Bethral was pale when he finished, and Ezren felt fairly shaky himself, but the limb seemed straighter. “Any better?” he asked.
Bethral gave him a soft, fuzzy smile. “There’s less pain.”
Ezren wasn’t certain if that was the drugs or the bindings, but he was glad for any improvement. He reached for some of the pillows and used them to brace Bethral all around, so she wouldn’t shift in the night. “Sleep, Lady.”
Bethral yawned as he tucked the blanket all around her. Haya said something quietly, and two warriors entered with a brazier of coals and extra blankets. Ezren stayed next to Bethral as they created a second pallet and set the brazier between the two. The room warmed immediately.
Ezren looked down into Bethral’s face. She had cried out only the once, although he had to have hurt her. Such a lovely, brave woman. She’d been hurt because of him. Because of his failure to deal with—
A hand settled on his shoulder. Haya looked at him, compassion in her eyes. She gestured for him to come with her as Gilla held open the tent flap.
His regrets would have to wait. With one more look at Bethral, Ezren rose, and followed Haya.
FIVE
HAYA had already made her decision as to how she would treat this stranger from the sky. She placed the city-dwelling Singer on a stool next to hers. Seo raised an eyebrow as he settled on his stool, set on her other side. “You honor him?”
Warriors were coming into the tent now, so Haya kept her voice low. “What harm? I am told he is a Singer, and I offer him honor. If he is not, then he will have offended me and I have reason to kill him. Either way . . .” She shrugged.
“Yet your token is not displayed.”
Haya looked at Seo out of the corner of her eye. “Well . . . there is honor, and there is honor.”
Seo snorted. “Good to know that you have not lost all your wits. Even if you invited all but the gurtles to see your guest.”
“Warriors only, and the children we might release to the armies soon.” Haya gestured to a server for kavage. “Their curiosity is close to killing them. If I didn’t, they’d be finding reasons to visit this tent for days.”
“True,” Seo said in agreement. “Besides, the young need to see that city dwellers are people much like us. All knowledge is good.”
Haya accepted kavage, and they talked of trivial matters, surrounded as they were by warriors and young ones. The tent was crammed for the meal and people came and went, rotating their duties so to see the city dweller from the sky.
The Singer . . . Ezren . . . seemed to understand that he was on display, and it did not faze him. But he was watching everyone around him. Those green eyes followed every move when the servers began to work their way through the crowd with pitchers and bowls of water for the hand-washing ritual. Ezren focused on her as Haya was offered water for her hands—and he copied her movements. There was sharp thinking behind that smile. She’d heard that city dwellers ate with metal, but again he watched her using her fingers and the flat bread to eat, and he didn’t hesitate to do the same.
He’d no fear of the unknown. He sat smiling, drinking kavage, and trying different foods. Those nearby delighted in his responses and at one point roared with laughter when he tried some of the spiced meat. The burn caught him by surprise, but after a gulp of kavage, he took more and really seemed to enjoy it.
Nor was he stupid. He was asking what things were called and people’s names, and picking up a fair number of them quickly. He was learning their language. She’d have to keep that in mind.
She noted other things as well. There wasn’t a lot of fat on this one. In her days in the raiding armies, she’d seen many a city dweller fleeing her blade. This one was thin, and there was scarring at his wrists. Deep scarring that meant he’d been restrained for some time and struggled against that restraint.
At one point he rose, gave Haya and Seo a bow, and stepped through the crowd. Haya expected him to leave the tent, but instead he went to check on the woman. He just stuck his head in, and then returned to his place, apparently satisfied. He cared for her, that was clear. As to what he was to her, or she to him, well, that could wait.
The meal wound down, as the warriors took their leave and the room cleared. Seo stood, and that was the signal to the last of them that the meal was over. The young would clean and clear.
Ezren stood and stretched as well, then bowed to Haya and Seo. “My thanks, Elders.”
“Our thanks as well, Singer.” Haya responded. Seo gave the man a nod, and Gilla led him off. The young one would see to his needs.
Seo yawned. “Time to seek my bed.”
“Share mine,” Haya offered.
“Share or talk?”
Haya smiled. “Share then talk.”
Seo smiled and reached for her hand.
GILLA and her friends got the cleaning duties. Again. She sighed as she scrubbed a pot with clean sand, up to her elbows in hot water.
“You truly saw them fall out of the sky?” Cosana paused in her drying to stare, her large brown eyes wide in her heart-shaped face.
Gilla nodded, rubbing the pot with the tips of her fingers, looking for any burnt food.
“That must have been something to see,” El mused as he scrubbed another mug. Gilla wasn’t sure which was worse: scrubbing cooking pots or mugs. The pots were hard, but there were so many mugs. When she was a warrior, there’d be none of this for her.
“I don’t believe it,” Arbon muttered, shaking his black-blue curls at her. He was drying mugs and placing them in their storage baskets.
Gilla dropped her pot back into the water and reached for her dagger, baring her teeth at him.
“Stop,” Chell said calmly, stepping between them. The tall, thin black girl gave them both a commanding look with her dark eyes, made even more powerful by her short clipped hair. “Arbon, you are an idiot. Do you hold her token?”
Arbon glared at both of them from under his curls. “She’s no right to take offense. We’re still children.”
“By a day or maybe two.” Chell started to stack the clean, dry cooking utensils. “But once we are released, you’ll be fighting every hour unless you watch your mouth. Think before you speak.” The tall black girl looked at Gilla. “And you don’t need to be so quick. It is hard to believe.”
Chell was always the sensible one. Gilla released her dagger and returned to her pot. “There is truth in that. But it is what happened, and I wasn’t the only one who saw. Urte saw as well.”
“Tell us again,” Lander demanded as he added hot water to the washing. “Tell every detail. It’s something to sing about.”
Gilla looked at Cosana, and they both rolled their eyes and smiled at each other. The others did the same, used to Lander’s ways. The big blond had always wanted to be a Singer from the day he’d learned his first chant, and he always wanted to know what had happened.
Ouse came up with kettles of hot water in each hand. He smiled at Gilla, his red hair and freckled cheeks made even redder by the setting sun. His brown eyes crinkled as he spoke. “Tell him, Gilla, or he will pester you to death.”
“A death to sing about,” Tenna spoke up from the other side of the fire.
That made them all laugh, as Tenna always did. She looked so sweet, with her angled eyes and straight black hair trimmed with bangs, but she had a wicked sense of humor.
Gilla obliged, telling it again, telling Lander all the details.
“He looks so normal,” Cosana commented. “I’d thought city dwellers short and fat.”
“They’re supposed to stink, too,” Tenna said. “But the Warprize didn’t, did she Gilla?”
“Gilla has all the adventures,” Lander complained.
“I only saw her for a moment,” Gilla said. “And only long enough to point her in the direction of the Heart. But come to think of it, she wasn’t very tall, either.”
“Maybe only a few are short and fat.” Arbon stood, towering over Gilla.
“I doubt the
woman is short,” Chell said. “She looks long on her pallet.”
“That horse is huge,” Ouse said.
Gilla frowned as she scrubbed at a stubborn spot. “Yes, and then there is the cat.”
“Cat?” they chorused.
She rolled her eyes and explained. “The last I saw, it was sleeping next to Bethral.”
“You get to see everything,” Lander complained.
“Is this the last of them?” El straightened and handed the last mug to Cosana. “Please tell me this is the last of them.” He focused his smiling brown eyes on Gilla.
A chorus of “ayes,” and they all set to work to finish the cleaning and clearing. Once they were done, they were free to seek their tents.
“Share mine?” El asked Gilla as they walked toward their tiny tents.
“No, thank you,” Gilla said, evading his hand.
El shrugged, and turned to another.
Gilla walked off alone, pleased. Once her duty to the tribe had been fulfilled, she’d earned the right to her own small tent. She enjoyed the solitude and the quiet.
She crawled in and started to prepare for sleep. Alone. The others thought her odd, not sharing, but she didn’t care. She’d done her duty to the Tribe and now she was free to decline as she willed.
At first, she’d been excited about sharing, learning the ways of pleasure between partners. But after that it seemed to her to lose some of its allure.
The Singers sang of the special joys of bonding, of the love between two people who committed to each other, and each other alone. That was what she wanted—a commitment from a partner she respected. Someone who wanted to walk by her side for the rest of her days.
She sighed as she settled on her pallet and pulled the blankets up. Bonding was only for those who had done service in the armies of the Warlords. And truth be told, she hadn’t met anyone who she was interested in bonding with. It would take time—maybe even years.
She was certain it was worth waiting for, so wait she would. Who knew what the winds would bring? The others had their plans, but she was content to wait and see.
She closed her eyes, and tried to sleep, but a pair of green eyes flashed in her mind. That Singer was good-looking. Old, but he had a nice smile. Were the city dwellers bonded? She doubted it, given that Bethral had asked for separate pallets. Of course, she was hurt, but still . . .
Gilla huffed at her own silliness and turned over on her side. She closed her eyes, determined to sleep. There’d be answers in the morning, and maybe, just maybe, they’d be made adults on the morrow. Gilla shivered in excitement. To leave the thea camp and go out in the world. To be able to challenge and—
Winds, she’d never get to sleep at this rate.
SEO pulled Haya in close as the night air cooled their overheated bodies. He nuzzled her neck, licking the soft skin by her ear.
Haya hummed her appreciation, then fixed him with her bright eyes. “We need to talk.”
Seo groaned. “You’ve worn out my body, my lovely one.”
“I need your mind.” She arranged herself in his arms. “And the privacy of the night.”
Seo gave her a sharp glance. “You’d not bothered with my mind before you offered the shelter of your tent to the strangers. Why ask now?”
Haya stroked his cheek. “Because I still have decisions to make, wise one. I know how you feel about Keir of the Cat and the changes he would bring.”
“Young colt.” Seo frowned. “He’s full of fire, ready to sweep all the Plains with his changes. Now this division within the Council of Elders, Elder fighting Elder, Warrior-Priest fighting Warrior-Priest. What good comes of his changes, eh?”
Haya reached over and smoothed the lines of his forehead. “Yet, you stared at the strangers’ horse until I thought you’d forgotten to breathe.”
“It is lovely,” Seo agreed. “So big! I wonder what its young would be like, bred into our herds. And that cat—small and fierce.”
“I do not know what to make of this. I’d already sent for the warrior-priests who would conduct the rites for the children. But this matter”—Haya sighed—“it raises concerns for more than just the Tribe of the Snake.”
“It does,” Seo agreed. “So?”
“If the Council had not been sundered, I would send for the Eldest Elders of the Plains,” Haya said. “All of them, including Wild Winds. They could make decisions about the strangers.”
“Hmmm.” Seo paused. “Eldest Thea Reness went with the Warprize to Xy. Eldest Singer Essa is somewhere close to the Heart, he always is. There is no Eldest of the Warriors, not since the sundering. And the Eldest of the Warrior-Priests . . . To summon Wild Winds? Is that wise?”
“I don’t know from wise,” Haya replied. “But I’d have this information open to the skies. No sense trying to hide it—the tale is probably already on the wind.” Haya shivered a bit, as her skin cooled. “Besides, I want to know more about Keir and his actions. I must decide where to send the young soon. Do I send them to the Heart of the Plains, for the spring contests, as if nothing had happened? Do I send them to serve under Osa of the Fox, and avoid all conflict? Or do I send them to Keir or Antas directly, and choose a side?”
“You could split them up, sending some to both,” Seo said.
“Which is like riding two horses at once.” Haya growled. “I do not see my way clear in this. I would have preferred to talk to Reness. She was ever the sensible one.”
“As the Elder Thea of this camp, it is your choice. None can overrule your decision,” Seo said absently, his thoughts wandering.
“What is it?” Haya asked.
“I . . .” Seo’s voice trailed off for a moment as he considered. Haya watched him, waiting.
“Perhaps it is nothing, but I am uneasy.” Seo frowned. “Maybe it is just this talk of change, but . . . I would move the main camp.”
Haya’s eyebrows rose. “How so?”
“It is a feeling. If I leave you here with the strangers, a handful of warriors and the young, I could move the life-bearers, the babies, and the others off a few miles. Not to separate, but to”—he hesitated—“to keep the littlest ones safe.”
Haya put her hand on his cheek. “Your instincts have always been good, warrior.”
Seo kissed her, then pulled the blankets up over their bodies. “Let us sleep on the matter, since that is all the wit I have left to do.”
“I’ll hold off on any decisions for a while. There’s time.” Haya decided. “After the Rites.”
“The young ones may explode with not knowing.” Seo yawned. “Call a senel and speak with the warriors. Consider the truths of all, then make your decision.”
Haya nodded. “In the meantime, the Singer of the City and his token-bearer will be my guest. We will see if they can learn our ways.”
“They will learn, or they will perish. So it has always been.” Seo growled. “Now sleep.”
Haya huffed out a breath, but she closed her eyes, content.
SIX
“FIVE children?” Ezren sputtered. “Each?”
“That’s what those tattoos on their left arm mean. That’s how they keep track of their duty to the tribe,” Bethral said calmly. She had shocked him, but he had to know the ways of these people if he was to survive.
She watched him consider her words. Once she saw that he was really listening to her, she continued. “Once they have met their obligation, only then are they acknowledged as adults and released for service in the armies of the warlords.”
“But that’s—”
“No, Storyteller.” Bethral raised a finger to make a point. “Assume they are right and you are wrong.”
Ezren frowned but said nothing, waiting for her to continue.
They’d been served their breakfast and their needs had been seen to at dawn. The warriors had rolled up the outer wall of their sleeping area to let in air and sun, and so they had a view of the activity of the area around them.
Bethral sat on her pallet, br
aced by her saddle, her legs stretched out before her. Once the warriors had left them, Ezren had fussed, using pillows to support her legs and back. He’d checked the splint he’d rigged. Her leg had swollen during the night, and he loosened the ties before settling next to her.
The cat had wandered in and claimed a patch of sunlight by Bethral’s feet.
Everyone in the camp was working at something, coming and going. Bethral had pulled her sharpening stone out, and started working the edges of her blades, laying her sword and two daggers next to her.
The fact that her weapons were ready if needed was also a practical benefit.
She drew in a breath, considering what next to say. He had to understand, and she’d repeat herself until he did. “This is a harsh land, and the people of the Plains live hard lives. But they live them, which means that their way of life allows them to survive. It is not our way, that is true. You must respect it or—”
“Die.” Ezren was sitting cross-legged on the ground next to Bethral, the breeze playing with his hair. It was getting longer, starting to curl softly at the back of his neck. Bethral looked back at her blade and started to work it again.
“Still. . . . that they bear so many, then ride off, leaving the babes behind . . .”
“They are a warrior culture. They raid the lands that surround the Plains and take what they need,” Bethral explained. “Those armies are their supply lines. The young need to provide warriors to replace those that are killed.”
She continued to run her stone down the length of the blade. The Storyteller sat silent, looking out over the grasses, thinking, taking it all in.
“Very well,” Ezren said. “They have different attitudes toward sex, child rearing, and marriage. They do not marry—bond—until they have earned a reputation for military service. Everyone is free to sleep with everyone not of the same Tribe, regardless of gender.”