The Burning Stone (Crown of Stars 3)

Was that the heat of the fire searing his face, or his own shame?

When she saw that he would not reply, she shrugged and busied herself tallying the provisions that remained to them: three hard black loaves, five strips of dried meat, two pouches of beans and withered peas, a hand-sized block of salt, and turnips that had a rancid smell.

“You’ve never told me your name,” he said, in a burst of anger. “You know mine. I offered it when we met. But you’ve never given me yours in exchange.”

She had a way of smiling that displayed threat as much as amusement. “In exchange for what?”

“My service!”

“No. That you gave in exchange for your life, which I saved from the one you call Bulkezu.” She hoisted one of the leather bottles looted from the burned village, the last that still held hard cider. Unstoppering it, she poured a little on her hand and lapped it up, made a face, but she took a draught anyway and passed the bottle on to Zacharias. The backwash of its heady flavor made him light-headed and bold.

“It’s true I have nothing to offer you except—” His gaze lit on her skin skirt, and he shuddered, went on. “—except my knowledge of the Wendish people. That’s worth nothing to you, since you’ve traveled among them before, so it seems. But it would be simple kindness to offer me your name, after we have traveled so far together.”

“Kindness? What is kindness?”

“It is the custom of my people to exchange names,” he said finally. It angered him that she held more of him than he did of her. But they could never be equals, no matter what.

The woman put all the provisions back in the pouches, keeping out only one loaf, which she broke to show a moist, thick, dark interior. She tried it, nodded, and broke the loaf into equal portions, handing one to Zacharias, then sat back on her heels as she chewed. Zacharias eased the second squirrel off the spit and they ate in silence while the fire guttered and sank to coals.

e listened.

Slowly their voices came clear, or perhaps only the ones that had traveled with them had modulated their tone enough that he could now begin to understand them.

“Where are we?” he whispered.

But they only answered. “Spring.”

They were very excited, clustering close, shying off, always coming back. They circled round in a dance that was not a dance, half seen against night and blazing stars.

Suddenly it all became clear, not in words precisely but in the way they fluttered in and out, venturing to touch Liath but frightened of something about her, cautious, yet curious, pulled by that curiosity in the same way that the servant had hovered around the dead mule. They were attracted to something never before experienced and strange to them, who were not formed of earth.

He laughed with a sudden wild happiness and pulled Liath against him to whisper in her ear.

“They say you’re carrying a child.”

4

ZACHARIAS poked at the skinned and spitted squirrels and watched clear fluid dribble down. “We can eat.”

This night they had made camp beside a stream, within the shelter of trees grown up among a tumble of boulders: shelter, defense, and water. For the first time in days, she had allowed Zacharias to make a fire while she snared squirrels. They had seen no sign of Quman raiders since the burned village, uncounted days ago. Once, as a churchman, he had kept track of the days and always known which saint’s praise to sing at Prime and Vespers. Now he watched the sun rise and set, that was all. Today had been a day like any other summer’s day, made more pleasant because he had not yet been killed and beheaded by his enemies.

She crouched beside him and took the larger portion of the first squirrel, as she always did. He did not begrudge it to her. “You are always looking over your back,” she observed. “Are you a prince among your people that the Quman should pursue you so? You do not seem like a prince to me.”

“I am a freeholder’s son and grandson,” he said proudly, “not a lord.”

“Then why do the Quman want you?”

“Among the Quman I was a slave, but I publicly mocked the war leader of the clan who owned me, the one called Bulkezu. I mocked him in front of the begh—the chieftain—of a neighboring tribe, in front of his wives and daughters. Bad enough for a man to do it, but for me—Bulkezu cannot let the insult go unavenged.”

She licked her fingers and sat back on her haunches. “You are not a man?” Fat dripped from the cooking meat and sizzled on the coals beneath. He did not answer, “Ah,” she said suddenly. “You are missing the man-thing. The man part. I do not know what it is called in this language.”

Was that the heat of the fire searing his face, or his own shame?

When she saw that he would not reply, she shrugged and busied herself tallying the provisions that remained to them: three hard black loaves, five strips of dried meat, two pouches of beans and withered peas, a hand-sized block of salt, and turnips that had a rancid smell.

“You’ve never told me your name,” he said, in a burst of anger. “You know mine. I offered it when we met. But you’ve never given me yours in exchange.”

She had a way of smiling that displayed threat as much as amusement. “In exchange for what?”