The Gathering Storm (Crown of Stars 5)

“Then he cannot hunt griffin feathers and sorcerous allies in the east, can he? He will have to choose. One, or the other.”

All at once, Zacharias realized that he lay not against a sack but against a body, limp and small. It was Blessing, unconscious and, presumably, tied up as he was. With some effort, he wiggled his arms until his hands touched her body. His searching hands brushed her fingers.

She responded. Her small hands, tied back as his were, clenched hard, tightening over his thumb. She squeezed again, a signal, and he squeezed back, then traced the pattern of the rope binding her wrists, seeking the knot. She made no sound, nor did she move except for that brief, fierce, silent communication.

The rope was wet and swollen, impossible to unknot especially at the angle he was forced to work on it. He despaired. He would be thrown to the fish, and she carried off to Darre as a hostage. Prince Sanglant had fought so hard to protect her, but it appeared that, after all, the sorcerers would win.

A ghost of a breeze tickled his nose, making him sniffle and snort.

“What’s that?” asked Marcus, standing.

Footsteps sounded on the deck above them and a voice called down through the hatch in clear but understandable Aostan. “Your man has returned, my lord cleric. He’s brought a dozen likely looking slaves, half of them Quman by the looks of them and the rest foreign creatures from the east. It isn’t often we get a coffle of only male slaves. Most buyers prefer women. Shall we quarter them below, or on deck?”

No breeze could penetrate belowdecks, but a breeze played around him nonetheless. As Marcus moved away to the ladder, Blessing whispered.

“Yes. Free me.”

Of course he would try, but he could not work miracles! God had forsaken him, or he had forsaken God….

She was not talking to him. She was talking to the spirit of air that played around his head. A cool touch swirled around his fingers. The strands of rope that bound her hands softened and parted, unraveling like so much rhetted flax. She flexed her wrists, and the rope fell away, leaving her free.

“Yes.” Her voice had no more force than the stirring of a breeze against the skin. “Him, too.”

His bonds loosened and he slipped swollen hands forward to his chest. A sensation as of a thousand pricking needles infested his palms and fingers as the blood and humors rushed back.

Free.

But still trapped.

Chains rattled above.

“Anna says you’re a sinner and an unbeliever,” murmured Blessing under cover of the thump and scrape of chains on the ladder as slaves descended into the hold. “Are you?”

“I don’t know what I believe, Your Highness,” he whispered. “But I think we had better consider how to escape rather than whether I’m apostate.”

“But what about your soul? Won’t you be cast into the Abyss? Doesn’t that scare you?”

“Nay, Your Highness. I have seen a vision of the cosmos. I am not afraid.”

“Aren’t you? Everyone says you’re a coward.” She said it without malice.

He twisted to see. The hold lay low and long, its far end shrouded in gloom. The cleric stood with his back to his prisoners, directing his own servant as that man prodded the slaves forward into the hold. Poor suffering souls. Zacharias wondered briefly what horrible fate awaited them at the hands of their new master.

Wolfhere stood in profile, but he turned his head and noticed Zacharias’ movement. Lamp glow and shadow mixed on his face, making his expression impossible to read. He did not move.

“Be ready,” whispered Blessing.

A shout rang out from the coffled slaves. Chains clattered to the floor as iron manacles fell open. Blessing leaped to her feet.

“Follow me!” she shouted, jumping for the ladder. “You are free!”

Zacharias found himself on his feet before he realized he meant to obey. The slaves hesitated, dumbfounded or in a stupor. How long had they been captives, heeding the call of the whip, the binding of shackles?

Marcus spun around as Blessing reached the ladder. He leaped forward to grab the girl around the legs. Zacharias charged past the motionless Wolfhere and slammed into the small cleric. All three—cleric, frater, and child—fell sprawling on the floor. One of the slaves bolted, striking down Marcus’ servant, and in his wake the others erupted into motion. Trying to untangle himself from Marcus, who lay on top of him, Zacharias saw only a blur of bodies before a figure paused beside him, legs wreathed in the tattoos marking those Quman who had chosen the shaman’s path.

“The child,” said the man in a recognizable Quman dialect. “The child with magic saves us.”

The sounds of fighting carried down from above decks. Marcus swore, kicking, as the slave tugged Blessing free. She shrieked with triumph and rushed up the ladder as effortlessly as a spider. Zacharias fought to his knees, lunged for the ladder as the last of the slaves made their escape.