Ezren swallowed hard, and looked out at the emptiness around him in bleak despair.
And straight into the startled brown eyes of a young girl hiding in the tall grass.
GILLA lowered her head and started to scrabble back fast, crawling away from the man. She was so stupid, to be seen like that. She’d—
A firm hand grasped her ankle, and Gilla froze.
The hand squeezed once, and Gilla breathed again. She looked back and saw Urte’s calm face. Relief washed over her. Urte was an elder. She’d know what to do.
Urte crawled forward, followed by Helfers, his dark face so serious. Both in leather armor, armed and grim. Relief flooded through her. Helfers was also a strong warrior, his skill with a sword well known.
They came up on either side of Gilla, until their heads were level. “Report,” Urte whispered.
“Two people, a man and a woman. A horse, too.” Gilla spoke fast. “Urte, they fell from the sky!”
“I saw,” Urte offered reassurance. “Continue.”
“They are not of the Plains. They seem hurt. The woman and horse wear armor. No weapons that I saw. Something small moved at the man’s side, but I didn’t see it clear.” Gilla stopped. “He saw me, Urte. I—”
Urte’s look silenced her. “Did he attack you?”
“No.” Gilla shook her head.
“What does that matter?” Helfers whispered. “They are not of the Plains, and therefore must die.”
Urte ignored him and considered the path Gilla had left in the grass. “The horse. Hurt?”
“It’s up, legs splayed. It looks exhausted,” Gilla said.
“Helfers, to the right. Make no move until I give the command.”
Helfers grunted, and wormed off through the grass. Urte started to crawl as well, angling away from Gilla’s path. Gilla sighed. She’d be ordered back, she just knew it, and wouldn’t get to see anything.
Urte looked back at her. “Go back up there, and wait for my command.”
With a thrill of pride, Gilla obeyed.
THE girl had disappeared, but Ezren suspected she had gone to summon others. Frankly, it was the least of his concerns.
He got to his feet slowly, easing up as his muscles protested. A pause to catch his breath, as pain and exhaustion washed over him. Then he staggered over to Bethral’s horse.
Bessie stood motionless, her legs splayed, head hanging down. Poor beast. She didn’t react as he pulled the saddlebags and bedroll off her back, trying to get to the waterskin.
Ezren cast a glance back toward Bethral, but she was still silent and motionless. She’d want him to see to her horse before anything else, so he knelt by Bessie’s head and dug around for anything he could use. Finding a bowl, he filled it with water.
“Come, now,” he said softly, putting his wet hand under her nose. “Come on, Bessie.”
The cat emerged from the grass and started to rub against Bessie’s foreleg, a deep rumble coming from its chest.
Bessie snorted, started to lick at Ezren’s hand, and then put her nose in the bowl. Ezren struggled to give her as much water as he could, but the bowl wasn’t really deep enough for her to drink.
“Better?” he asked as Bessie lifted her head and straightened her legs.
It was all he could do for now. He crawled back to Bethral’s side, dragging the waterskin, saddlebags, and bedroll with him. He fumbled with the buckles and got the bedroll free. He settled the blankets around her as best he could. He didn’t dare move her, but she’d stay warmer this way. Besides, he wasn’t sure what else to do.
As he tucked the blankets around Bethral, Ezren used the concealment of the covers to pull one of Bethral’s daggers from her belt. He stuffed it in the grass by his leg, out of sight but well within reach.
He settled back on his heels and looked down at her.
He doubted there was much in the way of healing supplies in the bags. What he wouldn’t give for the Lady High Priestess and her healing magic to be standing next to him. But he might as well wish Edenrich Castle would appear around them.
Not a bird in the air, yet the meadowlarks seemed to be singing all around him. Ezren pulled the waterskin close and wet his fingers. He reached out and stroked Bethral’s pale cheek, and blew gently on her face. “Lady Bethral, wake for me.”
No response.
“Lady Bethral.” Ezren tried to keep his voice soft, but the rasp of it grated in his ears. His finger traced a damp line over her forehead. “I have no clue where we are, or how we came to be here, but I need you to wake up, Lady. We both know that I am a man used to city comforts. You are a skilled warrior, Lady, used to the trials and travails of the wilds.”
Bessie jerked her head up, and snorted.
The grasses moved, and armored warriors rose to surround them, swords and lances in hand. One of them barked out something in a language that Ezren did not comprehend.
“I do not understand you,” he responded as he fumbled under the blanket for the dagger.
LADY Bethral, wake for me.
She was dreaming. She had to be. She’d heard that husky voice call her name only in soft, sweet dreams.
There was a dull throb in the background of her dream, and it seemed to be her leg. It was a promise of pain to come, and she recognized it well. She’d enough experience with injury to know not to move without learning more. She knew full well it would be bad.
Better to float, and listen to that voice.
But . . .
Duty called her forward, demanded that she respond. But she didn’t want to answer. She wanted to listen to the dream, to pretend. . . .
Duty was a bitch.
A different voice spoke then, harsh, demanding, in a language she knew. Her eyes snapped open at the words, as fear surged over her.
“Intruders! Explain yourself, or die!”
THREE
EZREN froze as Bethral spat a word, and then yanked him down to sprawl in the grass. With one smooth move she sat up, took the dagger from his hand, and threw it.
Shouts came as the warriors dived for cover.
“Bragnect!” Bethral cried the word again as she twisted around, up on her good knee, drawing her other dagger. “Stay down,” she hissed, her face gray with pain as she scanned the grass that surrounded them. “How many?”
“At least four,” Ezren said, trying to remember to breathe as he stayed flat in the grass. “I have no idea where we are—”
“The Plains.” Bethral cut him off, reaching for her helmet. “We need to get to my horse and—”
A voice shouted from the grass. Ezren stared at Bethral’s face, watching as she hesitated, then called a response.
There was silence then, as if their enemy was considering her words.
“A reprieve?” Ezren whispered. “What is going on?”
“I confused them.” Bethral kept her voice low, and her dagger ready. “What happened before I woke?”
“I roused, got water for Bessie, and then tried to wake you when a child appeared in the grass—”
“Child?”
“A young girl. She disappeared as soon as she saw me.”
“A thea camp, then,” Bethral mused. “Not a war camp.” She glanced at Ezren, then back out at the grasses. “The children here can be as deadly as the adults.”
“Lady, how did we get here?” Ezren asked. “I remember . . . I was upset. Something about a bill for damages . . .”
Bethral snorted. “Blackhart’s men. You came out into the courtyard—”
“There was a man, a black man, standing there, covered in scars.” Ezren paused as it came flooding back. “Lord of Light, the wild magic flared. Those manacles—”
“Failed.” Bethral nodded. “They crumbled away to nothing.”
“It is a wonder that the Lord Mage Marlon did not kill me.”
“I stopped him.” Bethral didn’t look at Ezren. “When it looked as if the wild magic would destroy us, Evelyn opened a portal, and I brought you through.”
Her blue eyes flickered in his direction. “How do you feel?”
“Sore.” Ezren frowned. “I am not sure why.”
“You were wracked by convulsions,” Bethral said calmly. “But I meant the magic. Do you feel like it will flare again?”
“No.” Ezren put his hand to his heart, but felt nothing. “It is quiet. It would appear that I owe you yet again, Lady. It seems—”
A voice called out a question from the grass. From the tone, Ezren could tell it was making a demand.
Bethral replied. From the sound of her inflection, she was making demands of her own.
The voice responded.
Bethral grunted. “It seems we might have a chance, after all. Help me with this. I need to remove the plate from my right arm.”
Ezren rose carefully to his knees. “What if they attack while—”
“They promised not to.” Bethral gave him an odd look. “While they have odd ways, they have honor, Storyteller.”
He did not doubt that, but didn’t say anything. He rose to his knees. “How do we get this off?”
“There’s two straps.” She held out her arm for him, all of her weight on her good knee. This close, he could hear the pain in her rough breathing. “Just under there.”
Ezren fumbled a bit, but the piece came off to reveal the thick, quilted gambeson beneath.
“Cut it.” Bethral handed him her dagger. “At the seam, if you can.”
Ezren sliced the sleeve at the shoulder.
“Help me up.” Bethral clenched her jaw. Ezren slipped her arm over his shoulder and helped her to stand. He wrapped his arm around her waist, and let her brace herself against his hip.
Once she was stable, Bethral glanced his way. “For now, stay silent. I’ll explain this later, I swear.”
“I will hold you to that, Lady,” Ezren whispered.
Bethral called out to their unseen enemies, then reached around and tore her sleeve down to display her upper arm. Ezren glanced over, surprised to see a row of tattoos. There were two columns of four lines each, black ink against her skin.
A warrior rose from the grasses and stepped forward slowly, showing empty hands. Ezren watched as she approached. Bethral tensed, but took no further action. Together, they waited as the woman came close, and studied Bethral’s arm.
BETHRAL held her breath until the warrior stepped back and smiled. “So now those of the Plains fall from the skies? There’s a song here, I am certain.”
Bethral sagged a bit against the Storyteller, and felt him take her weight easily. “And long in the telling.”
The woman considered both of them. “Bethral of the Horse, I am Urte of the Snake.” She tilted her head to one side. “You missed with the dagger.”
“No,” Bethral said, keeping her gaze on Urte. “I did not.”
Urte barked a laugh. “Is this one also of the Plains?” She jerked her chin at Ezren.
“No,” Bethral said. She could only hope she remembered the right words. “He is Ezren Storyteller, honored Singer of Palins.”
Ezren frowned when he heard his name, but said nothing.
“Palins.” Urte’s eyes flicked off to the distance and back. “Far from his home, then. What is he to you?”
Bethral bit her lip. Never had the temptation to lie been so strong within her. She’d always believed that honesty was the best course, but . . . how she wanted to claim him as her own. Instead, she chose a phrase that those of the Plains would understand even if Ezren Storyteller did not. “I am his token-bearer. We know not how we came here, and our only wish is to depart in peace.”
With that, the pain hit her hard. Bethral’s vision grayed.
“Ah, where is my courtesy?” Urte moved to help Ezren lower Bethral to the ground. “Sit, warrior of the Plains. I have sent for our elders.”
EZREN lowered Bethral to the ground, keeping a careful eye on the strange warrior. “Reprieve?”
Bethral was pale, taking deep breaths. There was a faint sheen of sweat on her face. “Yes. They have sent for their . . . leaders.”
“Lady,” Ezren said as he knelt at her side. The woman warrior knelt as well, but her attention was focused into the distance.
“My mother was of the Plains.” Bethral answered his unspoken question. “The tattoos on my arm mark my . . . lineage. My membership in the tribes. She taught all of us children the language and the ways of the Plains.” A chuckle escaped her, sounding more like a sob. “I am going to wish I had paid better attention to my lessons.”
“We need to get you to a healer.” Ezren leaned over and pulled the blanket across the grass to throw it over her shoulders.
“As to that”—Bethral drew a shuddering breath—“Storyteller, listen to me. They have no healing.”
“Nonsense.” Ezren shook out the blanket. “Of course they have healing. What do they do when someone is hurt or injured?”
“They kill themselves.”
Ezren froze, looking at her. “That is madness.”
Bethral sighed as he pulled the blanket around her. “Storyteller, do yourself a favor. Assume they are right.”
“What?”
“They live in a harsh land, and they live by very different rules. But they live—even prosper. If you want to live, best to accept their ways.”
“And you?” Ezren’s voice grated in his throat.
Bethral shook her head. “They are a nomadic warrior people and they have no supplies or time to waste on the wounded. I’ll be expected to—”
The woman warrior called out, waving her arm over her head. Two warriors appeared on horseback, headed in their direction.
BETHRAL tried to sit up as a sign of respect, but Urte pressed a hand to her shoulder. “Stay.”
The two elders rode close, and dismounted, walking through the grass toward them. An older man, wearing armor that was a mixture of leather and chain. His skin brown and wrinkled, and he was as bald as could be. His eyes were bright blue and considering.
The other was a woman, also tanned, her hair a bright white. Her armor seemed of even better quality, with more chain than leather. Her brown eyes focused on Bethral’s arm. They both drew closer.
Bethral extended her arm for consideration, and the woman took her wrist, studying the tattoos. The woman wet her thumb, and smeared it over the markings. Bethral suppressed a shiver at dampness on her skin.
“So,” the woman said, “it appears you are truly of the Plains, for all that you fell from the sky. I am Haya of the Snake, Elder Thea.”
“I am Seo of the Fox, Elder Warrior,” the man added. “We greet you, Bethral of the Horse, and offer you and the Singer shelter within our tents.”
Safe. He was safe, for now. Bethral dropped her gaze. “Thank you, Elders.”
Haya grunted, as if pleased. Seo paused, and considered Bethral’s leg. “Although, it would be better, perhaps, that our tent comes to you.” He turned, and shouted for others to bring supplies. Warriors went running at his commands.
Ezren still knelt next to Bethral, watching the faces of those around him.
“Your injury, it’s a bad one, eh?” Haya asked.
Bethral nodded. “It is, Elder. But I must see to the Singer’s safety before I go to the snows.”
“As to that,” Seo said, “there is time for talk, Warrior.”
“There have been . . . events,” Haya added.
“Events?” Bethral asked.
“Change is in the wind, Warrior,” Seo answered. “And none know if it bodes ill or good.”
“Change?” Bethral blinked away the sweat. “On the Plains? But my mother said that the Plains is as the land. Unending and unchanging.”
Haya nodded her understanding. “So it is, and so it has always been. But now one has come that brings change with her.”
“Who?”
“A Warprize.”
FOUR
IT was hard to take it all in. Ezren stood watching while people swarmed around them as if from nowhere.
A
nd such people! He was used to the different skin colors and races; Edenrich was a trading city, after all, and held a mixture of all types of people.
But here . . . the contrast could not be greater. Here all the people wore armor and carried weapons, even those he’d normally think of as children. But there was an edge to them, a vibrancy that was missing in Edenrich. In his home, people came in all shapes from fat to lanky and all the sizes in between. But here, everyone was fit and hard. A people ready and able to go to battle.
It was disconcerting, to say the least.
He sat by Bethral’s side as a huge piece of leather was spread on the grass, then trampled until it rested flat. Then a pallet was made of large swaths of felted wool, piled high.
Two warriors assisted Bethral and settled her on the pallet. As Ezren spread blankets over her, Seo and Haya settled on stools nearby. Seo angled his stool so that he could see the action, and kept gesturing and calling out commands.
Ezren could read faces well enough to know that his oversight was not really appreciated.
Haya was talking to Bethral in the strange, fluid tongue of the Plains as the activity swirled about them. Bethral listened intently, without interrupting. Ezren listened with half an ear, watching as the warriors worked. They were erecting a tent around them, one of the biggest he’d ever seen, when a familiar word caught his attention.
“Xy?” He crouched at Bethral’s side. “Did she say Xy? As in the Kingdom of Xy?”
Haya looked at him with bright eyes as Bethral spoke. “Haya says that the Warprize is from the Tribe of Xy. Do you know of it?”
“From old stories of long ago,” Ezren said. “A far mountain kingdom—it was on a major trade route at one point, according to legend.”
“Apparently the Warprize is Xylara, a princess—”
Ezren shook his head. “They don’t use that title. They would call her a Daughter of the Blood or Daughter of Xy. And if that’s her name, she is the first female child of the monarch. They use Xy—”