Yet it was there, in her bright blue eyes and calm face. His heart started to beat faster as he reached for her and pulled her down to their bed.
She came willingly, she who could kill with a single blow, his Angel of the Light. Her mouth opened to his as she welcomed him into her arms.
No more waiting, no more teasing. One move, and he was over her, nudging her legs apart with his. She opened to him and he slid into her wet heat. He froze, breathing hard as she moaned. “Bethral?”
Her eyes opened, their blue depths clouded with a haze of pure desire. “Ezren, please . . .”
He kissed her, thrusting as she arched her back and moved under him. He fought back his own pleasure, trying to make the moment last forever, but he might as well try to hold back the sun. He’d just enough control left to make sure of Bethral’s pleasure before he claimed his own shuddering climax.
Ezren collapsed on top of her, and felt her arms around him, stroking his back as he drifted off.
When he woke, she was sleeping next to him. He reached out, pulling a strand of hair away from her face. She opened sleepy eyes and smiled.
“I had planned to go slower, beloved,” he whispered.
“Any slower, any more waiting, and I’d have died.” Bethral bit his earlobe. “There’s time yet before the rains.”
Much later, after they’d loved and slept, they ate and bathed in the rain. The water of the pond was cold on their fevered skin. They returned to their tent, and dried off as best they could under the dripping branches.
Once they climbed into their nest, the blankets warmed their chilled skin. Bethral bound up her wet hair in a long braid, and they lay together and listened to the rain.
Ezren took her hand, weaving their fingers together. “Marry me, Bethral,” he dared to ask. “Be my wife.”
Bethral sucked in a breath, stunned into silence. She reached out with a trembling hand and stroked his face, her face luminous with quiet joy. “Yes, Ezren Storyteller, I would be honored to be your wife.”
Laughing and crying, they kissed. “Would you wear my ring? I wish we were in Edenrich. I would buy you the loveliest ring. I would not care how much gold it cost.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Bethral said, tears in her eyes. “I’m more than satisfied with what a copper can buy.”
BETHRAL roused when Ezren stirred beside her.
She couldn’t see much, for it was barely dawn. Ezren was on his back, shifting restlessly under the blankets. Dreaming, perhaps. She shifted to face him, and reached out to stroke his face.
He was moving his head back and forth, as if arguing with someone. She whispered his name, and ran her fingers through his hair.
He settled then, with a sigh. She kept stroking him gently, easing him awake.
His voice was rough with sleep when he spoke. “Bethral?”
“Here,” she whispered, leaning in to kiss his cheek. “Bad dreams?”
She felt him nod. “I need to go back,” he mumbled, and she knew he was only half awake.
“Go where, beloved?” she asked.
“There.” He lifted an arm and brushed her shoulder as he pointed. “Need to go that way. It is important. . . .”
Ezren went silent for a moment. Bethral put her head on his shoulder, and waited.
“Bethral?” His voice was clearer now.
“Ezren,” she answered. “You were dreaming.”
“There was some place I had to be,” he said. His voice was taut. “Some place important. Something I have to do.”
“You pointed toward the Heart of the Plains,” Bethral told him.
Ezren cursed in a language she didn’t recognize. “We need to keep moving, do we not?”
It wasn’t a question. His voice was flat and determined. She nodded against his shoulder. “I think so.”
“Bethral.” He shifted to face her. “There is no way to know—”
She kissed him, opening her mouth and inviting him in. He returned the kiss with passion, wrapping her in his arms and pulling her close.
“There is still a while until dawn,” Bethral murmured against his mouth. “That is all that is certain.”
Ezren rolled over, pulling her on top. “Let us claim them for ourselves, then, Angel of Light.”
They loved long and slow, with a sweetness that brought them both joy and completion. Ezren yawned, and fell back into quiet slumber, but Bethral couldn’t close her eyes. She lay there, watching the first hint of sun creep into their safe little tent and illuminate Ezren’s face. Stolen moments of peace, watching her lover sleep. She let herself hope for a moment, for a future with him. Some land, a home, children, horses, and dogs. The boys would have his eyes, and the girls would have blonde hair. They’d have a big stone fire-place, and he’d sit and tell tales to his children by the fire in the winter months. Wild tales of their father and mother on the Plains, fleeing from the warrior-priests.
Bethral sighed then, and slowly started to ease into her tunic and trous, so as not to wake Ezren. The moment for hoping had passed.
Her armor could wait for later. Right now, she’d check the watches and start rousing the others. The sooner they were on their way, the better.
She was about to open the flap and step out when she heard a step outside the tent.
“Warlord?” Arbon’s voice was soft.
Bethral emerged, closing the flap behind her. “Report.”
“Trouble.” Arbon was calm, but his eyes were wide. “Riders.”
TWENTY-FOUR
GILLA lay flat in the wet grass and watched for the riders she knew were out among the herds.
She’d crawled out of the hollow where they’d hidden in the alders, just enough so that she could see the herd. Lying flat, her sword on her back and her dagger in her hand.
Her heart raced, but she moved slowly and carefully. The horses before her showed no signs of concern. They were grazing, a few with foals keeping close by. Nursing mares rarely responded to a summons call. It was doubtful that she would get a glimpse of the people calling for mounts, but she’d claimed this section. El and Lander might have better luck.
Were they warrior-priests? Or just warriors? Gilla bit her lip as she strained to see the edges of the herd.
A hand grasped her ankle. She lowered her head and wiggled backward. Bethral crawled up next to her.
“It’s warriors, headed for the Heart.” Bethral had her mouth close to Gilla’s ear. “El got a good look. We are going to keep under cover and wait for them to move off.”
Gilla relaxed.
Bethral crawled back, and Gilla followed. They stayed flat until they reached the depths of the hollow.
“El and Lander are keeping watch, and will signal if they head for us,” Bethral said.
“There’s cold kavage left from last night,” Gilla offered.
“Good,” Bethral said. “We need to gather our gear and be ready to ride.”
“Warlord, I—” Gilla sheathed her dagger, and sighed. “I don’t know if . . .” She trailed off, unable to finish her thought. “We are taught that fear is our enemy. That—”
“Fear holds you still when you need to move, and moves you when you need to be still.”
Gilla looked at Bethral in astonishment.
“Fear makes you silent when you need to be loud, and loud when you need silence,” Bethral continued, reciting the same learning wisdom that Gilla had been taught. “Fear closes your throat, makes it hard to breathe. Fear weakens your hand and blinds your eyes. Fear is a danger. Know your fear. Face your fear.”
“I am afraid, Warlord,” Gilla admitted.
“When the time comes, you will be able to do what you have to do to stay alive and keep your people safe,” Bethral said.
Startled, Gilla looked at her. “How do you know? What if I freeze up? What if I—”
“You won’t.” Bethral walked through the alders toward her tent.
“How do you know that, city dweller?” Gilla hissed, her eyes filled w
ith tears. “You’ve known me for—”
“I will tell you after the battle.”
“And if you are wrong?” Gilla spat.
“It won’t matter.” Bethral glanced back. “Most likely we’ll all be dead.”
Gilla stood there for a moment, drew a deep breath, and went to get the kavage.
EZREN was fumbling with the buckles on his armor when he heard Bethral call his name. He looked up as she entered the tent and knelt down. “Warrior-priests?” he asked.
She shook her head, and pulled off her tunic and trous. Ezren caught his breath when she reached for her gambeson as she answered his question. “Young warriors, probably on their way to the Heart for the challenges. They will move on soon, and then we can leave.”
“So there is no time to . . .” Ezren suggested.
“No.” Bethral paused, then shuddered slightly. “Ezren, don’t look at me that way.”
“I know,” Ezren said. “We need to leave. But I will not apologize. You are just so very beautiful—”
Bethral was in his arms, her breasts pressed against his armor. Her hands went down to his trous and opened them. He pulled her closer with one arm, and cupped her breast. Suddenly he was flat and she was on top of him, wet and impaled, moaning softly.
He grabbed her hips. “Beloved.”
Bethral leaned down, and her hair closed off the world and the dangers around them. She kissed him, cutting off any speech.
He didn’t need words. Ezren gripped her hips hard, and thrust up as she moaned into his mouth. It didn’t take long; it couldn’t, after all. They both cried out and collapsed into a shuddering, sweating pile of arms and legs and love.
“Whatever happens,” Ezren whispered, “we have had this.”
“We have.” Bethral raised her head to look into his eyes. “But I want more, Ezren Storyteller. And I will kill anyone that stands between me and a lifetime with you.”
AFTER the threat had moved on, they gathered by the cold fire pit, and shared dried meat and gurt. Gilla carefully poured out the cold kavage to each, then hurried to drink hers. It was dark, cold, and bitter, but it tasted good in her excitement.
She told herself that it was excitement she was feeling. Her heart racing, her senses afire. It was exhilaration, not fear.
The others seemed so calm, eating the cold food and drinking the cold kavage. Normally they’d have been hiding smiles and maybe gently teasing Bethral and Ezren. But the appearance of strange riders had brought the truth of their mission back to them.
“We will summon horses,” Bethral said. She stood and looked at all of them, her armor glittering in the sun that filtered through the alders. “I want two remounts for everyone, and a few extra for packhorses. We are going to leave the herd, and ride hard for three days.”
“South?” Arbon asked.
“East,” Bethral said. “Due east. We ride hard for three days, then find another herd we can hide in for a while. We’ll rest then, and repeat the process until we reach the foothills.”
They all nodded. Gilla drained the last of her kavage, and put her mug in her pack. The others were doing the same.
“Ezren and I will stay with the packs while you summon horses,” Bethral said.
“One more thing,” Ezren Storyteller focused on Ouse. “Ouse, if you see any change in me, in the glow, you need to tell everyone. Warn everyone.”
Gilla frowned. Those green eyes were filled with worry.
“I will,” Ouse said. “I swear.” He hesitated. “Storyteller, are you afraid that the magic will flare out of control?”
“It certainly reacts to seeing warrior-priests,” Ezren said. “But I have a bigger concern.”
“We are afraid that the magic will try to control him.” Bethral looked at Ezren, her worry in her eyes.
Ezren drew a breath. “If that happens—”
“We will deal with it,” Bethral cut him off firmly. “For now, we need horses. Best to be moving as soon as we can.”
THE stale air of the huge tent was disturbed when the tent flap opened. The fresh air was welcome, but Hail Storm didn’t look away from the tiny image of the Plains before him.
“Anything?”
That would, of course, be Mist. The younger ones had seen his sorrow over the death of Arching Colors, and would honor his dedication to watch over the spell in the still of the night, to see if the Sacrifice used magic.
“Those that still scry have found nothing. And all of the warrior-priests that still travel have reported nothing,” Mist continued. She stepped forward with her staff so that the skulls rattled. “When do we recognize this for the waste of power that it is?”
“We hunt prey,” Hail Storm said softly. “Is not patience a virtue of the hunter?”
“True enough, but night falls and the hunt ends. And not always in success.” Mist went silent for a moment. “Wild Winds will arrive at the Heart soon. Will you be there to assert your challenge?”
Another entered, slipping in quietly. “Hail Storm?”
Hail Storm sighed. “Yes, Thunder Clouds?” Another of the older one, who needed to be treated with respect.
“I had an idea,” Thunder Clouds said, coming to stand next to Mist. “And I wish to try it with your permission.”
“How so?” Hail Storm raised an eyebrow. “Mist is of the mind that we should abandon this hunt.”
Mist gave him a sharp look, but said nothing.
Thunder Clouds shook his head. “When you find the Sacrifice, we must be able to send other warrior-priests after him. We need a way to see both the Sacrifice and those around him.”
Hail Storm nodded encouragement.
“Now, in each of the groups that conducted the rites there is an older warrior-priest, if not an elder. Each of us carries some magic within, for castings.” Thunder Clouds gestured at the display before them. “I think I can make them appear here, for us to see.”
“You will disrupt his casting,” Mist objected.
“No.” Thunder Clouds moved to the northern point. “Mine will lie over Hail Storm’s casting. It’s . . . well, let me try.” He raised his arms, preparing to cast the spell.
Mist moved back to the tent wall, out of the way. Hail Storm remained where he was, ready to protect his casting, if necessary.
Thunder Clouds raised his hands, as if he was gathering a net, preparing to cast it into the water for fish. He chanted under his breath, using a minimal amount of power as far as Hail Storm could see.
Thunder Clouds moved to each of the four points, standing and chanting and gathering his net. Hail Storm could almost see it, a fine weave of blue sparkles in his hand.
When Thunder Clouds returned to the northern point, he opened his hands, as if casting a net.
The surface of the Plains rippled ever so slightly. Then soft blue sparks started to appear. Hail Storm drew a breath as he realized that one of the large clusters of small blue points of light was their own camp.
Then, as if the net were falling over the Plains, blue sparkles appeared all over the map.
Mist stepped forward. “Thunder Clouds, you amaze me.”
Thunder Clouds was breathing hard, and wiped sweat out of his eyes. “That cost more than I thought it would, but it worked.”
“Can you see the Sacrifice?” Hail Storm asked urgently.
They all looked, but there was no sign of him. “I was afraid that might happen,” Thunder Clouds said. “What the Sacrifice bears is as slippery as ehat oil.”
Hail Storm frowned. “The magic of our people is known to you. The magic of the Sacrifice is not. That may be a factor as well.”
“Look,” Mist breathed, “you can see them moving.”
She was right. As Hail Storm watched, the sparkles were moving, all of them, heading for the Heart as he had directed. Satisfaction washed through him at the sight.
Hail Storm stood, taking his time, stretching muscles that had been still too long. “This needs fresh eyes,” he said, keeping his tone so
ft and reasonable.
That was all he needed to say. The four warrior-priests waiting outside entered the tent, and took their places around the miniature Plains.
Thunder Clouds and Mist followed Hail Storm out into the dawn. He paused, staring at the bed of coals where his tent had once stood. The area had been turned into Arching Colors’s pyre, and had been kept burning all night. Fragrant herbs had been added to the fire, to mask the scent of burning flesh. He paused, as if struck with new pain. “It still burns?”
“The bone-crushing ceremony will be held as soon as the coals cool.” Mist was watching his face closely. “You will wish to attend?”
Hail Storm nodded, as if unable to speak.
“My tent is close. Come,” Mist said, and so he turned to follow her, after a last lingering glance at the burnt grass.
Thunder Clouds fell in next to him, looking exhausted. Hail Storm gave him a quick look, but Thunder Clouds shook his head. “I am fine. Just more magic than I had planned to use, that’s all.”
Hail Storm risked a glance back then, as if to linger by the pyre. But Thunder Clouds took his elbow firmly. “Come. We both need rest.”
Hail Storm submitted, but could not resist looking about as he walked, the pyre behind him forgotten in an instant. Many more warrior-priests had joined the encampment. Others would be coming, drawn by the summons and the news of the challenge. Each of those sparkles, headed for the Heart.
Hail Storm had no worries about the challenge. Wild Winds was old and weak. By all traditions he should have crushed the skulls on his staff and taken his own life by now. But if he failed to abide by the ways of the Plains, then Hail Storm would slay him. Maybe with the dagger at his belt.
He stumbled at the thought. One like Wild Winds . . . what kind of power would that death release? He caught his breath at the idea of the old man helpless before him, struggling as the blade pierced his-
“Hail Storm?” Mist stood holding open the flap of her tent, and looked at him with questioning eyes.
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