scarring will fade with time.” Evie took a breath. “Lord High Baron, you have said that you are in my debt, and I wish to exercise that at this time.”

  “How so?” Verice’s pose didn’t change, but Warna could feel the sudden tension in his body. “What boon would you ask, Evelyn?”

  “Only this, Lord High Baron,” Evelyn licked her lips, clearly nervous. “I do not ask you to grant my request. I only ask that you hear me out in all the particulars and that you speak to no one of what I am about to tell you.”

  Verice frowned. “I do not understand.”

  “But you will listen?” Evelyn pressed. “And you will hold this secret, both of you?”

  “Of course,” Warna said. “Evie, sit and tell us.”

  “Say on, Lady High Priestess,” Verice said. “Because I am certainly intrigued.”

  Evelyn remained standing, shaking her head at the offer of a seat. She drew in a deep breath, and let it out slowly. “It concerns a prophecy…”

  Verice listened as he’d promised. Evelyn wove an incredible tale of a dagger-star birthmark, and a child born as the Chosen, who would claim the throne from the Usurper and return justice to Palins and its people.

  “You’ve found such a child?” Verice asked.

  “I have,” Evelyn said with just enough hesitation that he knew there was more she wasn’t saying. “I have her well hidden, but if you desire proof, I can bring—”

  “I do not doubt your word, Lady High Priestess,” Verice said.

  “Just my sanity,” Evelyn said with a faint smile.

  “No.” Verice shook his head. “Not even that.” He paused, then spoke deliberately. “Evelyn, I’ve lived long enough to see prophecies both fulfilled and failed. Usually by the actions of the people caught up in them.” Verice leaned forward. “Tell me, what have you besides a child and a birthmark?”

  Chapter Sixty-Six

  “What do you mean?” Evelyn frowned.

  “It will take more than a birthmark to rend the Usurper from Palin’s throne.” Verice stood, starting to pace. “It will take men, money, support, arms, and a great deal of planning. You’ve none of that, have you?”

  “No,” Evelyn sank down into a chair, looking resigned.

  “Verice,” Warna said as she rose and stepped the Evelyn’s side. “If there’s any hope that we could—”

  “It’s just what he’s doing to the people of Palins,” Evelyn said. “What he does every day to innocent—”

  “No,” Verice said, folding his arms over his chest and shaking his head. He felt a pang for the sorrow in their eyes but on this he would not be budged. “I’ve just won a stalemate on my borders, and I must protect what is mine. My lands and my people. I cannot afford to support your cause, Lady High Priestess.”

  “I acknowledge the difficulties,” Evelyn rose, her normal calm returning. “And if I should return, one day, with men, and money, and support?”

  “Then I would pledge to listen and consider,” Verice said.

  “I will return.” Evelyn lifted her chin, a spark of determination in her blue eyes.

  “Of that, I have no doubt, Lady High Priestess.”

  On th
e Last Night of the Festival, they gathered on the keep balcony, bringing out chairs and pillows to watch the final magical displays in the night sky.

  Warna had been rather surprised to find that Verice would not be displaying his skills. Yet his reasoning was not displeasing. “No, I won’t spend my power that way,” he’d leaned closer and whispered in her ear. “I’ll save my energies for the magic we make between us.”

  She’d blushed, and shivered at his breath on her skin. Even now, the memory made her tingle.

  The night sky was darkening, and the guests had all gathered. Priest Dorne gave her a nod as he chose a chair close to Narthing. No formal seating this night, the Last Night of the Festival.

  They’d seen smaller magics all day. They’d strolled through the courtyard filled with people showing off their prowess. Tiny creatures that played with her fingers, butterflies of vibrant colors that settled in her hair, and one enterprising young faelle that had juggled balls of fire. Warna had especially liked the dancing teapot and cups. The young mage with that idea had tried too many cups, and they’d falter as he lost his concentration, but he’d laughed with the rest at his failure.

  Now there were teams of mages working together to display their arts. Apparently, the Mage’s Guild acted to coordinate all of it, otherwise it would have been chaos.

  Warna relaxed in her chair, glad to know that it was in other hands. With the final feast done, she could relax and enjoy, without worrying about the details. The Festival had been a delight, but it had also been hard work. She glanced at Ersal, sitting with Janella, both looking just as relieved.

  She settled back as a single bright red light soared into the sky, and exploded in a million sparks. Followed in quick succession by all the other colors of the rainbow. Warna flinched at the blasts, startled by the sounds. A glance at Verice showed there was nothing to fear.

  Roses bloomed on intertwining vines, filled with buzzing bees and dragonflies that danced around the flowers. The roses faded, leaving the dragonflies to dance in the night, their jewel-colored wings glowing against the dark sky.