“Storyteller,” Bethral broke in patiently.
“Sorry.” Ezren shrugged. “Go on.”
“The Warprize is a healer and has offered her skills to all of the people of the Plains. But she has left the Plains, along with her chosen . . .” Bethral paused. “Chosen warrior or warlord, I’m not sure which. Haya and Seo can’t seem to agree. But he is named Keir of the Cat. Xylara is pregnant, and she returned to Xy to bear her child in that land.”
“Understandable, if the child will be the heir to the throne.” Ezren looked at Haya. “I take it that there are no healers here. How far is Xy?”
Bethral asked. Haya shook her head and gestured off into the distance, talking rapidly.
“Well, from what I can tell, it’s probably months,” Bethral said. “Apparently there was a senel—a gathering of the elders—and a fight . . .” Bethral sighed. “She’s going so fast, I can’t follow it all.”
Haya scowled, clearly angry, and made a spitting sound. That caught Seo’s attention, and he glared at her.
“The senel turned into a fight—and they aren’t agreeing who won,” Bethral said, closing her eyes. “But from what I can gather, the Plains is in the midst of a civil war.”
There was the hint of strain in her voice. She was hurting, and Ezren was helpless to stop it. “I am fairly handy with languages. I have learned a smattering of tongues, so that I can read some stories in their original version,” he said. “I need to learn this language as soon as possible.”
Bethral gave him an odd look. “Yes, you do.”
A young girl darted between the workers, carrying a pitcher and some mugs. It was the girl Ezren had seen hidden in the grass. Her brown eyes flashed to his face, then she concentrated on her task. She handed the mugs to Haya and Seo and poured for them. Ezren caught the scent of kav on the air.
The girl turned to him and held out a mug. He took it with a smile, and held it out as she poured. “Please tell me this is kav.”
“It is,” Bethral said. “They call it kavage.”
“How do I say ‘thank you’?”
Bethral told him, and Ezren repeated the phrase to the girl, who looked at him, then glanced at Seo.
Seo gestured, admonishing her.
The girl nodded to Ezren and spoke, then knelt to serve Bethral.
“Her name is Gilla, and she says that you are welcome.”
Ezren took a sip of the hot drink. It was the same as in Edenrich, and yet different somehow. Dark and black, but more bitter than at home. Still, it was kav, thank the Lord and the Lady. He enjoyed it as he watched the tent walls start to rise around them.
Suddenly the girl jumped, dropping the pitcher, and scrambled back. Haya and Seo both reacted as well, pulling daggers.
The cat had appeared by Bethral’s head, a dead mouse in its jaws.
GILLA’S heart leapt in her throat when the animal emerged from the grasses. She dropped the pitcher, pulled her dagger, and retreated, staying between the beast and the Elder. The animal gazed at her with watery yellow eyes, its mottled fur blending with the grasses. The mouse in its mouth was dead. Gilla could see tiny, sharp fangs.
The blonde outlander waved her hands. “It’s all right. It’s a cat. Just a cat. It came with us.”
The cat ignored them, stepping lightly to drop the mouse at Bethral’s side.
“That is not a cat,” Seo exclaimed. “It’s so small, and yet . . .”
The green-eyed man asked something as he rose to his feet. The woman—Bethral of the Horse—answered him.
The animal . . . the cat . . . couldn’t have cared less. It circled around and around, then curled by Bethral’s side. A rough, rasping noise issued from the creature. It seemed rather pleased with itself.
Haya and Seo just stared at the animal.
“They are . . .”—Bethral used a word that Gilla hadn’t heard before—“pets. This one lived in the barn with my horse.” Bethral reached out and petted the animal as she spoke.
Gilla frowned. Those were words she didn’t know. It sounded like the woman thought she owned her horse and the tiny creature. But that couldn’t be right.
Haya and Seo slowly sat down, sheathing their weapons. Gilla followed their example, then retrieved her pitcher. She stood there, staring at the cat.
The cat’s eyes were half-closed as it made the rumbling noise. But Gilla had an odd feeling that it was looking at her, as if—
“Child,” Seo snapped, “don’t gawk like a gurtle. Be about your duties.”
Gilla flushed, and hurried off.
But not without a backward glance at the strangers.
THE tent was up now, and they’d been given a private section divided off from the larger part. They’d been left alone for the time being. Ezren had offered to see to Bessie, in order to give Bethral a bit of privacy while she removed her armor.
Bethral didn’t know how to tell him that two male warriors had assisted her. She had yet to figure out how to explain the ways of the Plains when it came to the sexes. She was going to have to tell him, that was clear, because he would need to know everything he could for his journey back to Palins.
A journey she would not take.
She’d stripped down with the help of the lads and had eased the armor off her injured leg with care. The skin wasn’t broken, but the bone was. She could feel it grate within. The pain seemed to throb with every breath she took. It was bearable if she lay flat—standing or walking was not going to be an option.
The warriors had left her after they’d seen to her needs. For now, she was clean and warm. The spicy scent of gurtle fur rose from the pallet and blankets. Bethral was reminded of the old blanket her mother had on her bed back home. She was as comfortable as she could be, given the circumstances.
Time to think it through.
If a rescue was coming, it would have been there by now. Evelyn had probably lost control of the portal. Bethral knew little of such things, but if Evelyn had been able, she would have opened another portal. So she and Ezren would have to deal with the situation at hand.
A situation that had been caused by one of the Plains. That black man, the one in the courtyard in Edenrich, the one with the ritual scarring. He was a warrior-priest, she was sure of that. He’d answered her when she’d greeted him in the language of the Plains, before Ezren Storyteller had lost control. And the magic’s surge . . . Bethral closed her eyes, picturing the moment. She was certain that the magic had flared because of the warrior-priest. In recognition of the warrior-priest?
Fear coursed through Bethral. This was a harsh land, and its people lived by a rigid code. If the Storyteller lost control of the wild magic . . . if he attacked someone while holding a token . . . they would cut him down immediately.
Bethral swore silently. How to keep him safe?
She glanced at her saddlebags over in the corner. What she did have was packed in there. She’d planned for a night, maybe two, chasing bandits. There was nowhere near what she and the Storyteller would need in the way of supplies in those packs. And all the gold in the world would buy little on the Plains. These people bartered for goods and services. A gold piece was more like to impress the cat than a warrior of the Plains.
Bethral closed her eyes for a moment and cursed again. The idea that Ezren Storyteller, a man of swift intelligence and powerful ideas, would perish on the Plains, far from home and the people who needed him, made her sick to her stomach. There’d been nothing else she could have done—the wild magic had been about to destroy the castle and everyone in it. But now—
Actually, what made her sick wasn’t that he wouldn’t make the Plains his home. It was the idea that he’d be traveling without her. The idea of a journey at his side, sharing . . . whatever he was willing to share, for months . . . made her heart beat faster.
But the harsh reality of the Plains would forbid it, as would her common sense. She knew exactly what to expect.
So—they could trade armor, her weapons. The barding might
not fit a horse of the Plains, but these people were scroungers. There’d be some use for it. If Bessie was to travel for long distances, she’d not need to bear the weight of the barding. Bessie would carry the Storyteller easily. Bethral would just have to find a way to get him an escort.
Bethral reached for her saddlebags, tugging them closer. The pain flared, and she clenched her jaw tight and breathed through the agony. She flipped open the first bag and started to rummage around, giving herself something else to think about.
Her spare tunic and trous, a few dishes. A small packet of bandages and some remedies that she’d learned to carry over the years. She set them aside for later.
A few candle stubs, flint, and tinder. A bundle of leather cords, always useful. Trail rations, dried meat, some grain for Bessie. A small bottle of molasses . . . Bethral thought all of it could be used to barter for what they’d need. She’d crammed more in these bags than she’d thought—some of it she’d forgotten about.
Then her hand brushed a leather bundle at the bottom, and she stilled.
She was fairly certain she hadn’t packed that.
Bethral wet her lips, and pulled the package out slowly. She wished she had some bells. Jingling them would keep anyone from entering this area of the tent. But Ezren Storyteller wouldn’t know what they meant, and he was the one she didn’t want to see this. She’d just have to listen for anyone coming close. This couldn’t be what she thought it was—
She pulled back the leather, and then the ragged cloth within . . . and stared.
It was. It was the odd knife that Red Gloves had pulled from Ezren’s chest that terrible day. They’d been ambushed, dragged into the swamp and sacrificed, one after the other, until Red had shown up and killed the blood mage and his men.
When Red Gloves had pulled the knife from Ezren’s chest, the wild magic had been freed, saving all their lives . . . and cursing Ezren’s.
She hadn’t packed it. Why would she? She’d been bound to deal with bandits for a day, maybe two. She’d had this in her room, deep in a chest, with a vague plan of destroying it when she had time. Certainly never to let the Storyteller see it again, not if she could help it.
Bethral felt the hair on the back of her neck stir.
Her sword-sister Red Gloves had been the Chosen of prophecy, or so Josiah of Athelbryght had believed. Red had felt differently, yet in the end she’d fulfilled that prophecy and then some.
Bethral hadn’t felt any particular calling other than the challenge of helping Red. There’d been no touch of destiny on her shoulders, and she preferred it that way.
But Ezren Silvertongue . . .
The chill moved down her arms, as if seeking the stone blade. She quickly twisted the cloth and the leather around the knife, careful not to touch the blade. She shoved it back into the deepest part of the saddlebag.
Bethral stuffed the bag between her and the tent wall, where none could get to it without her knowing. Then she settled back and pulled the warm blanket up to her neck.
Her mother had always said that the dead followed the living until the longest night of winter, when they went beyond, to the very stars. Bethral settled deeper into her pallet with a sigh. She’d follow the Storyteller for as long as it took to see to his safe return.
Weariness washed over her, and she let her eyes drift closed.
She’d go to the snows, but the stars would have to wait.
EZREN shouldered aside the flap of their portion of the tent, his arms full of rolled horse barding. Gilla was just behind him, her arms filled as well. They’d been surrounded by curious young warriors as they removed the armor from Bessie, who had promptly rolled in the grass, to the enjoyment of the young ones. Ezren had been afraid that the horse would wander off without a fence or hobbles, but Bessie had started grazing near the tent and showed no signs of leaving.
The tent was amazing, huge and sectioned off with walls. He’d never heard of such a thing, but then he’d never seen anything like this place.
The young warriors had been of both sexes and many different skin and hair colors. All were armed to the teeth and bore tattoos on both arms. Ezren had used the time to try to learn names and some words. He’d have to ask Bethral about the names, because they seemed to differ depending on who was asking. Some gave their name, some their name and tribes. There had to be a reason—he’d have to ask Bethral. . . .
When she woke.
She was lying on the pallet, covered with a blanket, her long hair spread out around her head. The lines of pain were smoothed away, leaving her lovely face peaceful and serene. The skin of her neck and shoulders looked so soft . . . Lord of Light—she was naked under that blanket.
Gilla jostled him from behind, her load of armor poking him in the back. Ezren stepped aside, and she darted around him, glancing at Bethral and then at Ezren’s face. She gave him a shy smile, then quietly placed her armload against the tent wall.
Ezren added his pile to hers as Gilla slipped out. He knew she’d be back—there was another armload of the barding outside.
He hated to have to do it, but they couldn’t wait much longer. “Lady Bethral,” he called, his voice rasping in his throat.
Her eyes snapped open and she looked around, almost as if she expected trouble. “Storyteller?”
“I need you to ask Gilla for some things, Lady,” Ezren said softly. “We need to set your leg.”
She stared at him for a moment, then frowned. “Unless you have some skills—”
“I do not,” Ezren said. “But I know that the leg needs to be kept straight. If nothing else, it might ease some of the pain.” He looked over at the saddlebags. “Do you have anything for pain?”
“I’m not sure that I should take anything,” Bethral said.
Ezren stared at her. “We have been offered the shelter of their tents?”
“For now. But it’s still just a respite, Storyteller. If Evelyn had been able to find us, she’d have opened another portal by now. We’re on our own.”
Ezren pulled the saddlebags closer.
Bethral struggled up on her elbow, reaching for the bag. “I’ll get it.” The blanket slipped from her shoulders, and Ezren forced himself to look away as it slid down to reveal the creamy skin of her breast.
“Sorry,” Bethral said. “They’re not much for bedclothes.”
“That has been made clear.” Ezren kept his eyes down. “Some of the young warriors were cavorting by the stream when I watered Bessie. They have different ideas about modesty here.”
“And sex,” Bethral said, retrieving a small wooden box from a saddlebag. “You need to understand that—”
A polite cough, and Gilla entered, her arms full of barding. She gave them both a curious look but said nothing as she set down her bundle.
“Ask her for two stout sticks—and strips of cloth,” Ezren said. “As you say, there is little hope of rescue, so we will do what we can with what we have.”
Bethral spoke to Gilla, who replied quickly and then disappeared.
“We will talk,” Ezren said firmly. “For now, let me give you a dose of something for pain and see what we can do about that leg. Time enough for stories on the morrow.”
“It’s important that you understand their ways,” Bethral said, pushing the saddlebags back behind her. “I don’t want you wearing a weapon.”
“Why not?” Ezren frowned. “Everyone else is.” And he meant everyone. Even the younger children were armed with daggers and swords. “I was taught basic skills. I admit I am not a soldier, but I can handle a blade. Not with your level of skill, admit—”
“You need to stand out. To look different because you are different,” Bethral said. “Just—please trust me on this. These people are dangerous.”
“Dangerous?” He looked around. “How so?”
Bethral’s hand came out from under the blanket and wrapped around his ankle. “This is a thea camp—a nursery. They brought the tent to us—they didn’t take us into the camp. When
you went out to Bessie, even then I was being guarded. Yes, they have offered us hospitality, but if we were to be seen as a threat, they would not hesitate to kill us.”
Gilla coughed, then entered, carrying two wooden swords that were splintered on the edges and a bundle of rags. Haya followed behind, her bright eyes taking it all in.
Ezren carefully folded back the blanket to reveal Bethral’s lower leg. The toes were at an odd angle, just slightly off. The skin was unbroken, and he thanked the Lord of Light silently for such favors.
Bethral had removed a small bottle from the box and taken a sip. She fumbled as she tried to stopper the bottle, and Ezren reached over to aid her. Her fingers felt cold, and she gave him a startled glance at his touch.
“Tell Haya that you are cold,” Ezren said as he put the box back in one of the saddlebags. “We need to make sure you stay warm.”
Bethral took a breath and then nodded, starting to talk. Ezren settled back on his heels and sorted through the strips of cloth. He watched Bethral’s face as Haya spoke. At one point, a faint blush traced over her cheeks as Haya questioned her. Bethral glanced at Ezren, then away, as she responded. “She’s sent for a brazier and more blankets,” Bethral said. “She wants to watch you heal me.”
There was something more there, but now was not the time to press the issue. “You had better explain—”
“I have.” Bethral’s eyelids fluttered. “But she wants to watch anyway.” She forced her eyes open. “There will be a gathering here later—the evening meal. She invites us both, but understands that I can’t attend.”
“That will be fine,” Ezren said. “And I will be careful. But first . . .”
“Yes.” Bethral nodded. “I’m ready.”
“I am not,” Ezren said. “I would feel infinitely better if I knew what I was doing. But—”
He gripped her ankle, pulled and twisted, trying to line up the toes with her knee.
One gasp escaped Bethral, then she clenched her jaw and pressed her lips tight. Ezren set his own teeth and kept trying, pulling and easing the foot to what looked like the proper position. He moved fast once he had it in place, using the cloth strips to bind the swords to her lower leg while trying to keep the foot still.