Elliott, Kate - Crown of Stars 3 - The Burning Stone

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Book Information:
Genre: High/Epic Fantasy
Author: Kate Elliott
Name: The Burning Stone
Series: Volume Three of The Crown of Stars
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KATE ELLIOT
**VOLUME Three of
CROWN OF STARS**
The Burning Stone
PROLOGUE
HE had ran this far without being caught, but he knew his Quman master
still followed him. Convulsive shudders shook him where he huddled in the brush
that crowded a stream. His robes were still damp. Yesterday he had eluded them
by swimming a river, but they hadn't given up. Prince Bulkezu would never allow
a slave to taunt him publicly and then run free..
At last he calmed himself enough to listen to the lazy flow of water and to
the wind rustling through leaves. Across the stream a pair of thrushes with
spotted breasts stepped into view, plump and assertive. Ai, God he was starving.
The birds fluttered away as if they had gleaned his thoughts instead of
insects. He dipped a hand in the water, sipped; then, seduced by its cold bite, he
gulped down handfuls of it until his skin ached. By his knee a mat of dead leaves
made a hummock. He turned it up and with the economy of long practice
scooped up a mass of grubs and popped them in his mouth. Briefly he felt their
writhing, but he had learned to swallow fast.
He coughed, hacking, wanting to vomit. He was a savage, to eat so. But
what had the Quman left him? They had mocked him for his preaching, and
therefore had taken his book and his freedom. They had mocked him for his
robes, his clean-shaven chin, and his proud defense of Lady and Lord and the
Circle of Unity between female and male, and therefore treated him as they did
their own female slaves or any man they considered sheath instead of sword—
with such indignity that he winced to recall it now. And they had done worse, far
far worse, and laughed as they did it; it had been sport to them, to make a man
into a woman in truth, an act they considered the second worst insult that could
be given to a man. Ai, God! It had not been insult but pain and infection that had
almost caused him to die.
But that was all over now. He had run before they took away his tongue,
which truly mattered more to him than the other.
Water eddied along the bank. A hawk's piercing cry made him start. He
had rested long enough. Cautiously he eased free of the brush, forded the
stream, and fell into the steady lope that he used to cover ground. He was so
tired. But west lay the land out of which he had walked in pride so many years
ago that he had lost count: five or seven or nine. He meant to return there, or
die. He would not remain a Quman slave any longer.
Dusk came. The waxing moon gave him enough light to see by as he
walked on, a shadow among shadows on the colorless plain. Stars wheeled
above, and he kept to a westerly course by keeping the pole star to his right.
Very late, a spark of light wavering on the gloomy landscape caught his
attention. He cursed under his breath. Had the war-band caught and passed him,
and did they now wait as a spider waits for the fly to land? But that was not
proud Bulkezu's way. Bulkezu was honorable in the way of his people—if that
could be called honor—but he was also like a bull when it came to problems: he
had no subtlety at all. Strength and prowess had always served him well enough.
No, this was someone—or something—else.
He circled in, creeping, until in the gray predawn light he saw the hulking
shapes of standing stones at the height of a rise, alone out here on the plain as
though a giant had once stridden by and placed them there carelessly, a trifle
now forgotten. His own people called such stone circles "crowns," and this fire
shone from within the crown. He knew then it was no Quman campsite—they
were far too superstitious to venture into such a haunted place.
He crept closer on his hands and knees. Grass pricked his hands. The moon
set as the first faint wash of light spread along the eastern horizon. The fire
blazed higher and yet higher until his eyes stung from its glare. When he came
to the nearest stone, he hid behind its bulk and peeked around.
That harsh glare was no campfire.
Within the ring of stones stood a smaller upright stone, no taller or thicker
than a man. And it burned.
Stone could not burn.
Reflexively, he touched the wooden Circle of Unity he still wore. He would
have prayed, but the Quman had taken his faith together with so much else.
A woman crouched beside . She had the well-rounded curves of a creature
that eats as much as it wants, and the sleek power of a predator, muscular and
quick. Her hair had the same color as the height of flame that cast a net of fire
into the empty air. Her skin, too, wore a golden-bronze gilding, a sheen of flame,
and she wore necklaces that glittered and sparked under the light of that
unearthly fire.
Witchfire.
She swayed, rocking from heel to heel as she chanted in a low voice.
The stone flared so brightly that his eyes teared, but he could not look
away. He
saw
through as through a gateway, saw another country,
heard
it, a
place more shadow than real, as faint as the spirit world his ancient grandmother
had told tales about but with the sudden gleam of color, bright feathers, white
shells, a trail of dun-colored earth, a sharp whistle like that of a bird.
Then the vision vanished, and the stone snuffed out as though a blanket of
earth thrown on the fire had smothered it.
Stone and fire both were utterly
gone.
A moment later the lick and spit of everyday flame flowered into life. The
woman fed a common campfire with dried dung and twigs. As soon as it burned
briskly, she made a clucking sound with her tongue, stood, and turned to face
him.
Ai, Lord! She wore leather sandals, bound by straps that wound up her
calves, and a supple skirt sewn of pale leather that had been sliced off raggedly
at knee length. And nothing else, unless one could count as clothing her wealth
of necklaces. Made of gold and beads, they draped thickly enough that they
almost covered her breasts—until she shifted. A witch, indeed.
She did not look human. In her right hand she held a spear tipped' with an
obsidian point.
"Come," she said in the Wendish tongue.
It had been so long since he had heard the language of his own people
that at first he did not recognize what he heard.
"Come," she repeated. "Do you understand this tongue?" She tried again,
speaking a word he did not know.
His knees ached as he straightened up. He shuffled forward slowly, ready
to bolt, but she only watched him. A double stripe of red paint like a savage's
tattoo ran from the back of her left hand up around the curve of her elbow, all
the way to her shoulder. She wore no curved felt hat on her head, as Quman
women did, nor did she cover her hair with a shawl, as Wendish women were
accustomed to do. Only leather strips decorated with beads bound her hair back
from her face. A single bright feather trailed down behind, half hidden. The
plume shone with such a pure, uncanny green that it seemed to be feathered
with slivers from an emerald.
"Come forward," she repeated in Wendish. "What are you?"
"I am a man," he said hoarsely, then wondered bitterly if he could name
himself such now.
"You are of the Wendish kin."
"I am of the Wendish kin." He was shocked to find how hard; it was to
speak out loud the language he had been forbidden to j speak among the
Quman. "I am called—" He broke off.
Dog, worm, slave-girl,
and
piece-of-dung
were the names given him among the Quman, and there had been little
difference in meaning between the four. But he had escaped the Quman. "I—I
was once called by the name Zacharias, son of Elseva and Volu-sianus."
"What are you to be called now?"
He blinked. "My name has not changed."
"All names change, as all things change. But I have seen among the
human kin that you are blind to this truth."
To the east, the rim of sun pierced the horizon, and he had to shade his
eyes. "What are you?" he whispered.
Wind had risen with the dawning of day.
But it was not wind. It sang in the air like the whirring of wings, and the
sound of it tore the breath out of his chest. He tried to make a noise, to warn
her, but the cry lodged in his throat. She watched him, unblinking. She was
alone, as good as unarmed with only a spear to protect her; he knew with what
disrespect the Quman treated women who were not their own kin.
"Run!" he croaked, to make her understand.
He spun, slammed up against stone, and swayed there, stunned. The
towering stone block hid him from view. He could still flee, yet wasn't it too late
once you could hear their wings spinning and humming in the air? Like the
griffins who stalked the deep grass, the Quman warriors took their prey with
lightning swiftness and no warning but for that bodiless humming vibrating in the
air, the sound of their passage.
He had learned to mark their number by the sound: at least a dozen, not
more than twenty. Singing above the rest ran the liquid iron thrum of true griffin
wings.
He began, horribly, to weep with fear. The Quman had said, "like a
woman"; his own people would say, "like a coward and unbeliever," one afflicted
with weakness. But he was so tired, and he
was
weak. If he had been strong, he
would have embraced martyrdom for the greater glory of God, but he was too
afraid. He had chosen weakness and life. That was why They had forsaken him.
She shifted to gaze east through the portal made by standing stones and
lintel. He was so shocked by her lack of fear that he turned—and saw.
They rode with their wings scattering the light behind them and the whir of
their feathers drowning even the pounding of their horses' hooves. Their wings
streamed and spun and hummed and vibrated. Once he had thought them real
wings, but he knew better now: They were feathers attached by wire to wooden
frames riveted to the body of their armored coats. That armor had a scaly gleam,
strips of metal sewn onto stiff leather coats. On a standard fixed to a spear they
bore the mark of the Pechanek clan: the rake of a snow leopard's claw. The
Quman had many tribes. This one he knew well, to his sorrow.
At the fore rode a rider whose wings shone with the hard iron fletching of
griffin feathers. Like the others he wore a metal visor shaped and forged into the
likeness of a face, blank and intimidating, but Zacharias did not need to see his
face to know who it was.
Bulkezu.
The name struck at his heart like a deathblow.
A band of fifteen riders approached the ring of stones, slowing now, the
hum of their wings abating. From a prudent distance they examined the stone
circle and split up to scout its perimeter and assess the stone portals, the lay of
the ground, and the strength of its defenders. The horses shied at first, made
skittish by the great hulking stones or by the shadow of night that still lingered
inside the ring, but taking courage from their masters, they settled and agreed to
move in closer.
The woman braced herself at the eastern portal with her spear in one
hand. She showed no fear as she waited. The riders called out to each other.
Their words were torn away on a wind Zacharias could not feel on his skin—
audible but so distant that he could make out no meaning to what they shouted
to each other, as though the sound came to him through water.
At once the whirring began again as all the riders kicked into a gallop and
charged, some from the left, some from the right, some from the other side of
the circle. Wings hummed; hooves pounded; otherwise they came silently except
for the creak and slap of their armored coats against the wooden saddles.
With the rising sun bright in his eyes, Zacharias saw Bulkezu as iron wings
and iron face and gleaming strips of iron armor. The two feathers stuck on either
side of his helmet flashed white and brown. The griffin feathers fletched in the
curving wooden wings that were fastened to his back shone with a deadly iron
gleam. Where the ground leveled off, just beyond the eastern portal, he galloped
toward the waiting woman, lowering his spear.
Zacharias hissed out a breath, but he did not act. He already knew he was
a coward and a weakling. He could not stand boldly against the man who had
first mocked him, then violated him, and then wielded the knife.
He could not stand boldly—but he watched, at first numb and then with a
surge of fierce longing for the woman who waited without flinching. With an
imperceptible movement she opened her fingers. From within her uncurling hand
mist swirled into being to engulf the world beyond. Only the air within the stone
circle remained untouched, tinted with a vague blue haze. An unearthly fog
swallowed the world beyond the stones.
All sound dissolved into that dampening fog, the whir and hum of spinning
feathers, the approach of the horses, the distant skirl of wind through grass.
With a sudden sharp exclamation, the woman leaped to one side. A horse
loomed, became solid as griffin feathers cut a burning path through the mist. In
stillness the horse jumped out of the fog and galloped into the ring of stones,
hooves clattering on pebbles. Bulkezu had to duck so that his wings did not
strike the lintel stone above.
The other riders could be seen as fleeting figures searching for a portal to
enter, yet they were no more substantial than fish swimming beneath the cloudy
surface of a pond. They could
not leave their fog-enshrouded world. They could i circle.
The war leader quickly scanned the interior of the oiuiie ring, but the
woman had vanished. As he turned his horse in a tight circle the griffin feathers
left sparks behind them in the blue haze. Of all things in this place, those
feathers alone seemed immune to the witchcraft that had been brought to life.
"Dog!" he called, seeing Zacharias through the haze. "Crawling one! You
have not escaped me!" He nudged his horse forward, tucked his spear between
leg and horse's belly, and drew his sword. Zacharias shrank back, trapped
against the stone. He had nowhere to run.
But the horse had taken no more than three steps when the earth began to
shake and the huge stones groaned and creaked and seemed to swing wildly
from side to side, although Zacharias felt nothing at his own back except solid,
unmoving stone. Bulkezu's horse stumbled to its knees, neighing in terror, and
Bulkezu himself was thrown. Stones swayed as if whatever spell had set them in
place was at this moment unweaving itself, and Zacharias shrieked, flinging up
his hands to protect himself, although mere flesh could not protect him against
stone.
This was more than witchcraft.
The woman appeared again in the center of the circle, surefooted and
unshaken by the earth's tremors except for the flashing shimmer and sway of
beads dangling among her gold necklaces. Bulkezu struggled up from his hands
and knees behind her. Zacharias tried to call a warning, but the breath sucked
into his lungs congealed there and he could only gasp and choke and point.
With a grunt, the woman swung around to bring the flat of the obsidian
blade down between the two arched spines of Bulkezu's wings, onto his head.
The blow laid him flat on his stomach, and his helmet canted awkwardly to one
side, almost torn off. Blood swelled from the base of his skull to mat his black
hair. The shaking subsided, but the haze remained. Outside the circle the other
riders flitted by this portal and that, still searching for an entrance.
The woman stepped closer to Bulkezu—that fast he rolled to one side and
jerked himself up and back around in a half turn. The tips of his deadly wings
hissed through the air to slice her across the abdomen and through her sheath of
necklaces. Beads of jade and turquoise, pellets of gold, rained onto the ground
around her. He leaped backward, up to his feet, sword held before him. His
helmet he slapped down, and again when it would not settle right around his
eyes, and then, with an angry grunt, he wrenched it off and flung it to one side
so that, finally, his face was exposed—proud and handsome in the Quman way.
Ugly red welts bloomed on the woman's bronze-dark skin. Blood welled
from the cuts and snaked down in vermilion beads to lodge in the waistband of
her skirt.
They faced off, each wounded, each warrior now. In this way they
measured each the other: the Quman warrior made fearsome by the glint of the
griffin feathers bound into the wings at his back—only a man who had killed a
griffin could wear such wings; and the foreign woman, not of human breed or
birthing, with her bronze cast of skin and hair, her own blood seeping unheeded
down her belly. Her gaze on her opponent was as unyielding as the stone behind
Zacharias' back.
Bulkezu sprang forward, batting at the spear with his sword and closing the
distance between them. Zacharias gasped aloud. But her spear circled around
Bulkezu's blow, and as she stepped aside, she caught him with the haft, a strike
behind his knee. She was neither frail nor slender; the force of her blow dropped
him to his knees, but he sat down hard, locking the haft beneath him, and
lashed out with his sword. She leaped back, abandoning the spear. But as he
rose to pursue her, the spear
moved.
Like a serpent come to life, it twined
around his legs. He fell, catching himself on his hands, but where his sword
struck earth, it sank into the dirt as if hidden claws dragged it down into the
depths. No matter how hard he scrabbled, he could not grab it.
She raised her arms again, chest naked now except for a single strand of
gold that curved along the swell of a breast. The shaking resumed, more violent
than before. The great lintel stones rocked and teetered and began to slide.
Wind battered Zacharias to his knees. With his dagger Bulkezu hacked at the
magicked spear wound around his legs, but to no avail. With each cut it merely
grew spurs and flourishes, and these spurs sprouted roots that embedded
themselves into the ground until its many-limbed net pinned his calves to the dirt
and twined up his arms. In frustration he threw his dagger at her. With her arms
outstretched and blood trickling down her breasts to pool in the folds of her skirt,
she merely stared.
But the dagger slowed—or was that a trick of the haze and the trembling
earth? As the shaking subsided, the dagger froze, suspended in the air.
Impossible. Zacharias staggered up to his feet, leaning on the stone for
strength.
What was she?
"Damn you, witch, what do you want?" cried Bulkezu, but she did not
reply; she did not appear to understand him, and neither did she appear to care.
In the seething fog beyond the stone circle, riders still quested back and forth
and around the ring of stones for some way to get inside.
Bulkezu struggled on the ground but could not free himself from the
rootlike tangle that bound him hand and foot. His sword had vanished into the
earth. He looked furious. Brought down by a mere woman, and one armed with
the most primitive of weapons! But Bulkezu's hatred could not be more tangible
than Zacharias' exultation.
Zacharias actually crowed, the rooster's call. He had lived to see Bulkezu
brought low.
"Sorcery is a weapon more powerful than a blade," Zacharias cried in the
tongue of the Quman people. "What matter that she is a mere woman and you
are a strong warrior? What matter that the tribes sing your praises because you
slew a griffin, the first warrior in a generation to do so? You may be adept at
war, mighty one, but she is armed with something more dangerous than brute
strength. Her sorcery binds you. You can only kill her, never compel her to your
will as she does to you now. And the truth is, you can't kill her either."
"Dogs can bark, but it is all noise," snapped Bulkezu without looking at him.
He did not look away from his opponent. "As for you, you who are only a
woman, you have made an enemy this day."
But the woman only smiled, as if she found his threats so insignificant as to
be laughable. At that moment Zacharias fell in love with her—or with what she
was, and what she had: She was no coward, and her gods walked with her.
What matter that he no longer possessed that portion of a man that some
considered to be all the measure of manhood? Hadn't the blessed Daisan himself
said that the peace of true love lasts until the end of days, and has nothing to do
with carnal desire? She was everything he was not.
"I beg you," he called hoarsely in the Wendish tongue, "let me serve you
so that I may teach myself strength."
She looked at him, then turned away to catch the horse and hobble it. To
one side of the fire lay a basket and a quiver. She unearthed bow and arrows,
and with some care she approached the furious warrior and plucked a griffin's
feather from the wooden frame which, like two shepherd's crooks, arched over'
his head. Her fingers bled at once, and profusely, but she only licked her fingers
and murmured words, like a prayer, under her breath.
"Nay, I beg you, let me do it." Zacharias stumbled forward as Bulkezu
cursed out loud. "Let me do it. For he has shamed me, and in this way I may
return shame upon him threefold."
She stepped back to regard him with narrowed eyes. He had never seen
eyes of such green before, fathomless, as luminous as polished jade. Measuring
him, she came to a decision. Before he could flinch back, she nicked his left ear
with her obsidian knife, and when he yelped in surprise, she licked welling blood
from his skin—and then handed him the knife and turned her back on him as she
would on a trusted servant.
"Strike now!" cried Bulkezu, "and I will give you an honorable position
among my slaves!"
"There is no honor among slaves. You are no longer my master!"
"Do you not recognize what she is?
Ashioi,
the tribe of gold. The ones who
vanished from the bones of earth."
A chill from the stones seeped into Zacharias' skin and soaked through to
his bones. It all made sense now. She had come from the spirit world. She was
one of the Aoi, the Lost Ones.
Bulkezu grunted, still struggling. Only a man who never ceased striving
could stalk and slay a griffin. "I will lay a blood-price on her. My riders will track
you, and kill her, and bring you back to grovel at my feet."
Zacharias laughed, and at once his fear sloughed off, a trifle compared to
the prospect of victory over the man who had humiliated him. "You bargain and
then threaten, Bulkezu, mightiest son of the Pechanek clan. But what you took
from me is nothing to what I am about to take from you, because the flesh is
given by the god to all men but your prowess and reputation can never be
returned once they are taken from you. And by a|
dog, a piece-of-dung who was used as you use slave women!" He reached
for a feather.
"I curse you! You will never be more than a slave, and always a worm! And
I will kill you! I swear this on Tarkan's bones!"
Like an echo of the threat, the iron-hard feathers sliced Zacharias' skin with
each least touch until his palms and fingers were a mass of seeping cuts. Blood
smeared his hands and made them slick while Bulkezu struggled and cursed but
could not free himself from his bindings as Zacharias denuded his wings.
He took everything, all but one, and when he was finished, his hands bled
and his heart rejoiced. "Kill him now!" he cried.
"His blood will slow me down." She said it without emotion, and by that he
understood there was no possible argument. "Nor will you touch him," she
added. "If you will serve me, then you will serve my cause and not your own."
She grasped Zacharias' hands and licked them clean of blood, then let him
go and indicated that he should stow most of the feathers in the quiver. She
fletched several of her stone-tipped arrows with griffin feathers, afterward
hefting them in her hand, testing their weight and balance. When she was
satisfied, she went to the eastern portal and began to shoot, one by one, the
riders who circled her sanctuary. At once they sprayed a killing rain of arrows
back into the stones. She had downed four of them before they truly understood
that although neither they nor their arrows could get into the circle, her arrows
could come out. At last they retreated out of arrowshot with their wounded. As
from a great distance Zacharias saw them examine the arrows and exclaim over
them while one rider galloped away eastward.
"My tribe will come soon with more warriors," said Bulkezu, even though he
knew by now that the woman did not understand his words. He had recovered
himself and spoke without malice but with the certainty of a man who has won
many battles and knows he will win more. "Then you will be helpless, even with
my feathers."
"And you will be helpless without them!" cried Zacharias.
"I can kill another griffin. In your heart, crawling one, you will never be
more than a worm."
"No," whispered Zacharias, but in his heart he knew it was true. Once he
had been a man in the only way that truly counted: He had held to his vows. But
he had forsaken his vows when God had forsaken him.
Bulkezu glanced toward the woman. He could move his neck and
shoulders, wiggle a bit to ease the weight on his knees and hands, but he was
otherwise pinned to earth, no matter how he tried to force or twist his way free
of her spell. "I will raise an army, and when I have, I will burn every village in
my path until I stand with your throat under my heel and her head in my hands."
Zacharias shuddered. But he had come too far to let fear destroy him.
Against all hope he was a free man again, bound by his own will into the service
of another. He might be a worm in his heart, but hearts could change.
She
had
said that all things change.
"Come, you who were once called Zacharias-son-of-Elseva-and-
Volusianus." She had stepped back from the edge of the stone circle and hoisted
two baskets woven of reeds and slung them from the ends of Bulkezu's spear,
then balanced and bound the spear as a pole over the saddle. To the saddle she
tied three pale skin pouches, odd looking things that each had five distended
fingers probing out from the bottom as if they had been fashioned from a cow's
misshapen udder or a bloated, boneless hand. She tossed dirt over the fire. She
whistled tunelessly and wind rose, blowing the fog outside the sanctuary of the
stone circle into tufts of a wicked, cutting gale. The distant riders retreated
farther away.
Bulkezu strained against the spear with its many rootling arms that clasped
him to the earth, but he still could not shift at all, The remaining griffin feather
hissed and fluttered in the rising wind. While she tested the harness, ignoring
him, he tested his shoulders to see how far he could slide his wings out, or if he
could wedge himself down far enough to cut at the magicked staff with the iron
edge of that last feather. "I will have my revenge!"
She took no notice of his threat. Instead, when everything was to her
liking, she returned to the eastern portal to watch. Fog shrouded the land, and in
this fog she—and Zacharias with her—could easily make their escape, concealed
from the eyes and ears of the waiting riders. But how long would they have until
the Quman riders tracked them down?
She turned to smile at him as if, like the spotted thrush, she
had divined his thoughts. Carefully, she wiped drying blood from her
abdomen, then clapped red-streaked hands together and spoke words. A flash of
heat blasted Zacharias' face, and suddenly, as winked back into existence in the
center of the stone circle, he knew that the Aoi woman would not leave this
sanctuary by any earthly road.
The woman regarded him unblinking, as if testing his courage. Bulkezu said
nothing. Zacharias dropped the horse's reins and untied the bedroll behind the
saddle, shook it out to reveal the fine knee-length leather jacket that Quman
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