“Good.” Ezren sat up, the blankets falling away, and reached for the mug she handed him. “Why did you—”
Bethral raised a finger. “Best to keep your voice low. We’ve guards around the tent, and they could learn our language as fast as you’re learning theirs.”
Ezren took a sip of kavage, and blinked at its strength. Bethral handed him a bowl of gurt, and he took a handful.
“As to why, well, what do you remember of yesterday, Storyteller?”
“I remember the attack, and . . .” Ezren thought for a bit. “I killed someone, didn’t I? With the wild magic?”
“You did,” Bethral responded. “The warrior-priest had a lance in his hand, Storyteller. If you hadn’t—if the magic hadn’t—lashed out, you would have died. I could not protect you.”
“Your leg,” Ezren whispered.
Bethral smiled, and rubbed her hand on her thigh. “Healed. As if it had never happened.”
“He kicked you.” Ezren growled at the memory. “I saw bone and blood—”
“He took advantage of an enemy’s weakness.” Bethral shrugged. “I would have done the same.”
“I doubt that,” Ezren said. “The wild magic healed it.”
“It’s not the first time,” Bethral said slowly. “That time . . . in the swamp . . .”
Ezren swallowed hard. He’d become conscious in a rush, on an altar in the swamp, where a blood mage had plunged a dagger into his chest. He’d turned his head, seen Bethral lying there, dead, her eyes glazed—
“Perhaps you have some control over it now?” Bethral asked.
Ezren shook his head. “I would love to claim so, Lady, but the truth is that I don’t remember much beyond the attack.”
Bethral gave him an odd, unsure look. “Do you remember anything—”
There was a light cough outside their tent.
Bethral rose to her feet, her hand on the pommel of her sword. “Come,” she called.
The flap opened, and Haya appeared. The older woman looked as if she hadn’t slept all night, and her face was tight with anger. “A warrior-priest has come,” she said abruptly. “He would speak with you.”
“Talk?” Ezren asked in her language. “Only talk?”
Haya nodded, then rattled off a phrase he didn’t understand.
“She says he sits upon the bare earth,” Bethral explained. “Only the most important of rituals is done upon the bare earth.”
“I do not understand that,” Ezren said. “But I do understand ritual. We will come.”
THEY walked a fair distance from the camp, through the waist-high grass. As worried as she was, Bethral took pleasure in the simple act of taking a step on a healthy leg. Being able to move freely was something she would not take for granted again.
Healthy, whole, there was no longer a need to go to the snows. She could journey with Ezren Storyteller and keep him safe. Bethral felt lighter, somehow. Dangers there were, that was true. Still . . . her heart rejoiced.
Haya stopped as they topped a small rise. They looked down on a grassy depression, almost bowl- shaped. At the center was a circle of bare earth where the grass had been cut back to the roots and peeled away. Off to the side, Bethral could see a stack of sod pieces piled up, as if they’d be replaced once this meeting was over.
At the edge of the circle, facing them, was a warrior-priest sitting on the bare dirt. No stool, no blanket. His face and chest were covered in tattoos, brightly colored and vivid against what little skin could be seen. His only clothing was his trous. Bare-chested and barefoot, he sat on the dirt as if he would wait forever.
He had a staff adorned with what looked like feathers, skulls, and bells, all tied with strips of leather. It had been rammed into the earth by his side, and it swayed over him. The bells chimed faintly in the breeze.
The man was clearly old, and he had a gaunt look about him, as if he’d recently fasted. Bethral frowned.
There were two bowls before him. One held water, the other a small fire.
“Well, now,” Ezren muttered, “there’s a threshold guardian, if ever I saw one.”
“He is Wild Winds, Eldest Elder of the Warrior-Priests,” Haya said softly. “One of my scouts spotted him on the morning sweep of the area.”
Bethral scanned the grasses around the man, looking for an ambush. “Is he alone?”
“As far as we can tell, and that is not normal. An eldest elder travels with at least four, and usually more,” Haya said, frowning as she stared at the man in the circle.
“The grass could hold an army,” Bethral said.
“What does he want?” Ezren asked.
“I spoke to him.” Haya took her bow off her back and started to string it taut. “He would not discuss what had happened, would offer no explanations. Would not speak to me, the elder thea of this camp. He will talk only to those who fell from the sky.”
“We do not have to talk to him, Elder Thea.” Ezren said. “He offers you no honor. He deserves none from us.”
“I thank you for that, Singer.” Haya gave him a tight smile. “But he invokes the four elements and he waited for us to find him. He may have truths to tell you, and I think you should hear those truths. So I will take you down. If he refuses to speak to me again, I will return here, bow at the ready. I will wait and watch. If he or any other offers you injury, I will kill them.”
“We cannot ask for more,” Bethral said.
Haya nodded, and started down. Ezren followed, and Bethral took the rear, still keeping a watchful eye out for others.
As they neared the seated man, he stood with the help of the staff. He faced them calmly, his expression unreadable under the tattoos.
“Here are those that you seek,” Haya said. “Bethral of the Horse, and Ezren Silvertongue, Singer of Palins.”
“Leave us,” Wild Winds said.
Haya bristled.
The wind caught the bells in the feathers, and they chimed slightly.
Haya took a deep breath. “I am the Elder Thea of the camp, and responsible for the safety and well-being of the children of the Snake. Yet you will not tell me what this is about?”
Wild Winds just stared at her.
“Do not wonder at the cause for the divisions among us, Warrior-Priest,” Haya spat.
She turned on her heel and marched back up the rise. Wild Winds sat down, and gestured for Bethral and Ezren to join him. Ezren sat, but Bethral hesitated. She’d see more standing, and could react quicker if—
“You speak our language?” Wild Winds asked.
“I do,” Bethral said.
“You will give my exact words to the Singer?”
“Yes, she will,” the Storyteller interrupted. “I have learned some, and she will explain what I don’t already know.”
“Sit,” Wild Winds said. “I give you my word that you and the Singer will not be attacked. You came freely. You will leave freely.”
Bethral studied him for a moment, then sat in the dirt just behind the Storyteller.
“I am Wild Winds, Eldest Elder of the Warrior-Priests of the Plains. I have come to speak with you. I sit here, on the bare earth and under the open sky. I ask the water and the fire to witness my words.”
“I am Ezren Silvertongue of Edenrich. The Tribe of the Snake has honored me with the title of Singer.” Ezren’s voice was formal, and he was speaking slowly. Bethral had no trouble translating his words. “Beside me is Bethral of the Horse, who is also my Token-Bearer. What do you wish to say?”
“The winds bear word that you fell from the sky,” Wild Winds said. “I wish to hear, with my own ears, how you came to the Plains.”
Ezren nodded, and started to speak. He kept the version to its barest form, but he gave a detailed description of the scarred black man who had traveled with Orrin Blackhart. Wild Winds didn’t interrupt the flow of words. He just listened, his eyes half closed.
Ezren finished with the moment Bethral identified herself to Haya. There was a brief silence, then Wild Wi
nds spoke. “How did the power come to you?”
“How do you know—” Bethral demanded, but Ezren stopped her with a slight gesture and began to speak. Bethral watched the old man, watched his eyes as Ezren told him of the ambush in the swamp. Ezren’s voice remained steady as he described the altar and the spider statue that loomed over it.
“I have shared my tale,” Ezren continued. “Now I would ask, Eldest Elder, why did the other warrior-priest attack me?”
The breeze caught the bells, and they chimed again. “Those other warrior-priests,” Ezren said, “they tried to kill Bethral and to capture me. Why?”
“We can see it,” Wild Winds said. “Within you.”
“What?” Ezren leaned forward. “See what?”
“The magic,” Wild Winds said.
Ezren leaned back, and considered the man before him as he spoke in their own language to Bethral. “Marlon could see it without a spell. Remember?”
All too well. The High Mage Marlon had tried to kill Ezren on sight, because of the rogue nature of his power. If his daughter had not stopped him, Bethral would have.
Bethral waited for Wild Winds to speak, but the man sat there, staring at them.
The Storyteller was unfazed. He stared back, as if waiting for answers. Bethral held her breath.
Wild Winds broke the silence first. “Word came that you had been found. Word also came that the Token-Bearer took down two warrior-priests before she was injured, her leg broken so badly that the bone shone in the sun. And that when the Token-Bearer fell, you used the magic to kill Grass Fires. Is this so?”
“It is so,” Ezren said. “Bethral killed two of your people, and I killed my attacker.”
“And healed your Token-Bearer. Is it true that your leg was broken?” Wild Winds asked, leaning forward slightly, his eyes intent on Ezren’s face. Bethral nodded as she translated the words.
“The magic healed her, yes,” Ezren said.
“Can you heal someone with the power that is within you?” Wild Winds asked.
Ezren shook his head. “No. I do not have control. The magic seems to . . .” Ezren glanced at Bethral. “It seems to respond to my emotions.”
Wild Winds sagged back slightly. He looked out over the grasses for a moment, before looking back at the Storyteller. “So, you do not control that which you bear?”
Bethral wasn’t sure that she wanted Wild Winds to know the answer to that, but Ezren was speaking before she could stop him.
“No,” Ezren replied.
“Then it will control you,” Wild Winds said. “And destroy you. The magic needs the land as the land needs the magic. If it doesn’t feed from the land, it will feed from you, until you are consumed. I would ask you to travel with me to the Heart of the Plains.” Wild Winds looked at Ezren. “Singer, what you bear may kill you, and then more than your life would be lost.”
“His life is worth more than—” Bethral interrupted, but Wild Winds held up his hand.
“You speak of a man. I speak of a people.”
Ezren tilted his head. “Why should I trust your words?”
Bethral sucked in a breath. They didn’t have the man’s token. But the older warrior-priest just shook his head.
“You can trust my words, Storyteller. For one simple reason.” Wild Winds had an odd look on his face.
“What is that?” Ezren asked.
“I am dying,” Wild Winds said.
TWELVE
WILD Winds sat silently looking out over the grasslands. The two before him sat in silence as well, waiting for him to continue. When word had come, he’d found it hard to believe, but here was the truth before his eyes.
Who could say that the winds did not have a sense of humor?
He looked back at the green-eyed man and the blonde woman just behind him. Two city dwellers, holding the fate of his world in their hands. All the wisdom of his elders told him what he should do. And yet . . .
“I am the Eldest Elder of the Warrior-Priests of the Plains,” Wild Winds began. “I have led my people as I was taught—as my elders were in their turn taught. There was wisdom in the ways—our ways—or so I thought.”
The Storyteller sat, still and quiet, as if absorbing every word. Perhaps he was, but these city dwellers had such bad memories . . .
“Now—I am no longer certain. Change sweeps over the Plains as surely as a grass fire and with almost as much destruction in its wake.” Wild Winds could not keep the pain out of his voice. “Now warrior-priest fights warrior-priest and the Council of Elders is sundered. I’d hoped to restore the Council, perhaps even talk more with young Xylara, the Warprize. Even find an understanding with Keir of the Cat, for he hates the warrior-priests more than most.” Wild Winds shook his head. “I have little time left. Know you our ways?”
Ezren nodded as he listened to Bethral’s translation. “Your people seek the snows when ill or disabled.”
“I will lead my people to the best of my ability for as long as I may.” Wild Winds straightened his back, his decision made. “I will speak to you as I would a young warrior-priest with his first tattoos.”
“I will remember your words, Elder,” the Storyteller said.
“We warrior-priests are the Strength of the Plains. Once we walked with the magic, and the magic and the land were one. We kept our people strong and proud. Magic was gifted to us by the elements themselves, and the land that nurtured us.” Wild Winds recited the old tale slowly, so that Bethral could translate.
“Warrior-priests have always sacrificed for the Plains and its people. We sacrifice our names, taking new ones. We sacrifice our blood, to create our blades. We sacrifice our bodies, to bear the ritual tattoos. We sacrifice our bones”—Wild Winds looked at the three skulls on his staff and could almost hear his mentors echo the words as he spoke—“so that our knowledge is passed down to those that learn from us.
“But somehow, for some time, we no longer walk with the magic. The land and the magic were sundered in a time long past the living memory of any warrior-priest.” Wild Wind kept his voice low. “But we know—we remember through the truths of those that came before, for their words have been passed from the old to the young, in an unbroken chain, to this moment.”
“How many?” the Storyteller whispered. “How many old and young?”
Wild Winds held up a hand, his fingers spread wide. “Ten generations. And each elder tells the young warrior-priest the same thing upon initiation: ‘Magic was taken from the Plains. Only the blood of the Plains can restore it, in a willing sacrifice. Willing blood, willingly spilled.’ ”
Bethral stiffened. Ezren glanced at her and she translated for him, but her glare was only for Wild Winds.
“The magic was lost,” Wild Winds continued. “Now we are but a shadow of our former selves, using what little magic remains within the earth. It is bare and thin, and used only with the greatest need. We no longer have the magics; therefore we maintain our status through silence. Thus it is, and thus it will be until the magic is returned to the Heart of the Plains.”
Ezren leaned forward. “How did it happen? How was the magic lost?”
Wild Winds shook his head. “The details are lost. All we know is that it will be found again, and returned to us—”
“Through willing sacrifice,” Ezren mused. He ran his fingers through his hair. “And what magics do you still wield?”
Wild Winds shook his head again, his locks swaying back and forth. “That I will not say.
“For years, we have sent wanderers out into the kingdoms that surround the Plains to search for the magic. To find it and return here—to be the willing sacrifice.” Wild Winds looked up at the sky. “Yet here you sit. A city dweller. Not of the Plains, yes?” Wild Winds focused back on Ezren. “Perhaps you are of the blood?”
Ezren shook his head. “Not that I know of. I am a son of Edenrich as far back as my own history goes.”
“It was but a hope. You would bear tattoos, had any in your family been of th
e Plains.” Wild Winds shrugged. “I can only assume that when Grass Fires saw you and what you bear, that he . . . was too swift in his actions.”
“He paid,” Bethral growled.
“So he did.” Wild Winds nodded. “But others will try to bring you to the Heart of the Plains. There are those that would perform the ritual with or without your willingness.”
“What is the ritual?” Ezren demanded. “What is the sacrifice?”
“We do not know,” Wild Winds said. “All we know is that the sacrifice must be made at the center of the Heart of the Plains. Beyond that—” Wild Winds shrugged. “We do not know.”
“Except that it involves blood,” Bethral said, trying to keep the anger out of her voice. “You are going to ask him to go to his death.”
“I do not know what I ask.” Wild Winds stared at Ezren. “But I do ask.”
“I don’t believe—” Bethral growled.
Wild Winds raised his hand and cut her off. “I ask this of you, Ezren of Edenrich, Singer of the City. Come with me to the Heart of the Plains under my protection. Once there, I will summon all of the warrior-priests, and we will try to resolve this with no further shedding of blood. What say you?”
“Can you promise his safety?” Bethral demanded. “Here, before the elements, can you promise that if they can’t restore the magic, they will allow him to go free?”
“I cannot,” Wild Winds responded. “But if the magic does not leave him, he will die anyway, consumed from within.”
“So you want him to return the magic to arrogant bastards who think more of their—”
Ezren reached back and put his hand on her knee. The Token-Bearer cut her words, but her eyes still flashed with anger.
“The warrior-priests are no longer of one mind,” Wild Winds explained. “There are those that will honor my pledge to you. Others will not. It matters not. The magic you bear cannot be sustained by any one man.”
“I am new to the Plains. New to your ways.” Ezren spoke slowly as Bethral translated. “I am new to the power I bear. What has happened to me in the last few years, since I was enslaved, I understand very little of it.