The Gathering Storm (Crown of Stars 5)

o;Is that smoke rising?” she asked, pointing to threads of gray curling up into the sky.

The shaman had no need to narrow her eyes to see what Liath indicated. “Prince Sanglant’s army camps there.”

“He has an army with him? Where did he get an army? How long does it take to travel from here back to Wendar?”

“Many months of travel, I would imagine.”

“He brought an army so far with him? How can that be possible? He must have suffered many losses, of men and animals both.”

“I do not know. It is not a subject we discussed.”

“No,” said Liath, wondering what Li’at’dano had discussed with Sanglant or if she had discussed anything. “We must send word to his people that we are here. Why did he leave his army and go out into the grass alone?”

“To stalk the beast.”

“The griffins?”

“Nay. The man. The killer. But griffins as well. He seeks griffin feathers and sorcerers to combat these ‘Seven Sleepers’ you also have spoken of. He hoped to find both here in the grasslands.”

“Did he?”

“He found you, and he found me and those under my tutelage. As for the griffins—” She gestured toward the sky where one or both of the griffins circled, never content to let Liath out of their sight. “There they are.”

They walked down into the centaurs’ encampment. The layout had a subtle warp to it: the largest of the round felt tents lay in the center while the rest radiated out from it in a spiral pattern. The centaurs traveled light; despite their numbers she counted only twenty tents, ten of which lay in the outermost ring like a protecting corral although it wasn’t apparent that the centaurs wished to keep anyone out, or in, except wolves.

The centaurs had brought a number of their Kerayit allies with them, including the healer who attended Sanglant, and two dozen wagons, most of which were rigged to be pulled by oxen while only two were constructed to allow centaurs themselves to haul the vehicle. Most of the wagons sat along the outermost ring to provide a barrier, but one, gaudily painted and built like a tiny cottage on wheels, sat next to the centralmost tent where Blessing slept and Sanglant healed.

There were horses, too—real horses, but they were kept separate, watched over by both centaurs and their human allies. Nearby, some men sheared sheep, collecting greasy wool in huge leather pouches.

As Liath and the shaman came into camp, centaurs surveyed Liath curiously but did not approach. A few coltish centaur children followed their dams, and half a dozen colts did as well, nudging at the teats of the centaur females. All of the adult centaurs carried bows slung over their backs and a quiver full of arrows.

A trio of human women cooked mutton stew in an iron kettle slung over a campfire; another polished jesses and leather hoods for goshawks while her companion mended a cage; a pair beat wool while next to them others poured boiling water over beaten wool in preparation for making the felt with which they covered their tents and made their rugs and some of their clothing. Five men were engaged in churning milk in a skin vat; the milk bubbled. Its tart scent stung Liath’s nostrils. Suddenly she realized how hungry she was.

“Come,” said the shaman. “There is one more you must meet, because we two will not be enough to defeat those who oppose us.”

“We are allies, then? You have not said so before this.”

“If we were not allies, you would not walk beside me, nor I beside you. I am not foolish enough to set myself and my people against one whom even the griffins fear. You are not like the other humans, Bright One. Your father has given you the form worn by those born into the tribe of humankind, but your heart and your soul had their birth in the heavens.”

“It is true I do not stand easily in either world, here or there. It is hard to choose. I cannot have both.”

“Then you have chosen.” They halted in front of the painted wagon. “Here lives my apprentice. She has met her luck, so now she must remain hidden from the sight of those who are not her family or her slaves. But you, I think, exist beyond such earthly prohibitions. You and she must meet. Go in.”

“I do not wish to break any prohibitions if it means harm may come to another.”

Li’at’dano had a horsey way of laughing, more like a snort. “The harm comes not to Sorgatani but to the one afflicted by her power. I believe you are powerful enough to be safe.”

Liath laughed. A queer sense of exhilaration filled her. “Then I pray you are right.”

She felt no fear, only curiosity, as she mounted the steps that took her up to the high bed of the wagon. Before she could scratch on the door, it opened, sliding sideways along the wall, and she stepped over the threshold as she ducked inside.

She expected to feel closed in, but magic was at work here; it tingled right down to her bones. The inside of the wagon was considerably larger than the outside. There was no other way to account for the spacious chamber that greeted her astonished gaze, which resembled the interior of a round tent. The corners of the space were lost in shadow and possibly did not properly exist. Walls fluttered in the breeze, sagging gently in and out, although she could have sworn that, outside, they were constructed of wood planks. Above, spokes supported the round felt roof, radiating out from a central pole that, set straight up, pierced a smoke hole. Definitely, absolutely, she had seen no central pole sticking out of the wagon’s roof. The heavens glimpsed through the smoke hole had a gray shimmer shot through with shifting sparks, not the hard blue shine of the open sky.

On the left-hand side of the tent sat a boxed-in bed with a chest resting at its foot. A colorful felt blanket ornately decorated with bright animals—a golden phoenix, a silver griffin, a red deer—spread tautly across the mattress, tucked in on all sides. A layer of rugs and two cushions completed the furnishings, because the rest of that left side of the tent lay empty; it was uninhabited. An altar stood in front of her, beyond the center pole, containing a golden cup filled to the brim with oil with the surface lit and burning, a mirror with handle inlaid with gold and pearls, a silver handbell, and a stoppered flask. Beside the altar table squatted a portable stove. Coals glowed within this brazier, and a bronze bucket sat on a slab of rock beside it, filled with ash, smoking slightly. A young woman crouched beside the brazier with an iron ash shovel gripped in her right hand; she stared up at Liath as one might gape at a bull that comes crashing into church in the middle of prayers. A second woman, much older, stood next to a high bench; she paused in the act of pouring a white liquid into cups. She held a beautiful double-spouted silver ewer, the necks, heads, and open mouths of camels forming the spouts.

“You are called Bright One because you shine.”

Liath looked around for the source of the voice.