White Star

by Elizabeth Vaughan

  Orrin frowned. “There will be no rescue, Priestess.”

  Her head came up, her eyes widened, and she laughed, a clear sound that rang against the stones. “Well do I know that, sir.”

  Orrin stared at her, still hearing the echoes of the laughter from the surrounding walls, the first honest laugh he’d heard in many years.

  The prisoner made as if to rise, but had some difficulty. Without thinking, Orrin extended his hand in its black leather glove. She looked up in surprise, but accepted his hand and assistance. She wasn’t tall; the top of her head came to the level of his eyes.

  As she stood, Orrin saw that her white robes were stained where she had knelt on the damp floor. The robes were heavy ones, thick and white with gold trim. There was a flicker of silver on the woman’s hand, a ring of some kind.

  She stepped back from him and clasped her hands together again, her face composed. The brief glimpse of humor was gone. “I take it, then, that you are Blackhart, Scourge of Palins?”

  “I am.” Orrin gave her a nod. “As you are the leader of the rebellion and the creator of false prophecy.”

  Ah, that made her eyes narrow. “Hardly as false as the Usurper and his promises.”

  “His title is Regent.” Orrin gave her a grim look. “I’ll not argue the point, Lady High Priestess. I have you, and I’ll use you to whatever advantage I can.”

  The lady gave him a thoughtful look. “What advantage can there be to my torture and death?”

  He frowned, angry that he’d given away too much. “We’ll see when the Baroness returns.”

  The Priestess sighed, looking around the rough cell. “I half hope it’s sooner, rather than later.”

  She looked at him then and met his gaze, and somehow he knew that for all her calm appearance, she was doing all she could to hold the terror at bay. He frowned again, suddenly uncomfortable. “Guard!”

  The door opened, and Orrin once again bent down to emerge from the cell. He waited for the door to close before he spoke. “This prisoner is to be moved.”

  “Moved?” Mage asked. His uncertainty was to be expected, since Orrin himself was surprised at his snap decision. He wasn’t sure where the impulse had come from.

  “Am I bewitched?” Orrin asked the lad sharply.

  Mage opened his eyes wide, then muttered a few words, casting his spell. His eyes glowed for an instant. “No, Lord Blackhart.”

  Orrin grunted. “It makes no sense to keep you down here, watching her. Have her taken to one of the tower bedrooms, and secure her there.” Orrin turned and leaned in, nose to nose with the guard. “The prisoner is not to be touched, and nothing is to be removed from her person. That privilege belongs to the Baroness. Am I understood?”

  The guard jerked his head, clearly aware of Orrin’s reputation as a killer. Orrin spun on his heel, satisfied that he would be obeyed, and left the cell, climbing the stairs out of the darkness. Elanore would be pleased, and upon her return the Priestess would die. But in the meantime, she could be housed in a better location, easier for his men to guard. Made no sense to go to great length to capture her, then lose her to illness. No telling when the Baroness would return from her little jaunt.

  As he climbed the stairs, back toward the air and the light, he admitted to himself that he felt odd. Suddenly, he longed for something he had not wanted or thought about in a long time.

  He wanted to hear that laugh again.

  TWO

  SHE was terrified.

  Evelyn’s hands clenched tight as she watched Blackhart leave. It was all she could do not to fling herself at the door and pound on it, begging for her freedom.

  She closed her eyes and forced herself to hold still as muffled voices came through the door. With any luck her captor hadn’t seen her terror. Her heart was pounding in her chest, and her mouth was so dry it was a miracle she’d been able to form words at all.

  She was exhausted, which made it harder to keep the fear at bay. At the very least, she could die with dignity. After all, she was a priestess, wasn’t she? A high priestess, for all that.

  Little good that did her now.

  She licked her lips and made herself take in a slow, shuddering breath. Lord of Light, this place stank. Of fear, of the undead these people had raised, of foul fluids and rot. She let the air out slowly and took another breath, trying to relax her tight shoulders. With a grimace, she knelt on the damp floor. Prayer would help.

  Not that she truly expected aid, divine or otherwise. She’d brought this on herself. The Chosen had warned her of the danger, but she’d blithely continued on, sure of her path. Evelyn could see her own arrogance now, to her shame. She could only pray that it would not harm their cause, would not prevent the Chosen from claiming her rightful Throne.

  Blackhart had surprised her with his talk of a rescue. The look on his face when she’d laughed right out loud—nonplussed was the best way to describe it. There was some degree of satisfaction to that, if a prisoner could be said to have any.

  Evelyn rolled her shoulders, trying to relax them, and took another conscious breath. She swallowed, too, to wet her mouth. “Prayer focuses our thought on the Gods, and opens our minds to their will and their wishes,” she whispered, reciting an old lesson her mother had taught her, trying to regain her calm. “Give your heart and mind to the Lord of Light and the Lady of Laughter, and they will answer, in ways seen and unseen.”

  Focus on the Gods. Easy to say, but hard to do when the clawing fear in her gut threatened to take her by the throat.

  Nonetheless, she closed her eyes and tried to pray.

  Hail, gracious Lord of the Sun and Sky, Giver of Light . . .

  Evelyn opened her eyes just enough to see the flame of the candle they’d left with her. The tiny thing barely held back the darkness of these depths. Of course, it was more for their convenience than her comfort, so they could keep an eye on their prisoner.

  Not that she could do anything. Her gaze fell to the manacles around her wrists, gray and tight. Whatever they were, they somehow drained her magic away, leaving her helpless to cast any spell. She had never heard of such a thing, but any power she could summon was gone in an instant, as if pulled into the metal. Its effect could also explain the sick feeling in her stomach, and the headache. Maybe it wasn’t just her fear.

  If they removed the chains, it was possible that she might be able. . . .

  She was fooling herself, and she needed to admit it. Even if she could win free of the chains, there were guards, both human and odium, between her and freedom. It would take precious seconds to cast a spell and open a portal, and they’d probably be upon her before she could escape.

  Odium. Her stomach clenched at the thought. She’d never fought them, but she’d seen what they could do to a man. Seen men rended, their flesh torn, seen the horrible gaping wounds that the odium inflicted with tooth and nail.

  Soulless ones, the odium were, made worse because they were created from the living, their souls stripped from their bodies. They fought with no need for food or rest. Worse, their filthy hands and rotting flesh left corruption behind in the wounds that they made. A man could survive a battle with but a scratch, and be dead in days when the wound soured and spoiled.

  Odium could be stopped only by severing the neck or chopping the limbs. Or killing the one who created it. She shivered. These people created and used them. What would they do to her?

  The gnawing fear rose again, and she looked at the candle again. Her father had taught her the first of her spells with a candle. The old lessons helped her to concentrate, and she closed her eyes once more. Hail, gracious Lord of the Sun and Sky, Giver of Light and Granter of Health. Your priestess beseeches you for forgiveness. . . .

  For her pride, her arrogance, her stupidity. For putting five years of work and toil at risk by allowing herself to be captured. The fear in her stomach turned to sick worry. Did her fellow rebels know she had been taken? Would any of the High Barons withdraw their support of the Chose
n? Their forces were in the field, and there was no turning back now. . . .

  Hail, gracious Lord of the Sun and Sky, Giver of Light and Granter of Health. Your priestess beseeches you for mercy. . . .

  For High Baroness Elanore would have none. She had plotted with the Usurper to ambush the other High Barons and, in the confusion, attack the Barony of Farentell, laying waste to the land and taking its people as slaves, or worse. For the Baroness had turned to necromancy, had raised the odium, using slaves and prisoners that Blackhart and her armies had brought her.

  With Farentell destroyed, they turned their attentions to Summerford and Athelbryght. Lord Fael of Summerford had fought them off, with the assistance of the armies of Lady Helene of Wyethe.

  Athelbryght had been destroyed, its baron left dying in the mud of his farmstead. The memory of finding her cousin, Lord Josiah, there in the mud swept over Evelyn. She’d decided there and then that she’d find a way to restore the Throne.

  So many years of work, so much effort. They were so close.

  Evelyn should have known that the talk of plague in the hills had been a lure to trap her, but she’d felt compelled to aid those she’d thought in need. The Archbishop had sent her. . . .

  Who had betrayed her?

  There was a scrabbling sound in one of the corners. Evelyn flinched, darting a glance to the side. Rats, probably.

  She shuddered, and licked her dry lips.

  Hail, gracious Lord of the Sun and Sky, Giver of Light and Granter of Health. Your priestess beseeches you for aid. . . .

  For the cause, for the warriors, but especially for the children she’d rescued from the Usurper’s schemes. They were safe, hidden in Soccia. She’d protected them, loved them these last five years, and she could see their grief as she tasted her own in the back of her throat. They’d be devastated, and had she thought of that? Had she given a moment’s thought to . . .

  Hail, gracious Lord of the Sun and Sky, Giver of Light and Granter of Health. Your priestess beseeches you for courage. . . .

  Courage for all. For every man taking up arms against the Usurper. For the children, for the Chosen, for herself. She swallowed hard as pictures of what they’d do to her flashed in her mind. And truth be told, what she feared most was the waiting. It was one thing to face death. It was another thing entirely to kneel in a cell with nothing to do but anticipate what was to come.

  She brought herself back, focused on her breathing, tried to ease tense muscles, tried to let the fear go. Tried to pray. . . .

  Hail, gracious Lord of the Sun and Sky, Giver of Light and Granter of Health. Your priestess beseeches you for grace. . . .

  For the grace to wait, and endure. As long as she had to. For the grace to hide her fears from that man. Lord Blackhart, Scourge of Palins, who’d aided the High Baroness and the Usurper.

  Odd. She’d expected him to be tall and brooding when he’d filled the door of her cell. But for the inhuman monster he was reported to be, his eyes held a weariness that she hadn’t expected to see. Those eyes had been dark, grim . . . she’d no hint of color in the dim light, other than the black he wore. Still, it was . . . unsettling. She’d expected cruelty and hate. How odd to think such a monster might have feelings beyond a lust for power.

  Was she guilty of that as well? Of assuming that all of her enemies were monsters?

  Evelyn’s face grew warm. She’d worked so long to unseat the Usurper, to bring the prophecy to fruition, had she fallen into the trap of blind hatred of an enemy? Was that what took Blackhart down his path of darkness?

  As she was lost in thought, the grating of the door took her by surprise. Her head snapped up in an instant. Two men with torches stood in the doorway.

  “On your feet.”

  THREE

  “HAVE your way with her, then, and be done.” Archer huffed out an exasperated breath.

  “No,” Blackhart snapped, “no rape.”

  “Who said anything about rape?” Archer growled. “I’m thinking she’s as interested as you are.”

  Blackhart turned on him, his face filled with anger. “She’s no common whore, to be used for a moment’s pleasure,” he lashed out before turning to stomp off.

  Archer rolled his eyes as Blackhart walked away from him along the battlements. Since he’d ordered the prisoner moved the day before, Blackhart had been snapping heads off and growling like a bear at everyone and everything. Archer gave the man’s back a thoughtful look as he followed. “You sure you ain’t bewitched?”

  “Mage says not,” Blackhart said. “I’m not stupid.”

  “Depends on which head you’re thinking with.” Archer chuckled, then fell silent as they passed a sentry. Blackhart paused long enough to look the man in the eye and receive a nod in return.

  They moved on, and after a few steps Archer pressed his point in a soft voice. “There’s none to say you nay, with the Baroness gone,” Archer pointed out. “More than like she’ll wonder that you didn’t when she gets back.”

  “If she gets back,” Blackhart growled. He stopped for a moment, and looked out over the battlements. “Where the hell is she?”

  Archer moved to stand beside him. “No word, I take it.”

  “None,” Blackhart said. His face was as grim as his tone.

  “Any movement on the border?” Archer asked.

  “The rebels are harassing the troops, but nothing else so far. If the Baroness wants us to move in support of Edenrich, she’d better get back here fast.”

  “Not that we can offer much support,” Archer pointed out. “We don’t have much left in the way of men.”

  Blackhart grunted, but made no response as they moved off. Archer didn’t blame him. It was a mess, and they both knew it.

  Archer stayed silent as they walked. Didn’t matter how bad things got; he’d made his decision a long time ago.

  They made their way around, checking the walls and the sentries. Blackhart allowed only humans up here, living men smart enough to use their eyes and their brains to spot trouble at a distance. Unlike the undead that guarded the rest of the Keep. Blackhart tended to take these little strolls at random, keeping everyone on their toes.

  Blackhart hesitated only once, when Archer caught him staring at the central tower, up toward the window of the room where the Priestess was kept. Archer chuckled.

  Blackhart’s back stiffened for an instant, then with a swirl of his black cloak, he moved on, yanking open the door that let them back into the Keep. Archer followed as Blackhart strode down the hall toward his private chambers.

  Archer shook his head in mock despair. “You might as well have her, seein’ you can’t stop thinking about her. Not that she’s much to look at, to my way of thinking, with that white hair and all. Not to my taste.”

  “What with your taste running to men, and all,” Blackhart pointed out.

  “There is that.” Archer gave him a grin. “Use her and get her out of your blood, Blackhart. This is getting old. There’s a nice bed up there—hell, ya chained her to it. She’s probably expecting ya, and wondering why ya haven’t shown up. Hell, we all are.”

  “Your sense of humor is going to get you killed.”

  “You been saying that for years,” Archer said, “and so far—”

  Blackhart yanked open the door, stomped into his sitting area, and strode to the fireplace. There was a fire keeping back the chill of the black stone walls and floors.

  Archer followed silently. The chairs were old wooden ones, the padding worn around the edges, the wood scratched and nicked. Comfortable and strong. He set his bow to one side, the quiver next to it, and sat, stretching out his long legs.

  Blackhart went to the mantel and took down two cups and a large ceramic jug before settling in his own chair. He splashed a generous amount of wine into one cup and held it out. Archer took the cup with a nod of thanks and relaxed as the familiar dryness filled his throat.

  Blackhart settled in the chair next to him, and took a sip from his own cup. �
��We’re going to die. All of us.”

  Archer jerked around, caught off guard by that brutal statement. He gave Blackhart a startled glance, only to see those hazel eyes narrow in satisfaction.

  “You’ve been lying to me,” Blackhart growled.

  “No more than you’ve lied to yourself,” Archer hedged.

  “So we’ve been lying to each other.” Blackhart stared into his cup. “I want your honest assessment.”

  Archer sighed, and watched as Blackhart took another sip. The look on his face made it clear he wasn’t going to be the first to speak.

  Archer put his head back against the chair. “If we’re being honest, I’m not sure I realized how bad things were until the last few weeks. Then wasn’t sure I was right, and then wasn’t sure how to tell ya.”

  “All these years, and you were afraid to tell me.” Blackhart scowled. “What kind of bastard does that make me?”

  “You’re trying to protect us, and what is left of the living people of the Black Hills,” Archer rasped.

  “The truth. Now.”

  Archer nodded, and held out the cup.

  Blackhart splashed more wine into it.

  “Baroness ain’t been right for about five years, since she sent our mages and some of our forces into Athelbryght. We lost all those spell-casters in that attack, and the only reason Mage wasn’t in on it was ’cause you held him back.”

  Blackhart grunted his agreement.

  “At the start, the Baroness used the prisoners to make odium, to strengthen our forces. We all thought that was a good idea at the time. We needed the help. And it worked, for a while. But it takes power and energy to control them, and she’s been doing it all for a while now.” Archer pulled his legs in, and leaned forward. “I ain’t sure she can do it much longer. Her power over them seems to be getting weaker, like she’s trying to do too much. Besides”—Archer looked over at Blackhart—“she keeps needing the living to feed the dead, and she’s started using our own people. Prisoners first. Lawbreakers. But now . . .” He sighed, rubbing his hand over his face, and took another drink before he spoke.