Epic Of Palins 01 - Dagger Star (4 page)

Red was staring at the wall, lost in thought, as she continued. “Something about his pain…”

Red’s voice trailed off, but then she shook herself and shrugged. “Something to think about besides all this cleaning.”

“Well, after we’ve seen to the horses and the gear, we’ll spar.” Bethral turned toward the foaling room. “Three days lost in that bog with no chance to practice. You need a blade in your hand.”

The faint sound of a goat bell came from outside.

“You could clean, I could hunt,” Red offered, as if making a sacrifice of her efforts. “Our host may appreciate some fresh meat.”

“Don’t bother.” Josiah stepped into the barn, followed by the five goats. He held two pots by their handles and had a cloth-wrapped parcel tucked under his arm.

Bethral drew a deep breath. “Is that kavage?”

Red had her hands crossed over her chest. “I’m a good hunter.”

“Skills don’t mean much when there is no game.” Josiah moved past them, toward the foaling room. The goats made to follow as well, their tails wagging. “I’ve brought warm oats and kavage.”

“I’ve some molasses for the oats.” Bethral offered.

“What happened here?” Red asked.

Josiah stopped dead in his tracks, as did the goats. Bethral was willing to swear that all six heads turned at once to look at Red.

Red hadn’t moved, her stance firm, her arms crossed before her. But there was a tilt to her head, and a glint in her eye that Bethral had seen before. One that didn’t bode well for the prey she stalked. “Who fought here? When did it happen?”

The goatherder stood there, silent, his face a mix of emotions Bethral couldn’t quite read. But one she knew well, had seen often enough. In the warriors she’d fought with. And against.

Fear.

Red opened her mouth again, but Josiah cut her off. “Here.”

He thrust the pots at Bethral. She took them quickly, if only to save her breakfast from being spilled. He pushed the bundle into her arms as well.

Josiah strode for the door. “I’ve chores to do.”

“I’ll have an answer, Josiah.” Red’s voice was low and husky. “Now or later.”

That brought the man to a halt. Bethral watched his back, and didn’t miss his hands as they clenched into fists and then relaxed. “I set the beans to soak. We’ll have soup tonight. Together.”

“And answers.”

Josiah looked over his shoulder. There was a long pause as he and Red stared at one another. The goats were clustered by his feet, unnaturally quiet. The hair on the back of Bethral’s neck stirred, as if a storm was rising.

Josiah looked away. “And answers.”

He strode off, the goats following, bleating as if in distress. Red watched as he walked away, a satisfied smirk on her face.

“What’s he afraid of?” Bethral asked as she balanced her burdens.

“I don’t know,” Red answered slowly, still focused on the man. “But I will.”

JOSIAH caught glimpses of them during the day, going between the barn and the well, cleaning their gear and their horses. The two women worked hard, he’d give them that.

They’d scrubbed the horses down, picking out their hooves and even combing out manes and tails. Then their gear, placing saddles and bedrolls to air in the sun after being cleaned.

He made sure to stay out of their way as much as possible, since the smaller one, the one named Red, was sure to ask questions. He went about his business, as his mind and belly churned. He’d as many questions for them as they did for him, and the answers would bring back the pain. The thought of talking about what had happened was a lead weight pressing down on his chest.

Talking would bring back the memories, and the nightmares. The sights, the smells…the sounds.

He had to stop at that thought. Just stop what he was doing, close his eyes, and breathe.

A familiar bleat, and a head butted against his leg. He opened his eyes and looked down into the brown eyes of the little white goat. He gave her a rueful smile, and bent down to scratch her head. “All’s well, Snowdrop. Let’s see what we can gather in the old herb field, eh?”

He took up his shovel and an old tattered field basket, and started off. The goats followed, as they always did. Brownie, Fog, and Dapple ranged out, but the two smaller ones, Kavage and Snowdrop, tended to stay closer.

The walk brought him peace. Over past the copse of dead trees, and down a hill to the old herb field. He wandered through, harvesting what he could from the survivors that grew wild in amidst the weeds.

These past few years, it had always been a comfort to be out and about on the ruined fields.

There were times he could almost feel the land, as if it was trying to absorb his pain. When the rains fell, when the snow covered the hills, it was like he was blanketed as well. Cushioned, even.

A fancy on his part. No—more like a conceit.

Some of the more tender plants hadn’t come back from the ravages. But the marjoram seemed to thrive. He cut a generous amount, and placed the bundles in the basket with his other finds. Some wild onions, a few turnips. They’d add to the soup, that was sure.

It calmed him, as it always had, this kind of work. The sun rose higher, and he took a break to sit in the shade and drink of the sweet water from the stream. He leaned his head back and sighed, grateful to be tired and worn.

The goats browsed nearby, eating the scrub. He’d had some bread and cheese he could have brought, but he’d left it behind. Oh, well, he’d be hungry for supper, then, for the soup and…her questions.

The memories flooded in then, and the pain flared up. His stomach cramped, and he wondered how he’d get through a meal without being sick.

It had to be faced, if he wanted answers from her. About the birthmark, about her presence here, now…he had to know, and yet….

Josiah stood up, grabbed his basket, and strode back to his hut. The goats scrambled behind him, bleating at his abrupt departure.

He’d work to do. And a soup to put on the fire.

He’d just come out of the trees when he heard the laughter. He paused, and looked at the barn.

Red and Bethral were fighting.

Well, Bethral was fighting. With a sword and shield, she was guarding herself close.

Red was dancing.

Josiah’s breath caught. Red was leaping at Bethral with two daggers, her long brown hair flying behind her like a banner. Two bright blades flashed, real steel from the look of it. Part of him knew that they sparred, the other part drew a breath as Red evaded Bethral’s blade by the merest breadth.

Their laughter was bright, but their movements showed the seriousness of their blades. To his eye, neither was the better of the other, but then he didn’t have enough skill to know. All he knew for sure was that Red was alive in a way that Josiah hadn’t seen in years. She was fast, darting about, trying to penetrate Bethral’s defenses.

A shiver of pure lust passed through him. She was light and joy and a bright beacon. He felt her lips on his, could taste her on his tongue. His mind betrayed him with the thought of her moving beneath his body, naked, awash in passion, their bodies—

Red stopped and stood, breathing hard. Their gazes met across the field.

Lord of Light, he wanted her. Did the sweat bead on her skin like the soap had? What would she sound like, as she—

Even at this distance, he saw the side of her mouth quirk up. She knew what he was thinking.

He clenched his teeth, and wrenched his gaze away, to stare at the barn and the ruins that surrounded it. At the destruction of his joy. He’d no right to feel this way. His path was set: narrow, dark, and straight to the revenge he prayed for. He drew a deep breath, then looked at the ground between his feet, at the moss that had regrown between the stones of the path.

Grief welled up in his chest, but that was good. It allowed him to take a step, and then another, toward the hut.

The two women had broken off, and were sharing a drink as he walked past them. He could feel Red’s look on the back of his neck, but he didn’t stop. Time enough for the questions later, when their bellies were full, and he could ask as much as he’d answer.

Grief was an old friend. He could bear grief.

What he couldn’t bear was hope.

The goats headed off to join the horses in their grazing. He walked into the hut and pulled the door firmly closed behind him.

THEY’D ended up in the foaling room again, sitting before the fire. Bethral was warm, and tired, the good kind of tired that came from hard work and a good sparring session. With all of Red’s speed, she’d landed only two blows on Bethral, and only one would have been lethal. Red might be faster, but strength and patience still counted in a fight.

Red leaned forward like a dog on a scent, clearly interested in their host.

A host who’d walked in with a pot of bean soup and the look of a man going to his doom. Josiah had placed the pot by the fire, and handed out pieces of coarse brown bread to go with the soup.

Bethral’s stomach growled when he lifted the lid off the pot. The scent of beans, salt pork, and onion had filled the small room. The man must have heard it, since he served her first, with a full mug and a spoon.

“What do you know of Palins’s past?” Josiah asked.

Red took her mug from his hands with a shrug. “A civil war rages here, and has for some time.”

Josiah filled his bowl, but he held it in his hands, and made no effort to eat.

“True, and yet not true.” He sighed. “Five years back, King Everard reigned in this land, with the High Barons on his Council. Each High Baron held his lands in fealty to Everard.”

Red nodded, blowing on her soup. “He died, with his queen and heir.”

“Queen Rosalyn and Prince Hugh. Everard’s only heir.” Josiah stirred his bowl. “With their deaths, there was no one of the bloodline left to rightfully rule this land.”

“So, civil war,” Red stated.

Josiah shook his head. “Not right away. The Council was summoned to Edenrich, the capital city, and the High Barons began to discuss appointing a regent until someone with the royal bloodline could be found.”

“‘Discuss’!” Red snorted. “I imagine that went well.”

“A regent was appointed,” Josiah said. “But discussion turned to dissent, and dissent into discord.” He focused on the fire, his eyes far away. Bethral noted his hands gripped in his lap, the knuckles white. She gave Red a quick look, but Red was focused on the face of the man before her.

Josiah continued. “From discord to chaos. The High Barons turned on each other, attacking in order to claim the throne for themselves.”

“Is that what happened here?” Red asked.

Josiah nodded. “Even here. All was destroyed in the name of power.” His voice cracked. “Now Palins is hard-pressed, its people no longer a charge to be cared for, but a resource to be drained.”

Bethral considered the man in silence. His head was bowed, sorrow in every line of his body.

Red scraped her mug with her spoon.

Josiah lifted his head and focused on Red. “The mark you bear, we call it the dagger-star.”

“My birthmark?” Red eyed him doubtfully.

“It’s the sign of the Chosen,” Josiah said in a hushed voice.

Bethral narrowed her eyes and studied the man, but he seemed perfectly serious.

Red snorted. “Is there any more bread?”

Josiah handed her the loaf. “Don’t you understand? The prophecy says that the Chosen will claim the throne. Justice will return to the land and its people.”

“Justice?” Red raised an eyebrow as she tore a hunk from the loaf and handed the rest to Bethral.

“Because I have a mark on my chest?”

“Flaunt it in Palins and it will get you killed,” Josiah replied. “You are the Chosen of the Gods, a child of prophecy, born for this purpose. This destiny.”

Red rolled her eyes and dug into her soup.

Josiah frowned. “What?”

“Red follows the teaching of the Twelve.” Bethral answered, as Red shoveled soup into her mouth. “She doesn’t believe in relying on gods.”

“Doesn’t believe?” Josiah looked at her. “But—”

Red cut him off, talking around a mouthful of soup. “They leave me alone, I leave them alone.”

She swallowed her food, then continued. “The mark means nothing.”

“It means everything,” Josiah argued. “A chance to set things right in a land where cruelty rules, and people are sold into slavery.”

Red fixed him with a stare. “You care deeply, goatherder, for one that lives alone and apart.”

Josiah shrugged. “Not so apart. There’s a town to the southeast, a day’s hard ride.”

“But no one lives here,” Red pressed. “No one but you, in a hut of your own making, I think.”

Bethral stayed silent, eating her soup, watching and listening. There’d been a time, when she’d been young, when she’d thought to save the world with her sword. To make a real difference.

But time and experience had taught her well.

Red, on the other hand, had never been a dreamer. Ever practical was her sword-sister, except about her gloves.

Josiah looked ill, setting his bowl of soup at his feet. “The goats and I are all that remain of a prosperous land fat with innocent folk. Folk now dead, or taken in slavery, because of a—” His voice broke. He dropped his head and clenched his fists tight.

Red opened her mouth, but Bethral’d had enough. She gestured sharply. Red glared, but closed her mouth.

“Eat, Josiah.” Bethral spoke softly. “The soup does the bowl no good.”

Josiah nodded. It took him a moment, but his hands relaxed and he picked up his bowl and took a few bites. Red scowled, but went back to her meal. All three ate in silence for a few moments, until Josiah looked up at Red. “We’d never thought to look outside Palins. You were born in Soccia? Not Palins?”

Red’s eyes narrowed. “I’m of Soccia, so far as I know.”

“But do you know?” Josiah pressed. “Is it possible that—”

“Possible or not, I do not know,” Red snapped again, putting her empty mug at her feet. “It matters not.”

“And why the gloves?” Josiah asked. Bethral sucked in a breath as he continued. “Why wear—”

“You’ve given of your house and food, Josiah,” Bethral interrupted him firmly. “We thank you.”