Destiny's Star

by Elizabeth Vaughan

  “It seems to me that the warrior-priests of the Plains have cared too much for their own prestige and too little for the people they are supposed to serve. But how am I to judge the truth of that, being an outsider?”

  Ezren paused, and Wild Winds waited. When Ezren continued, he did so in his own language. “I hate bullies.”

  Wild Winds looked at Bethral, who began to translate.

  “I hate those that try to force my actions or words by threat of violence or injury. In my homeland, my voice was . . .” Ezren hesitated, then continued. “My voice was silenced, so that I could not speak of my opposition to the actions of others in power. And violence was used to try to force me to speak words I did not believe, to force me to tell stories that had no truth to them.

  “Now, warrior-priests have tried to kill my Token-Bearer and to take me by force. Their actions speak louder than your words. I will not aid them.” Ezren stood, and inclined his head. “I thank you for your truths, Wild Winds. But I . . . we . . . are going home.”

  EZREN stepped out of the circle of earth and headed back up the rise toward Haya. Bethral had to move fast to stay close. She’d been caught up in Ezren’s words, admiring his strength even as she had translated.

  Now her back was to the warrior-priest, and it itched. She couldn’t see them, but she was certain there were other warrior-priests hidden in the tall grasses. It was all she could do not to look back. Ezren was walking forward without a single backward glance, and Bethral could do no less. Haya was watching; she would have to be satisfied with that.

  “Your talk is done?” Haya growled once Ezren drew close.

  Ezren nodded.

  “Then let us return to the camp. Who knows what forces lurk in the grass.” Haya started walking, but Bethral noticed she kept her bow strung.

  “My thought as well,” Bethral echoed.

  “Arrogant fools,” Haya grumbled as she walked, scanning the grasses around them. “To refuse to talk to me, then to speak to you and bind your tongues . . . it’s a wonder the sundering did not happen before this time.”

  “Wild Winds did not bind my tongue,” Ezren said as he kept walking.

  Haya stopped in her tracks.

  Bethral stopped even with her, keeping watch. “Ezren,” she called.

  Ezren looked back and frowned. “What?”

  “Singer, I would ask for your token,” Haya said.

  Ezren fumbled in his sleeve for the gold coin, then gave it to her.

  “We should keep moving,” Bethral said.

  Haya ignored her. “I would give voice to one truth.”

  “I will speak to your truth,” Ezren responded.

  “City dwellers forget things,” Haya said quickly. “Is it possible that you have forgotten that Wild Winds sealed your mouths? Bound you not to speak of what was said?”

  “No,” Ezren said firmly, then continued in his own tongue. “Yes, it is true I do not have a memory such as yours. But I would never forget a promise to stay silent or to keep what is said to myself. If you did not hold my token, I would be insulted.”

  Haya looked at Bethral, who translated for her, then added her own assurance. “It is as he says, Elder Thea. I offer my own truth with his.”

  Haya shook her head in disbelief.

  Ezren reached out for his token, and Haya returned it. “Crafty bastard, isn’t he?” Ezren pointed as he put the coin in his sleeve. “Wild Winds can’t bring himself to tell the tale to anyone of the Plains, so he uses us instead.”

  “We need to keep moving,” Bethral insisted.

  “Will you tell me what he told you?” Haya demanded.

  “Yes,” Ezren said. “But then we have to leave, Haya. More warrior-priests will come, and the children must be safe.”

  “You will tell me what he said?” Haya repeated, as if she doubted his words.

  “Everything,” Ezren said.

  “But not here,” Bethral added.

  “No.” Haya started to walk again, picking up her pace. “No, tonight, after the Rite of Ascension begins. We will gather in your tent and we will talk.”

  “Rite of Ascension? For the young ones?” Ezren asked. “Can I watch?”

  “No,” Haya said firmly. “We will return to the camp. You will sleep, and I will summon those I trust to guard you. After the rite begins, we will talk, but we must speak swiftly. Because at dawn, you must flee.”

  WILD Winds watched as the trio walked over the rise and out of his sight. With a sigh, he shifted to his knees and reached for the bowl of burning fat. “Fire, receive my thanks for witnessing these truths.” He carefully tipped the fat onto the ground and covered the remaining flames with the bowl, smothering them.

  He reached for the other bowl. “Water, receive my thanks for witnessing these truths.” Just as carefully, he poured the water on the ground and covered the dampness with the bowl.

  He lifted both hands, palms up, and tilted his head back. “Air, receive my thanks for witnessing these truths.”

  Finally, he bowed, setting both palms firmly on the soil. “Earth, receive my thanks for witnessing these truths.”

  Wild Winds rose to his knees, letting his hands rest on his thighs, and took a deep breath.

  A rustle of leaves, and Snowfall rose from the tall grass, sheathing her dagger at her belt. Her soft brown shoulders were covered in tattoos that were not yet complete, as befitted one who had not yet made her final vows as a warrior-priest. “You heard?” he asked.

  She nodded as she moved toward the pile of sod and reached for a piece. “What will happen, Elder? When he dies?”

  “I wish I knew.” Wild Winds used his staff to lever himself to his feet. The skulls swung on their leather strips and clattered together. “It is his choice, and we will abide by his decision.”

  “The others will not, Elder.” Snowfall knelt and pressed the sod back into place.

  “That is beyond my control,” Wild Winds said. “We will conduct the rite of passage for the young of this tribe, and then I will seek out other warrior-priests who will still listen to my truths.”

  “As you wish, Elder.” Snowfall took up another piece of sod.

  “It is not as I wish, but it is as it is,” Wild Winds growled. “And you should do as I bid.”

  Snowfall said nothing as she pressed the grass back to the earth.

  “Perhaps you have not heard my words?”

  “I have, Elder.” Snowfall raised her lovely face and fixed her light gray eyes on him.

  “You wish me to travel to the Heart of the Plains where the contests for warlord will be held. You wish me to find Simus of the Hawk and seek to serve as his token-bearer.”

  “So,” Wild Winds said, “you do listen. If Simus achieves the status of warlord, he will be able to support Keir of the Cat. And you—”

  “Elder,” Snowfall interrupted, “I do not see—”

  “We cannot continue as we have,” Wild Winds repeated patiently. “The sundering of the Council of Elders means that we must end our isolation and our silence. Simus will have the status of a warrior-priest as token-bearer, and you will have access to Simus and, through him, to Keir the Cat and the Warprize.”

  “He will never accept—”

  “He will. In time,” Wild Winds argued. “It is what I ask of you.”

  Snowfall looked up. “I will not leave you, Elder. You have taught me all that I know of our ways, and I will—”

  “Obey your elder. Your eldest elder,” Wild Winds said. “As you honor me, you will do as I bid.”

  Snowfall shrugged, and started to place the last piece of sod.

  “I assume that silence is assent,” Wild Winds commented dryly.

  “Silence is silence, unless the silence speaks to the listener,” Snowfall replied. “Is that not what you taught me, Elder?”

  “Bitter indeed, the retort of an ungrateful student who learns her lessons all too well.” Wild Winds sighed.

  Snowfall shrugged. “The contests for warlord ar
e not for some time yet. The task can wait.”

  “Summon the others,” Wild Winds said. “We will perform the Rite of Ascension and then depart.”

  Snowfall rose. “After that, Elder?”

  “The winds alone know.”

  THIRTEEN

  HAYA was true to her word. She’d seen them to their tent and insisted that they finish their packing and rest until sunset, when the senel would begin.

  As the sun began to set, they were escorted into her portion of the tent. “The rite has begun,” she said softly as she settled in the chair beside Ezren. “Tomorrow morning, when the children emerge as warriors, there will be feasting and pattern dancing until everyone drops with exhaustion.”

  “Pattern dancing?” Ezren asked.

  “Group dancing,” Bethral murmured. She was standing just behind his shoulder.

  “Ah.” Ezren would ask for more details later, if he remembered. For the hundredth time, he wished he had paper and ink, so he could write down everything about these people. Might as well ask for a portal to Edenrich.

  For now, he’d just have to trust to his storyteller’s memory and remember what he heard and saw. But as he watched, more warriors entered the tent and settled down before them, and all he could think was how very different everything was here on the Plains.

  “I’ve gathered the ones I trust.” Haya spoke for Ezren’s benefit alone. “Old and wise. We must hear, and we must consider.”

  Ezren nodded and watched as a few more entered. Haya had seen to food and drink, with pitchers of kavage warming in braziers and bowls of gurt. Finally, Haya gestured, and the flap was sealed with what seemed to be a hundred bells. They chimed softly as people moved around the tent, settling down.

  “So”—Haya raised her voice as the last one took his seat—“we are guarded and private. I would have you hear the words of Ezren Storyteller, Singer of the City, words that even I have not yet heard. But before he speaks, let us make sure we all know of recent events.” She started with the arrival of Ezren and Bethral.

  There were fifteen warriors all told—a few that Ezren recognized, a few he didn’t. They listened in silence, their full attention on Haya. Some had their eyes half closed, looking down, absorbing the words.

  She told of the fight with the warrior-priests, and the discovery of Wild Winds seated out on the Plains. Then she turned to Ezren, and all that attention focused directly on him.

  Ezren glanced at Bethral before he started to talk, to make sure she was ready to translate. He didn’t want to risk any misunderstanding with this information. And he didn’t embellish, either—there was no need for dramatic pauses. The information was enough. He saw that in their eyes as he spoke of what Wild Winds had told him.

  The warriors were silent, still, deep pools taking in every word. They reminded him of someone else, another warrior who had listened intently to the secret that he had shared. He frowned a bit, and forced himself to focus on the task at hand.

  Finally, Ezren reached the point where he told Wild Winds that he would not go to the Heart of the Plains. There was silence after his last words, then Haya reached for a pitcher of kavage and poured him a mug. Everyone filled their cups and some took handfuls of gurt.

  “This is the night of the Rite of Ascension, when our children emerge at dawn as warriors.” Haya spoke softly. “This is a night normally spent in consideration of what is past and what is to come. Joy that our children have grown tall and strong. Pain that they now leave our tents for the freedoms and the dangers of the Plains.”

  Seo grunted. “But not this night.”

  “No.” Haya drew a deep breath. “Not this night. The Singer of the City has honored us with information withheld by the—”

  “Bragnects,” Urte growled. The warriors around her nodded in response. “Bragnects, all.”

  That word. Bethral had used it when they’d first been challenged. Ezren turned his head slightly in her direction.

  “A grave insult,” came a soft whisper. “To be used with care.”

  “Is that a hard ‘g’ or a hard ‘c’?”

  There was a pause, and a stifled cough. “They have no written language, Storyteller.” Bethral’s voice sounded a bit strangled. “It can be as you wish.”

  “Ah.” Ezren turned his attention back to the group.

  “Their status and power are all they care for,” another warrior spat. “May they wander in the snows forever.”

  “Yet . . .” Seo waited until he had everyone’s attention. “Yet it is a warrior-priest that gives us the very information that has been withheld for so long.”

  There was a murmur at that.

  “Wild Winds is a clever fox,” Ezren said, then hesitated. “You know foxes?”

  There were many smiles at that. “Aye, we know them well.”

  “Seo is of the Fox Tribe, Storyteller,” Haya said with a smile.

  “Oh.” Ezren flashed a nervous grin. “Then you know what I mean.”

  “We do,” Seo said. “And I agree. I think Wild Winds is caught between rutting ehats and raging grass fires.”

  “Pah. He does little enough, if what he says is true,” Urte said. “Does he offer the Storyteller aid with what he bears? No. ‘Come with me or die’ is all that he says.”

  “He did not bind my words,” Ezren said. “By speaking to me, he spoke to you, even if it was indirectly. Maybe”—Ezren hesitated—“maybe he didn’t offer more because he has no more information to offer. No protections to give.”

  “A warrior-priest who is . . . dying . . . and who has not sought the snows . . . his truths may not be considered,” Quartis spoke up. “For all their claim of magic, who has heard of a warrior-priest who cannot heal his own pains, eh?”

  “What magics do they have?” Ezren looked intently at the faces around him. “He said their magic was weak and thin now. Do you know?”

  A warrior growled. “For years, they have claimed much, and done little for the tribes. They have taken of the best of the raids, and claimed the prime meats of hunts. They swagger around as if the elements moved at their will and whim.”

  “They are said to be able to heal,” Quartis said. “But they heal only those they deem worthy. They withhold that power more often than not.”

  “And now we know why,” Urte grumbled.

  “They disappear with no warning, out in the grasses,” another warrior added. “Seeming to disappear into the land itself.”

  “And they seem to know things before any other, as if the messages ride the wind,” Seo said. “How else did Wild Winds know what had happened so fast?”

  “One thing I know for certain,” Haya said. “I have never seen them throw fire at an enemy, Storyteller. Never once have I seen such a thing, in all the battles I have fought in. That I have heard of only in the oldest songs.”

  “Songs so old, they are sung rarely. Songs of warrior-priests wielding magics in battle. Of calling fire from the skies, and freezing enemies with blasts of cold,” Quartis nodded. “Had I time, I’d sing them for you.”

  “But time is what we do not have. The night flows past us like a stream, and we must make decisions before the rite ends.” Haya poured herself more kavage. “So—”

  “We must leave,” Ezren said firmly. “Wild Winds said that more warrior-priests will come, and I will not endanger your camp. The children—”

  “Peace, Storyteller,” Seo said. “I agree.”

  There were nods all around.

  “We are not comfortable with what you bear, Singer,” Haya said. “Although I think you would burn yourself to a blackened husk before you would hurt a child.”

  Ezren gave her a grateful look.

  “But the real question is where?” Quartis mused. “Where should you go?”

  “I see three choices,” Haya said.

  Ezren felt Bethral shift behind him.

  “Three?” Seo looked at her. “Name them.”

  Haya held up a finger. “They can return to their own
land and seek out the wisdom of their own people in this matter.”

  Ezren didn’t react, but he knew full well that the most experienced mages in the Kingdom of Edenrich hadn’t known how to deal with him and his rogue powers. But he kept silent.

  Haya lifted another finger. “They could seek out Keir of the Cat and the Warprize. Who knows, perhaps the appearance of the Warprize called these people here.” Haya snorted. “If it is change Keir wants, here is change by the handful.”

  “And the final choice, Haya?”

  Haya hesitated, then lowered her hand. “They could seek the snows.”

  Ezren jerked.

  “I do not demand this,” Haya said. “But if you cannot control the magic, and you do not wish to see it used by the warrior-priests . . .” She let her voice trail off. “I know that is not your way, but it is ours.”

  “No,” Ezren said firmly. “I understand your words, but we are going to return home. Wild Winds claims that the magic I bear is of the Plains, but I have no proof of that. We will go.”

  “Then I will end this senel now,” Haya said.

  “But there is more we need to decide,” Seo protested. “What will we do now that we—”

  “True,” Haya said as she rose to her feet. “But these two must prepare to leave, and I will not waste another moment of their time. Later, we can debate what to do with our knowledge. For now—”

  “We must end this talk,” Quartis said. He rose to his feet as well. “I wish you well, Storyteller.”

  Ezren nodded as the others rose and left the tent.

  Haya retied the flaps. “There is much to say, and little time.” She knelt on the edge of the platform. “Look here.”

  She dipped her finger in a mug of kavage and drew a large circle on the rough wooden planks. “These are the Plains.”

  Ezren leaned over as Bethral knelt next to the circle.

  “The Heart lies here, beside a large lake.” Haya wet her finger again and dotted the center of the circle.

  “The Kingdom of Xy?” Ezren asked. “Where is—”

  Haya placed a dot almost due north of the Heart.