Instead, the stone began to glow.
Gilla struggled to sit up, and saw the entire stone under and around her lit up with a white light. It wasn’t on fire, thank the elements, there was no heat. The stone was still hard and rough under her, but the glow was getting brighter and bigger.
The warrior-priests had seen it, too, and they backed away as the glow expanded to the edge of the stone.
Ezren stood there, as if frozen.
Gilla’s struggles drew Bethral’s attention. She maneuvered Bessie close, and reached down. Gilla strained up, and found herself hauled to her feet by the collar. A cold blade slid against her wrists, and then the bonds gave as it sliced through them.
Gilla rubbed her wrists and took the offered blade to cut her legs free. Bethral stayed close, watching all around them for attack. “Up,” she commanded as soon as Gilla was free to move. “Get to Ezren’s horse.”
Gilla yanked her gag free and scrambled to the free horse, calling it to her side. It came willingly, although its eyes were rolling with fear.
“What’s happening?” she asked.
Bethral grabbed her collar and heaved her, sprawling, over the saddle. Instinct made Gilla seat herself and take the reins.
“Go.” Bethral pointed. “Head for that rise. The others are there.”
“You’ll be killed,” Gilla cried, wanting to deny the truth. She jerked her head around, looking at the warrior-priests, who were recovering from their shock. Their eyes were focused on Ezren; it was only a matter of time before—
Bethral smacked the horse, which leapt forward with no other urging. Gilla sobbed, then leaned forward and let the horse run through the warrior-priests. She’d no weapon, no way to fight. She’d be more obligation than aid. Tears in her eyes, she risked a glance back. No hand was lifted against her; they were all focused on the glowing stone. And the man and the woman at the very center of the Heart of the Plains.
THE world changed when Ezren stepped onto the Heart of the Plains.
A tone sounded, like the deepest bell he’d ever heard, resounding in his chest. The magic leapt within his chest, washing Ezren with joy. Home. It was home.
The mages he had talked to were wrong. Magic—this wild magic—had emotions. It was powerful, strong, and flared within him, bringing with it knowledge and power. And an offer . . .
Of power, beyond his understanding. His for the taking. At a price.
And for a moment he hesitated.
But he’d never wanted this kind of power. And that thought was enough. Regret flowed through him, but it was the magic’s sorrow, not his.
Joy, then, and anticipation. Eagerness for home and freedom. Images flashed before Ezren’s eyes, and he knew what needed to be done.
“Ezren.” Bethral’s voice broke through, and Ezren looked up. She was looking down from Bessie’s back, extending her hand.
“ EZR EN.” Bethral moved Bessie alongside Ezren and extended her hand. “Mount. If we charge—”
“No.” Ezren looked up at her. His voice sounded odd, echoing ever so slightly. “You are so lovely, my Angel of Light.”
“Ezren.” She tried very hard not to let her impatience show. “Come up. If we are to—”
“You would take them all on, would you not?” Ezren asked.
Bessie shifted, her hooves chiming on the stone. Bethral frowned at Ezren. With all the light, it was hard to tell, but she thought that he was glowing now. “Ezren?”
He looked at those around them. Bethral looked as well. The one they’d driven off, who had to be Hail Storm, was in the second rank, screaming commands. So far, not one had the courage to step on the stone, but it wouldn’t hold them back long. “Ezren,” she repeated, trying to get his attention.
Ezren looked at her, his green eyes bright. She could see it now, the glow under his skin. But there was more. As if he understood everything that was happening. That would happen.
“Willing sacrifice, willingly made,” he recited. “Are you willing, my Angel?”
Her heart full of the inevitable, Bethral dismounted with a smooth move, and stood next to him. “Yes.”
THIRTY-TWO
EZREN’S heart soared at Bethral’s acceptance. He watched as she slid from the saddle without hesitation.
“I am sorry, Bethral,” Ezren said regretfully as she stepped to his side, “for what we will not have.”
Bethral took off her helmet, shaking out her long hair. “I’m grateful for what we have had. And who can say what comes after this life?” She hung her helmet on Bessie’s saddle, and her mace from her belt. “So, if you aren’t going to let me kill them all, and I’m not going to let them kill us, what are we going to do?”
Bessie snorted and shook her head, jingling her harness as if asking the same question.
Ezren laughed. The warmth in his chest grew as the wild magic laughed with him. He turned to face the crowd. “Bragnect!”
His voice rolled over the heads of the warrior-priests. That got their attention, and they all went silent. Even Hail Storm, the one that had held Gilla; he now stood at the edge of the stone, glaring with hate. Glaring with cold, dead eyes. Ezren knew that look all too well. Hail Storm’s eyes were the same as those of the blood mage. The one that had driven the stone knife into Ezren’s chest.
“Bragnect, all of you!” Ezren raised his voice, letting it carry above the crowd. He had a sense that his voice was carrying over the land, clear to all, even to those on the rise. “Horse killers! Slayers of young warriors! Arrogant, self-righteous fools, filled with your own importance and pride! What else have you done over the years in order to protect your rank and standing?”
Those around the stone raised their weapons, their faces filled with rage. But not one of them stepped on the glowing stone.
“I do not know the answer,” Ezren said, “but the Plains know. The Magic knows.”
Ezren focused on Hail Storm. “You want power and magic, and you are willing to do anything to make it happen. Even distort the words of your own tales and history to make it work for you.” Ezren could hear his voice—it had never sounded so powerful before, so strong. It was still not the voice he’d had before, but it was his, and it resonated as he spoke.
“Yes!” Hail Storm drew his sword with one hand, and held his sacrifice dagger with the other. He stepped past the cowering fools and put his foot onto the stone. “That which was lost is now found, and it is up to us, the warrior-priests of the Plains, to restore it.”
Bethral stepped forward, her mace back in her hand. But Ezren caught her elbow, and stopped her.
BETHRAL paused, watching the angry warrior-priests that surrounded the platform. It was only a matter of time before they gathered their courage to charge the two of them. Why was Ezren holding her back?
“Call them, Bethral.”
She tilted her head. “Who?” she asked in a whisper.
“Summon them,” Ezren said. His eyes glowed in the light. But there was something else. Something more in his green eyes. “Summon them here to witness and judge, Bethral of the Horse, Avatar and Warrior.”
Like that, Bethral knew exactly what he meant. She’d done this before, opened herself to that power; embodied all of the Spirit that was within her.
She whispered a prayer, put her hand on Bessie’s neck, threw her head back, and cried the call to summon horses of the Plains.
Bessie reared, neighing, adding the call of the lead mare.
A trembling started underfoot. Hail Storm jerked his foot off the stone.
Bethral felt it under her feet, and shared a delighted glance with Ezren. She called again, and the thundering grew, now clearly heard. All of the warrior-priests started to look around.
“There is an old saying in my land, Hail Storm.” Ezren’s voice rang with satisfaction. “Be careful what you wish for. You just might get it.”
GILLA sobbed with relief as she saw Lander running forward when she topped the rise. She leapt from her horse and into his arms
, hugging him. Chell and Ouse were there as well, laughing and hugging her.
They dragged her over to the crowd of warrior-priests at the top of the rise who were watching the Heart. Gilla jerked back, but Ouse shook his head. “We’ll explain, after.”
So they were standing close to the oldest of the warrior-priests, who was being supported by two younger ones. It was the one who had conducted the rites, the one who had spurned Hail Storm in the center of the Heart. Gilla gave him an uncertain glance, but the others were ignoring him.
“Look,” Ouse said.
Gilla’s eyes were drawn to where Ezren and Bethral were standing, just standing, in the glow, next to the roan horse. Why didn’t they . . .
“Bragnect!”
Gilla gasped as she heard every word, as clear as if the Storyteller was standing before her. Then the ground below their feet started to shake.
A group of horses came over the far rise, glowing with their own light. Horses like the ones on the Longest Night, when the dead appeared to bid farewell to the living. Spirit horses, too, ridden by . . .
Was that El?
Gilla’s grief spilled over. El was there, riding hard. Her tears fell as she recognized Cosana at his side. There was another as well, a young warrior-priestess, and from the gasps around them, she was known to the others.
The spirit horses plunged down off the rise, galloping straight for the Heart. Behind them streamed real horses, hundreds, thousands. Gilla had never seen so many horses in one herd at one time. They ran, tossing their heads, neighing, following the spirit horses as they charged the warrior-priests.
The warrior-priests reacted in various ways, some running away from the stone, some standing and waving their arms so that the horses would dodge around them. But the spirit horses made it their business to cut between the Heart and the warrior-priests, forcing them away.
Ezren and Bethral stood at the center as the horses swirled around the edge of the stone, pushing the warrior-priests farther and farther back. The thunder of their hooves seemed to fade as Ezren’s voice cut through the noise.
HAIL Storm watched in horror as the spirit horses charged through the crowd, aiming for him.
He scrambled back, barely dodging the cold, glowing hand of Arching Colors as she reached for him. Then she swept past, and the real horses followed, forcing him back and away from the stone. They continued to swirl around, thundering past, but Hail Storm’s attention was caught by the figures in the center of the glowing stone.
“You Warrior-Priests have wanted it all, and all for yourselves.”
The man, Ezren Storyteller, was digging in the roan horse’s saddlebags, and he pulled forth a bundle of rags. He stripped them away, revealing a sacrifice knife with stone blade and horn handle. Skies above, where had he gotten that?
The Storyteller held it up for all to see, and his voice echoed over the horses. “I bear the wild magic, by no choice of my own. But this was never the kind of power that I wished to possess. All I ever wanted was the power to tell stories, moving the hearts and minds of those that heard them, and learning the truths that are found in all tales.”
The Storyteller paused, and glanced at the woman at his side. “That, and the magic of Bethral’s love are all I need in this life, and the next.”
Once again he brandished the sacrifice knife, holding it high. “We will give you what you want. . . .”
The blade in the Storyteller’s hands seemed to grow blacker somehow, as if the stone was absorbing the light.
The Storyteller continued, his green eyes glowing with light. “. . . But may all the Gods, and all the elements, grant that you get exactly what you deserve.”
EZREN turned to Bethral. “Give me your hand, beloved.”
Bethral took off her gauntlet and tucked it into her belt. She looked beyond the horses that protected them, at the rise where they’d left the others. She smiled, extending her hand to Ezren, then took a deep breath, at peace with this decision.
“Blood of the Plains,” she announced, hearing the echo of her words. “Willing sacrifice, willingly made.”
Ezren sliced her palm, and blood swelled from the cut.
He held his own hand up, and cut his palm. “Willing sacrifice,” he repeated, his words echoing as well. “Willingly made.”
He grasped the knife hilt with his bloody hand, and reached out. Bethral put her hand over his, also touching the hilt. Their mingled blood dripped to the stone below.
Bethral felt it then, felt the joy and anticipation of the wild magic. It danced over their hands, little sparks of light. It tingled, and left her breathless with its power and its promise.
But when she looked in Ezren’s eyes, there was no regret. He was at peace with this choice. He meant what he had said about their love. This life, and the next.
She smiled and nodded, willing to follow his lead.
There was a shriek, and Hail Storm was visible for a moment, his face filled with horror. He was trying to dodge through the ring of horses, trying to prevent—
“You want power?” Ezren asked. “Well, we want justice. For us.” He knelt, and Bethral knelt with him.
“For the land.” Ezren lifted the knife high as their blood flowed down the blade and added to the pool below.
“FOR THE PEOPLE OF THE PLAINS!” Ezren and Bethral shouted together, and their joined hands plunged downward and shattered the stone blade against the Heart of the Plains.
The world around them disappeared as the light flared bright, white, and forever.
THIRTY-THREE
GILLA cried out as the glowing Heart exploded with light. Ezren and Bethral disappeared from sight.
The power flared straight up from the stone, like a needle piercing the night sky. It towered over them, swirling around and around, like one of the deadly windstorms she’d heard about but never seen.
The horses were still circling, and the warrior-priests that surrounded the Heart were staggering back, covering their eyes.
The bright needle swirled, linking the land and the stars. A bell tone sounded again. Gilla blinked against the glare, and saw a circle of light pulse from the Heart, expanding outward. The thick band of light looked like it was traveling under the earth, illuminating the grasses from below. Moving fast, it climbed the rise and passed through their group.
Gilla turned to watch it go, bright and visible far into the distance. A second followed the first, with the same bell tone resounding through her bones.
She turned back and saw a third, and then a fourth pulse issue from the Heart. As the fourth band of light and sound raced away, it was joined by the horses moving away from the stone in all directions, scattering the warrior-priests.
But the warrior-priests around her were staring at their hands and the ground, tears streaming down their faces. “The magic,” she heard one whisper.
Ouse gasped. His hands were glowing, strong and bright.
“Cosana!” Lander shouted. “El!”
Gilla jerked around and saw the spirit horses galloping straight up the rise toward them. Cosana was laughing, her hair filled with flowers. El looked sad as he rode past, his hand held up in farewell. Gilla raised her hand in return, and then he was gone with the other spirit horses. Her heart ached in her chest, but she knew he’d ride with her until the snows.
One last spirit rider came up the rise, headed straight for the Eldest Elder, a warrior-priestess with a very intent look, as if stalking prey.
WILD Winds couldn’t quite see all that was happening, but the needle of light nearly blinded him. He felt the warmth of the waves of magic as they flowed over him even as the last of his strength faded.
His knees weakened, and he sagged in Snowfall’s and Lightning Strike’s arms. It would not be long now.
Another grasped his arm. “Stand, Wild Winds. Stand and see.”
Wild Winds frowned, blinking at the sight of Twisting Winds at his side. “Elder?”
Twisting Winds nodded, his wise eyes concern
ed. “One last lesson, young one. Magic is a blade that cuts both ways.”
Confused, he felt a warm body tuck itself under his other shoulder. “Stand, Wild Winds.” Summer Sky’s face was filled with both joy and regret. “One last dance, my friend. That which was taken is restored. That which was imprisoned is now freed.”
“Stand, Wild Winds,” Stalking Cat commanded, both hands on Wild Winds’s shoulders. His fierce eyes forced Wild Winds to raise his head. “One last battle, Warrior-Priest. Embrace the old. Preserve the new.”
“Oh, that’s helpful,” Wild Winds grumbled, but Stalking Cat just gave him a fierce grin and shifted slightly. Wild Winds drew in a sharp breath as he saw Arching Colors racing toward him on horseback, her hand reaching out for him.
GILLA watched as the two who were supporting Wild Winds cried out as the warrior-priestess rode right through him. The woman threw her head back as the horse surged on, holding up something in her hand, her mouth open as if crying out her success in the hunt.
The two supporting Wild Winds lost their grip, and he slowly slid out of their hands and collapsed to the ground.
Gilla looked back at the Heart. The needle of light was still there, swirling, towering. The warrior-priests below were now running toward it. Just as one reached out to touch it—
It was gone.
Gilla blinked at the spots before her eyes, staring at the center of the Heart of the Plains. But it was empty, the stone once again gray and dark.
Ezren, Bethral, and Bessie were gone.
Gilla choked back a sob as Chell wrapped her arm around her shoulders. Lander and Ouse came over and hugged her tight. “Tenna and Arbon live, Gilla.”
Gilla cried that much harder.
The darkness had descended, but the torches and firepits were still lit around the Heart. The female warrior-priest knelt at Wild Winds’s side, but the male was pointing down at the Heart. “Look. Something is wrong.”