“Palins?” Bethral asked.
Haya placed a dot to the southeast of the Heart. “And we are here.” Her finger pressed a point just below the Heart of the Plains. “The mountains that circle the Plains are high and vast, but in certain places they are easily crossed.”
“That’s how you raid the surrounding kingdoms,” Ezren said.
Haya nodded. “As far as I know, there are but small trails into your land. But in a few places, like Xy, there are wide valleys that will take you to other lands and cities.”
“How far?” Ezren asked, pointing to the dot that was Palins. “How many miles?”
“Eh?” Haya looked at Bethral.
“How long to get there?” Bethral said.
“I do not know for certain.” Haya shrugged. “Almost a full round of the seasons.”
“A world away,” Ezren said slowly, studying the drying markings on the rough wood.
“To seek out the Warprize would take us past the Heart. I do not think that is wise. So we should head south,” Bethral said. “The most direct path.”
“No. The warrior-priests will expect that,” Haya replied softly. “Go northeast. There is a trade route through the mountains to the cities of Dellison. Those of the mountains will see you through.”
“Dellison shares a border with Soccia,” Bethral said.
“We don’t have much coin,” Ezren pointed out.
“But we have my sword and your stories,” Bethral replied. “We might not travel in the highest style, but we’d get you home.”
“Dellison, to Soccia, to Palins and home.” Ezren shook his head. “Months of travel.”
“But once you are off the Plains, you are safe—or at least safer,” Haya said. “Away from the warrior-priests and their schemes.” She looked at Bethral. “Tell no one of your path. Head south from the camp, then circle to the east and north.”
Bethral reached for the mug of kavage and spilled it on the platform, erasing the crude map. “Thank you for your wisdom, Elder.”
“There is more.” Haya looked at Ezren. “Some of the children”—she paused with a rueful smile—“some of the warriors have asked to quest, to travel with you and see you safely home. I have agreed to their request.”
“The young ones?” Ezren frowned. “Haya, no. They are children—”
“Children that know more about survival then we do,” Bethral said. “At least, under these conditions.”
“They are warriors now,” Haya said. “They have a right to make their own decisions. Normally, the young ones go off to the Heart to join the armies of the warlords once they have been selected. But that is not always the way. They will restore the honor of our tribe by seeing you home. Once that is accomplished, they can seek out the service of a warlord or take some other path. That is their choice.” Haya sighed. “I know you will take a great care for them, even as they care for you.” She stood. “You need to prepare. Bethral, come with me and we will see to the horses.”
“The new warriors will be disappointed that they will miss the celebrations,” Ezren said.
“Little do you know, Storyteller.” Haya chuckled. “They will think themselves in one of your stories, living a great adventure.”
HAYA took Bethral with her to see to a selection of horses. Ezren went to their portion of the tent, to gather up the last of their things.
The cat was spread out on Bethral’s pallet on its side, taking up every inch of space it could. When it spotted him, it half curled onto its back, purring roughly.
“Oh, no,” Ezren snorted, “I reach down to scratch that fat stomach and you bite me. I am not fooled.”
The cat half closed its eyes and increased the intensity of its rumbling.
“We’re going home. You had better stick close, because we are going to be moving fast.” Ezren rattled on, kneeling down to start rolling the bedding. Bethral had given him instructions, and it seemed easy enough.
“Although the Lady knows you are getting fat on the mice here.” He was babbling. He knew very well he was babbling, rattling along, talking to a cat, for the love of the Lady.
They will think themselves in one of your stories, living a great adventure.
Haya’s words came back, haunting him as they echoed in his brain.
Living a great adventure was not a comfortable thing. People suffered in great adventures—died, even. He should know. He’d been in a few “adventures,” hadn’t he? Some, like Bethral, came out unscarred and unchanged. Others . . . he looked at the scars on his wrists. Others were not so lucky.
Not that he wished anyone to be hurt, or to have to go through what he had endured. Still . . .
He chuckled ruefully. He had told those kinds of stories for years, watched his audience suffer with the heroes. But those were not just characters that he had made up in his head. At one time, they had been real people, flesh and blood, flesh that suffered and blood that spilled.
And true enough, heroes suffered in stories. Else of what interest would they be?
The cat lifted its head, as if spotting prey. With a graceful ease, it rose and stalked over by Bethral’s packs, sniffing the area around them.
Ezren frowned as he continued to roll the bedding tight. With any luck, they would ride straight for the mountains with no trouble, no one hurt, no great adventure.
He sighed. Maybe he should go to the Heart.
The cat started pawing at Bethral’s pack, worming its head under the flap, trying to climb inside.
Ezren paused, looking down at the bedroll without really seeing it. Haya and the other warriors had explained the warrior-priests and their arrogance. He’d seen it himself when his attacker had raised the lance against him. He knew of the abuses of power, he’d felt that firsthand when he had been taken and enslaved. The scars on his wrists were a constant reminder of men and women abusing their power.
There didn’t seem to be any correct answer, and no sign from the Gods or the elements that those of the Plains worshipped. He had made a decision, and he’d abide by it. If the warrior-priests respected it as Wild Winds had, maybe their journey home would be a peaceful one.
Ezren finished the roll and looked about for the leather ties that Bethral had said were by her pallet. There was no sign of them. The cat had probably dragged them off someplace. Or perhaps there were more in her pack.
“Here, let’s see if your prey is in here.” Ezren reached over and started to empty the pack, piling the contents on Bethral’s pallet.
No mouse. The cat pawed around the various items as he worked, then pounced on a bundle of leather in the middle of the heap.
“Ah.” Ezren picked out the cluster of leather strips and started to return the other items to the pack. “Not the neatest job, but everything will at least be in the bag.” He glanced at the cat. “Now what is that you are playing with?”
The leather bundle lay open, and there, in the middle of a ragged bit of cloth, lay a dagger with a horn handle and a blade of stone.
The sacrifice blade.
The blade used to sacrifi ce him.
FOURTEEN
A vision flashed before Ezren Storyteller’s eyes.
They had him, fi ve warriors, one holding each leg and arm and one gripping his collar. They dragged him, screaming, toward the altar and heaved him up as if he was nothing more than a pig to a slaughter table.
Another moved up, a robed figure with dark hair and eyes as cold as Ezren had ever seen during his slavery. The mage held a dagger with a blade as black as night.
The warriors stretched him out; his spine cracked as they pulled. Ezren’s breath came fast as he gasped out every curse and insult he could think of, unable to stop this horror, unable to—he looked away—
—and saw Red Gloves, in tattered gambeson, her face fi lled with rage and a rusted, jagged shard of a sword in her hand. She was running toward them with deadly intent.
They hadn’t seen her. Surprise was her only advantage. His captors were focused on hi
m, and him alone, and he had to make sure—
Ezren jerked his head around, and stared into the eyes of the mage. The man had the dagger high, ready to strike.
“Damn you,” Ezren shouted. He spat in the man’s face. “Go ahead, foul monster, kill me. Kill me!”
The mage plunged the blade into Ezren’s chest.
SOMETHING bumped Ezren’s ankle, and he looked down; the cat was twining itself around his feet.
Ezren swallowed hard, his mouth as dry as dust. He felt flushed and chilled at the same time, and he sank to the ground and sat for a moment, trying to breathe.
The stone dagger lay there in the cloth and leather as if it had never plunged into his chest.
Red Gloves had told them the rest of the tale. How she’d killed the mage and then each of his men. How she’d pulled the dagger free from his chest and the magic had surged up and out, restoring his life and the lives of their friends.
Ezren remembered awakening to her wide eyes with a sense of heat and power, and looking over to see Bethral lying there, her body tossed aside like a rag doll. Remembered extending his hand, and asking . . . wanting . . .
Ezren swallowed hard.
Lord High Mage Marlon had said that he carried the wild magic within him, and that the dagger was not magical. But Ezren wasn’t sure he believed that.
There was something else . . .
The cat was batting at the bundle of leather strips now, as if it were prey. Ezren closed his eyes and forced himself to remember, to see again what had happened.
They had him, fi ve warriors, one holding each leg and arm and one gripping his collar. They dragged him, and heaved him up as if he was nothing more than a pig to a slaughter table.
No emotion in their eyes, as if they were doing a simple chore.
He saw Red Gloves, in tattered gambeson, her face fi lled with rage and a rusted, jagged shard of a sword in her hand. She was running toward them with deadly intent.
Too late. He had known she could not stop them, known she needed surprise . . .
“Damn you,” Ezren shouted. He spat in the man’s face.
He could see the man’s sharp face and his cold, dead eyes. So cruel, and yet it was as if the soul behind those eyes was frozen in pure ice.
“Go ahead, foul monster, kill me. Kill me!”
The mage plunged the blade into Ezren’s chest.
Ezren opened his eyes, and stared at the leather walls of the tent.
He’d been willing. Willing to die to give her the chance to avenge them. Willing sacrifice, willingly made.
Wild Winds’s voice echoed in Ezren’s head. “Magic was taken from the Plains. Only the blood of the Plains can restore it, in a willing sacrifi ce. Willing blood, willingly spilled.”
Lord of Light and Lady of Laughter, what did it mean?
A rustle at the tent flap was the only warning he got. He looked up, and saw Bethral staring at the dagger.
Her blue eyes took him in with concern. “Did you touch it?”
Ezren shook his head. “No. The cat—”
Bethral knelt, and wrapped the dagger in the cloth and leather. She crammed it into the saddlebag with a sharp thrust. “We’ll talk about this later. Haya is just behind me.” She paused, looking at him. “I . . .” She looked away. “I didn’t pack it. I wouldn’t—”
Ezren drew a breath, caught by the fear now plain in her eyes. “I think,” he whispered, “I remembered—”
Footsteps outside brought them to their feet as Haya pushed aside the flap. “Let’s see if this fits you.”
“Who?” Ezren asked, confused at the sight of the leather armor in her hands. Bethral was already dressed in her plate.
“You, Storyteller.”
DAWN was well past when they gathered before the tent with horses, remounts, and gear.
The rite had ended, and the new warriors had emerged into the sun to be greeted by the tribe with loud rejoicing. Wild Winds and the other warrior-priests who had conducted the ceremony had left immediately, destination unknown.
In the distance, sounds of celebration came from the main camp. The drums were signaling the start of the dancing. Bethral looked for disappointment in the young faces around her, but all she saw was fascination.
Rare to have such an audience for horseshoe removal.
Bessie lifted her last hoof at Bethral’s command, then leaned in on her. Bethral grunted, and dug an elbow into the horse’s side. “Not so much, lazy girl.”
Bessie snorted, but straightened a bit. She bore only her normal saddle and saddlebags. The barding had been packed away, distributed between the packhorses. Bethral had tried to gift it to Haya, but she had refused. “Our horses would not tolerate it,” Haya had said. “Besides, I suspect you’ll need it at some point.”
Bethral was afraid she was right. But for now, for a full-out forced run, Bessie didn’t need the weight.
Bethral worked the shoe loose and let it drop to the grass. Gilla picked it up, examining it. “All the horses wear these?”
“Yes,” Bethral said shortly, checking Bessie’s hoof for splits before she released it. “It protects their feet in the cities.”
“But why remove them?” El asked, his brown eyes intent.
“Think,” Seo commanded.
El frowned. Arbon elbowed him in the side. “Tracks.”
“Tracks,” Haya confirmed as Bethral put her tools in her saddlebags. “Now, warriors, to me.”
Bethral watched as the young ones gathered close to Haya, surrounding her. They all wore newer armor and all had been given weapons. The tribe had equipped them with the basics they needed to start their new lives as warriors. Their horses were saddled and packed, and each warrior bore a bow with arrows and a quiver of lances. Anything else they would have to earn from their military service.
Haya lowered her voice, and they leaned in and listened intently, nodding.
Bethral gave the lances another look. They were about four feet in length, with deadly stone tips and feathered ends. The tips were designed to break off in the enemy’s body, causing terrible wounds. She’d like to try her hand at using one, if she had the chance.
She’d thought of going without her plate and arming herself as one of the Plains. But the plate was her best defense . . . and a Plains warrior or a warrior-priest might think twice before attacking a warrior wrapped in metal.
Haya stepped back, away from the young warriors. “So. The tribe has provided you with your needs. Honor the tribe with your deeds and your truths. Mount and away. Seo and I must return to the celebrations before we are missed.”
“Orient me,” Ezren said. “Which way is the Heart?”
Everyone pointed north.
“So Palins is—”
Everyone pointed south.
Ezren muttered something under his breath that sounded like Elvish. Bethral suppressed a smile. Knowing him, it was probably something fairly rude.
Ezren reached for the reins and turned to mount his horse. Bethral took a moment to appreciate the view as he put his foot in the stirrup.
They’d found hardened leather armor for him to wear. It was an older set, and the brown showed signs of use. But the color suited him well, echoing the reddish tint of his hair. And the leathers . . .
Bethral swallowed as they tightened over his buttocks when the Storyteller swung into the saddle.
Haya had insisted that he be armored. Her concern had been more for arrows and lances then for sword fighting. “The armor isn’t as good as Bethral’s,” she’d said, “but it’s better than plain cloth.”
Yes, Haya was right. The leathers had been a fine idea.
Bethral flushed a bit at the fact that she was ogling Ezren, but she could not tear her eyes away as he settled in the saddle. So she caught an odd look in Ezren’s eyes when he gathered the reins and looked to the north.
“Storyteller?” She moved closer, and saw a haunted expression in his green eyes.
“You didn’t tell me he cou
ldn’t ride,” Haya said.
“What?” As Ezren spoke, the odd look disappeared, to be replaced with indignation. “I can ride.”
“The way you sit—” Seo frowned.
“Maybe he could ride double?” Haya asked.
“He’ll be fine.” Bethral swung up in her saddle. “All he has to do is stay in the saddle.”
All eyes turned to her, and Seo nodded in satisfaction. “Now, she can ride a horse.”
“I can ride.” Ezren gave them all a glare. He gathered the reins, clicked his tongue, and urged the horse on.
Nothing happened.
Bethral had to bite her lip hard and look away at the outrage on the Storyteller’s face.
“Double, I think.” Haya confirmed. “With Gilla. She’s the smallest.”
Now Bethral had to look away from Gilla’s face before she laughed right out loud. “Storyteller, lean forward and use your toes under the horses’ front legs, instead of your heels.”
Bethral looked over at Haya. “We use different signals with our animals, that’s all.”
Ezren’s horse moved a few steps, but Haya frowned just the same. “His seat is pathetic.”
“Look here,” Seo asked, “the last warrior to join the party, eh?”
Bethral looked down and saw the cat at Seo’s feet. The cat thumped down on its side and curled up, showing its belly. “Don’t fall for—”
Too late. Seo had already bent down, reaching for the enticing softness. “You’ve grown fat on our mice, Warrior.”
The cat bit his finger.
Seo jerked his hand back, and the cat leapt for the bedroll attached to Bessie’s saddle. It kneaded the cloth for a moment, then sank its claws deep and settled down with a smug look.
“Ha!” Seo shook his head with a rueful look. “I should have known a fierce warrior wouldn’t show its belly that way.”
“Looks are deceiving,” Bethral agreed, relieved to note that the skin of his finger was unbroken. She looked around the group. “Ready?”
The Storyteller was facing north, but he turned to her and nodded. The rest of the warriors gazed at her, their faces eager.