Bethral looked down at Haya, who also gave her a nod. “Time, and past. Storyteller, when you tell this tale, speak of the honor of the Tribe of the Snake, and those who have dealt with you fairly.”
“I will,” Ezren promised.
“Bethral of the Horse”—Haya stepped close and lowered her voice—“you ride with unblooded warriors. We have offered you one of our most precious resources, the lives of our young.”
“I am their warlord in all things,” Bethral said softly. “Their flesh is my flesh, their blood is my blood.”
“Then ride.” Haya stepped back, and raised her voice for all to hear. “May the elements guide and protect you all.”
Bethral started Bessie off at a trot, and the others followed.
THE sun was high before Wild Winds signaled to the others to make camp in a thicket of alders by a wide stream.
He swung down from his horse and had to clutch at the saddle, willing his legs to support him. The rite had taken much of his strength. He closed his eyes against the weakness. He should have left it up to the younger warrior-priests, he supposed, but he’d always enjoyed bringing the young to adulthood. Something about their eager faces . . .
“Elder,” Snowfall said quietly behind him, “I’ve set your stool in the shade. Take your rest while we set up the tents.”
Wild Winds nodded. He untied his staff from his saddle, and took a step away from the horse. His legs steadied beneath him.
Snowfall moved with him, and he gratefully placed a hand on her shoulder. Gone were the days when he tried to hide his weakness from his fellow warrior-priests. And as for the people of the Plains learning of his illness, well, that prey had fled now, and he’d been the one to spook it, hadn’t he?
Using the staff for support, he eased onto his stool with a sigh.
“Do you wish food, or kavage?” Snowfall asked softly. “There’s none hot, but—”
“I’m well enough,” Wild Winds replied.
Snowfall hesitated. “Your scrying bowl?”
“Not right now,” Wild Winds said. “That can wait until the camp is set and we have eaten.”
“As you say,” Snowfall replied, the slightest of smiles on her lips. “Night Clouds has decided to hunt, and a few of the others are going with him. They spotted a herd of red deer, and there’s odan root along the stream.”
“Fresh meat is always welcome.” Wild Winds set his staff down, careful of the skulls. “Leave me to my thoughts, Snowfall. I am not so far gone as to need a thea once again.”
“As you say,” she answered, and her tone made it clear that she wasn’t pleased. But she did as he had bidden.
So. Wild Winds drew a breath of sweet air and let it out slowly.
There would be no healing at the hands of the Singer of the City. When he’d heard that the token-bearer’s leg had been healed, he’d hoped. But it was not to be. And even if the young man . . . Ezren Storyteller . . . had been willing to release the magic with his death, still it would take time to relearn the old ways. Wild Winds wasn’t such a fool as to think that the magic would instantly gift warrior-priests with powers.
But they were such fools, and they were not listening to an elder sickened and dying.
The sundering of the Council of Elders had torn the Plains in two. Between two camps, as it were. Keir of the Cat sat on the one side, firm in his belief in changes to come and his hatred of the warrior-priests. Antas of the Boar on the other side, firm in his refusal to change the way of the Plains, and his certainty of the right-ness of his actions. Two strong warlords, stubborn and determined.
As Eldest Elder of the Warrior-Priests, Wild Winds was caught between the two, his fellows ranging on both sides. Add to that his . . . what was the Xyian word the Warprize had used?
He frowned. Eh, he was getting old.
Cancer. That was the word.
The coming of a Warprize. The sundering of the Council of Elders. The appearance of the Sacrifice. And his cancer on top of everything else.
He could almost hear the winds laugh as they rustled the leaves in the alders about him.
Wild Winds wasn’t sure he’d done the right thing by letting the Sacrifice—by letting Ezren Storyteller—return to his homeland. Certainly the others would not agree with his decision. But their belief had always been that a warrior-priest would return the magic to the Plains. The magic borne by a city dweller?
And if magic was restored in the midst of all this turmoil, what would that do?
Oh, yes, that was laughter on the wind, all right. He watched as his warriors worked on the camp. Watched the ripple of their muscles under the colored tattoos they all bore. Tattoos they had earned as they had learned the ways of the warrior-priests and had shown that they had the ability to wield magic. What little remained in the land. He’d taught them well, and they were loyal to him. How best to ensure they survived the coming wars?
For there would be wars. Wars between warlords, between the tribes. Wild Winds wasn’t certain there was any way to prevent that. Hadn’t Gathering Storm attacked him at the Council of Elders? Hadn’t Antas shouted orders for the death of the Warprize?
Wild Winds drew in another breath and tried to empty his mind as he released it, seeking guidance from the elements. He closed his eyes and listened, focusing on the now, on the essence of his life and breath, on the moment.
No easy answers flowed to mind. Such was not to be.
The only truth he knew at this moment was that he would not seek the snows. His death would come, that was sure. But as long as he drew breath, he’d try to do what he had sworn to do when he became the Eldest Elder of the Warrior-Priests of the Plains.
He would serve his people.
A slight creak of leathers. Wild Winds opened his eyes and saw young Lightning Strike standing there, his tattoos not yet filled in all the way. The youngest of his band.
“Your tent is ready, Elder. Would you rest until the meal is ready?”
Wild Winds considered. There were those waiting for his report, for news of the Sacrifice. But who could blame a dying old man for needing a nap?
Make them wait. Serve them right. Maybe even wait until the morning.
“Elder?” Lightning Strike repeated.
Wild Winds nodded, and accepted his hand to rise. He’d let them stew in their own juices.
And give the Sacrifice time to flee.
FIFTEEN
“YOU did what?”
Wild Winds arched an eyebrow and said nothing.
Night Clouds had been successful in his hunt and had brought down a fat red deer, a young buck. The meat had been roasted well, and full of juices. Wild Winds had been offered the organs, as his rank required, but he’d declined, leaving first honors to the hunter. He’d managed to eat a few bites of meat and drink the rich broth. His belly was pleasantly full. The tent had been warmed with braziers, the kavage was hot and strong.
Life was good.
Four of the younger warrior-priests sat on the corners of a ceremonial blanket, a wide bowl of water in the center. They were casting their magics, working together to throw the spell that let him speak to the one whose image appeared in the bowl as if standing on the water. They were doing well enough to see him from the top of his head to the soles of his feet. They had learned well, and Wild Winds was proud of them.
Life was very good.
And, he admitted to himself, it was a pleasure to see the ethereal figure of Hail Storm before him, sputtering in rage.
Snowfall and some of the others sat back in the shadows of the tent, where they could see and hear but not be seen. They needed to listen, to learn and know what was said.
So far, all they had heard were some fairly colorful curses.
“I let him go,” Wild Winds said at last. “He refused to accompany me to the Heart, and I accepted his decision.”
“He is the Sacrifice!” Hail Storm sputtered again. He was a tall man, strong and broad of chest, with colorful tattoos. A handsome man wh
en his face was not twisted in frustration. Wild Winds tried not to smirk.
“He bears the magic,” Hail Storm said, bringing himself under control and acting as if he were instructing a child. “You should have forced him.”
“Which worked so well for Grass Fires,” Wild Winds observed dryly. “And how is taking him by force ‘willing’?”
“The words of the past can be changed to meet our needs,” Hail Storm said. “It would be fitting that one city dweller brings a challenge to our powers and another restores them.”
“Even at the loss of our honor?” Wild Winds asked.
“Now we have lost time,” Hail Storm snarled. He looked about his tent at people Wild Winds could not see. “We must hunt him down.”
“No,” Wild Winds said calmly.
Hail Storm jerked his head around to stare at him.
Wild Winds sat, serene. Waiting.
“I cry challenge, Wild Winds. I challenge you, before all, for the position of Eldest Elder.”
“A difficulty,” Wild Winds said. “Since I am here, and you are miles away.”
“Do you accept the challenge?” Hail Storm asked politely.
“I do,” Wild Winds answered. “And I will return to the Heart, there to face your challenge.”
“I will kill you,” Hail Storm said with calm assurance. “Or the elements will.”
“But until you do or until the elements act,” Wild Winds replied mildly, “I am the Eldest Elder and I will be obeyed.”
That made Hail Storm hesitate, conscious of his audience. Wild Winds remained still, listening to the murmurs behind the healthy, strong warrior-priest before him. Caught on the horns of an ehat, they were. If they clung to the old ways, as they said they did, then his word was to be obeyed until he lost his title through challenge.
But oh, how they hungered for the magic and the power it would restore. He could almost feel it through the spell. Which would win? Their hunger? Or their honor?
The murmurs continued, yet Wild Winds stayed silent. He’d reported his meeting, he’d announced his decision. The next few minutes would tell which way the winds would blow.
He fancied he could see Snowfall’s gray eyes glittering in the shadows. She felt as he did, and was willing to use her sword to prove it. Ah, the young . . .
“You are ill, Eldest Elder,” Hail Storm said slowly. “Your mind is not what it was.”
Ah, so it was to be their hunger.
“We shall see. You have challenged, and I have answered. I will arrive in the Heart soon enough. Prepare your blade.” Wild Winds snapped his fingers, and the spell broke.
The four young ones blinked, and looked around them as if dazed.
“You did well,” Wild Winds said. “I am very pleased. Were you able to hear and see as well?”
All but one nodded. Young Lightning Strike shook his head. “I am sorry, Eldest, but I could hear very little. The spell took all my focus.”
“The skill will come, in time.” Wild Winds looked at them. They’d set protective wards around the area before the spell had begun, so that all could witness this exchange. “We will tell you what you missed. Just know for now that they have chosen power over honor.”
“So they will pursue the Sacrifice?” Moon Waters asked.
“Let us hope that he and his token-bearer have already fled,” Snowfall said. “It will be hard to find them in the Plains, if they are careful.”
“I am not so sure,” Night Clouds spoke up. “One of them might reveal him. I was approached at the end of the ceremony by one of the young, one who wishes to join our ranks and is qualified. Some of the young have asked to quest, to go with the Sacrifice.”
Wild Winds sighed. “Where is the honor in betrayal?”
“That was my response, Elder,” Night Clouds said. “But the warrior was called away before we could talk more.”
“What now, Elder?” Snowfall asked.
“We go to the Heart of the Plains.” Wild Winds sighed. “One way or another, my journey ends there.”
“HE’S gelded,” Lander said.
“Lander!” Gilla checked to make sure that neither Bethral nor the Storyteller was nearby. Bethral was carrying the Storyteller’s packs, showing him a good place to bed down. Once Gilla knew it was safe, she rolled her eyes. “He’s not.”
“He is, else they’d be sharing. And there she is, setting up his tent for him to sleep in, alone,” Lander said firmly, as he took the saddlebags off his horse, “So, he is gelded.”
“Fool.” Chell was nearby, unloading another horse. “To speak so without a token in your hand.”
“More fool for worrying about sharing,” Tenna said. “I’m so tired I can barely think. I’m sure the Storyteller is, too.”
There was that. Bethral had pushed them hard for two days straight. She’d made no apologies for it, and ignored even the Storyteller’s discomfort. For two days they’d alternated between a fast trot and a gallop, staying low, off the rises, and with a cold camp in between. Frequent breaks, but only to water the horses and change mounts. Even Lander was sagging a bit as he worked to get this camp set up.
And it was to be another cold camp. No fire, and they’d eat only gurt and drink water. Gilla sighed ruefully.
On the other hand, they’d put quite a distance between themselves and the thea camp. And the farther they traveled, the less likely it was that the warrior-priests would find them, skies willing.
“Perhaps another day and she will relent,” Gilla said hopefully.
“Perhaps she shouldn’t lead this party at all,” Arbon said, tossing back his black hair.
They all gaped at him.
“Have the winds taken your wits?” Lander said. “I’m of her size, and I won’t challenge.”
“She’s not so tough. I can take her,” Arbon said, puffing out his chest. “I should take charge, and see them safely off the Plains.”
“We came on this quest to aid them, not challenge them.” Lander threw his hands in the air. “Why did you come, then?”
“Glory,” Cosana said sharply. “He’s going to be a warlord, now isn’t he?”
“I will aid them”—Arbon lifted his chin—“but I can do that better if I challenge her and take command.”
“We are warriors now, not children,” Chell reminded him sharply. “She will kill you.”
“She’s not of the Plains.” Arbon’s jaw was set. “And the skies favor the bold.”
“And the earth covers the stupid,” El said.
“She’s coming,” Tenna hissed.
Gilla watched as Bethral strode up and reached to help Ouse with a pack he was struggling with. “Cold camp again tonight. Five watches, two hours each. Each of you take one, I don’t care what order. I’ll take the last watch alone. I want you all sharp.”
“We will be, Warrior,” Arbon said, bold as could be.
Bethral gave him an appraising look. “See that you are.” She looked around at the others. “Tomorrow we will watch for a good camp, and stop early. Somewhere we can rest, and have a fire. Somewhere with water, and alders to shelter us, if possible. Keep an eye out as we ride.”
There was a chorus of agreement to that except from Arbon. Gilla held her breath, but Arbon did nothing else. Bethral noticed, though. But she just turned and walked away.
“Why didn’t you challenge?” El prodded Arbon. “You were insolent enough. If she’d been of the Plains—”
“But she’s not,” Arbon said. “And my time is coming.”
EZREN hurt.
He hurt in ways he wasn’t about to confess. He’d ridden before, certainly, but not like this. Never like this. He’d taken abuse as a beaten slave, and this was nothing compared to that—it wasn’t like he was going to collapse. But the muscle aches and twinges—Lord of Light, he ached.
Bethral was coming back, walking toward him easily, as if not a muscle ached. She had been riding just as hard, and encased in metal.
He needed to stop complaining an
d get some sleep. But even that held guilt, for he knew that the young ones were standing guard while he slept through the night.
And for the life of him, he couldn’t figure out his leather sleeping tent. It had been set up for him the night before, and he’d crawled into it, grateful for its shelter. But now it lay spread out before him, limp and useless.
Bethral walked up. “Problems?”
Ezren sighed. Yet another chance to look stupid in front of the Angel of Light. And she was speaking in the language of the Plains because he’d asked her to. The best way to learn the language was to immerse yourself in it in all ways. So now he had to think before he could say “I can’t quite—”
Bethral nodded. “Lander had to show me twice before I got it.”
“Really?” Ezren asked.
“It’s not what we think of as a tent.” Bethral lifted the circle of leather and spread it out carefully. Then she folded it over, so that the crazy quilt pattern of leather was on the outside. “It’s scraps of waxed leather sewn together with gut. Think of it more as a pocket of bread that you tuck yourself into.”
She reached for the alder branches that had been rolled in the leather. “These go into the holes and keep the leather up off your body. Allows you some breathing space.” She thrust the branches in the special sleeves made for that purpose. “Four of them are just enough. You are sheltered from the night and the elements, and can’t be seen down in the grass. With the gurtle pads under you, you’ll be as comfortable as you were in the main camp.” She looked up at him. “Hand me your bedroll, and I’ll see it right for you.”
“Thank you,” Ezren said, then stood and glanced over his shoulder at the horizon. “Shouldn’t I be standing watch? I feel—”
“The warriors are used to it—it was one of their duties in the camp. And I’m an old hand at watch.” Bethral stood. “You need rest, Storyteller. Later, when your body has grown used to this, we will see.” She tilted her head, and gave him an odd look. “What’s back there?” she asked.
“What?” Ezren asked with a puzzled look.
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