“Yes. Do not be shocked if you see men kissing men.”
“That’s not so shocking. It is not common in Palins, but not an issue except for the noble houses, where the bloodlines must be preserved.” Ezren drummed his fingers on his leg. “I wish I had paper, to write this all down.”
“No written language, so—”
“No paper.” Ezren flashed Bethral a smile. “And they have perfect memories. They remember what is said, all of them?” Ezren ran his fingers through his hair.
“Mother said those of the Plains never forget.” Bethral smiled. “It made it hard for us kids sometimes.”
“I would hear that story someday, Lady.” Ezren’s green eyes focused on her face.
Bethral held her sword up and ran a finger along the edge, looking for nicks. “Someday, Storyteller. But for now—” She arched an eyebrow in his direction.
Ezren nodded. “They also take offense easily unless there is a token involved. And those fights can lead to death, but no one thinks twice or will interfere.”
“Always ask for a token if you think your words will give offense,” Bethral said. “Attacking one who holds your token is a terrible violation of their ways, and they will kill you for it.”
“And a token can be anything except a weapon, but the higher a warrior’s status, the more important or impressive a token is.”
“We need to get you one.” Bethral thought about that for a minute. “Maybe one of the gold coins in my saddlebags.”
“You said they don’t use money.”
“They don’t. A gold coin is shiny and unusual. So it would work as a token.” Bethral pulled her saddlebag over and started rummaging.
“Fine.” Ezren accepted one of the coins and tucked it into his sleeve. “So. Perfect memories, five children, quick to avenge an insult with weapons . . . is there anything else I need to know?”
Bethral suppressed a smile. “Yes. But that is a good start.”
His green eyes flashed at her, as if he sensed her mirth, but then they went wide with what could only be horror. “They won’t expect us to have children—will they?”
A chill ran right down his spine. Lord of Light, would they expect him to . . . breed? He would not—
“No.” Bethral gave him an odd look. “They will not. They understand that we are from a different land with different ways.” She hesitated, then looked away. “You can expect invitations to share, Storyteller. You are . . . exotic.”
To them. Not to her. Ezren shook his head deliberately. “Let us not complicate this situation any more than it already is. How do I say ‘no’ without offending?”
“Just say ‘no,’ ” Bethral said softly. “There will be no pressure. Disappointment, though.”
“I can deal with disapp—” Ezren cut off his words as a shadow fell over him. He looked up and saw Haya standing before them. And now he saw her with new eyes.
Haya was a thea, one who raised the children of the Tribe. As Elder Thea her word was law in this camp . . . even Seo, as Elder Warrior, acknowledged her authority. She ruled the camp as surely as Gloriana sat on the Throne of Palins.
Gloriana didn’t yet have this confidence or this air of power. Haya wore her armor and weapons with ease, and he could see that they were of the best quality. Her white hair and weathered face spoke of years of experience. Odd to think of a nursemaid wearing a sword.
Ezren stood, and bowed his head to her. He spoke slowly, careful of each word. “Good morning, Elder Thea Haya.”
She studied him, then gave him a slow smile. “Good morning, Ezren Storyteller, Singer of the City.” She raised an eyebrow. “You learn fast, Singer.”
“My thanks, Elder,” Ezren said.
Haya settled down on the grass, facing both of them, and said something to Bethral fairly quickly. Ezren had a feeling that she was complimenting him, but then he caught the word “token.”
Bethral had set aside her weapons when Haya arrived. She stiffened slightly at Haya’s words, but reached within her saddlebag and drew forth a braid of gray horsehair and ribbon.
Ezren narrowed his eyes but said nothing. He knew that bit of hair. Bethral had cut it from the mane of her dead horse, Steel, a large gray gelding that had died trying to protect her during the ambush by the bog. He swallowed hard at the memory of her grief at the horse’s death.
She handed it to Haya.
Haya took it and placed it on her knee. They began to talk rapidly. He couldn’t follow the conversation, but once in a while he caught a word that he knew. Nothing out of the ordinary, except that they seemed to refer to the weather quite often.
Ezren also knew enough courtesy to stay silent. He kept his eyes on the two women, watching their eyes, their hands, trying to interpret their discussion. There was tension between them, but more on Bethral’s part than on Haya’s.
Haya leaned back, and sighed. She picked up the token and held it out to Bethral, saying something that sounded like a rote piece.
Bethral waited until Haya stopped speaking, then took the token and responded in turn. He would have to ask about that once Haya left. There was more to the token than just the exchange.
Haya stood, brushing off her trous. She gave Ezren a deliberate nod, then walked off without another look.
Bethral was playing with her token, running it through her fingers.
“Is it going to snow?” Ezren demanded. “Or did I misunderstand that word?”
Bethral didn’t look up. She just tucked the token back in the saddlebag. “We need supplies, Storyteller. Need to earn our keep, in the eyes of the Tribe.”
“We can trade.” Ezren gestured toward the horse barding and Bethral’s armor. “Much though I hate to do it, we can—”
Now she looked him in the eye. “It will not be enough. You must tell your stories, Silvertongue.”
BETHRAL hated to push Ezren, hated that she’d put that look in his eyes, but it had to be done. A singer had value, and to have the Singer of the City sing in this camp would bring them what they needed.
She knew what she asked of him. She’d held his broken body in her arms—she’d been the first to discover that his captors had cut out his tongue. He’d been broken physically, and he bore the scars to prove it. Evelyn had explained that his voice had suffered as well.
But not his spirit or his mind. Ezren Silvertongue, with the help of the healing magic of the Gods, had recovered faster than she’d ever thought possible. And his mind—that quicksilver mind—had aided the Chosen even before his body had recovered. Still, he’d refused to tell stories in Edenrich; he’d written them out instead.
Haya had made it clear that they had a few days at most. Bethral had no choice. Ezren Silvertongue had to return to Palins, to aid the young Queen, and she had to make sure that he was well on his way before she took her own path.
He’d frozen up, his hands clenched in fists.
“The young are being released soon.” Bethral picked up her stone. “It’s normal to grant them adulthood, then celebrate for a few days to let them work off their energy before sending them to serve.” Bethral ran the stone over the blade again. “Now would be an ideal time to announce a story. You honor them in your timing—and the warriors will honor you with gifts in exchange for the stories. Practical gifts that will give us the supplies we need. We need to prove your value to the—”
“Our value,” Ezren said through his locked jaw.
Bethral stayed silent for a moment. She set the stone aside and reached for her polishing cloth. She worked it over the blade once, watching Ezren in its reflection. “A wounded warrior has little to no value. There is no shame in this—but right now my only value is to interpret your words. If we get supplies and horses—you can leave.”
“You need time to heal. You can’t ride until the bone is set.”
Ah, he was so brave and so stubborn. “You forget one thing.”
“What?”
“We must get you out of here as soon as possible.”
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“Why?”
Bethral looked up and met his glare. “To protect them from you.”
SEVEN
NOW those green eyes cut right through her, bright and angry. Bethral returned the look calmly, not looking away, waiting.
It didn’t take long before understanding flooded into his eyes. “The wild magic.”
“It may not be with you now, Storyteller, but we can’t pretend it’s not there. If—when—you lose control again, we need to be as far away from these people as possible. For if you explode in the sight of these tents, they will not hesitate to kill you.”
His head was down, his eyes hidden. Bethral drove home the point. “And who knows how many you might kill in the process?”
He sat, still and silent. Bethral finished the polishing and sheathed her sword. “You need to tell stories,” she repeated. “Soon.”
“I cannot—” Ezren stopped at the sound of footsteps.
Gilla was standing before them, looking very nervous, and a tall, handsome blond boy was next to her. When they saw that she had Bethral’s attention, both of them knelt in the grass before her.
“Bethral of the Horse, Token-bearer, we would ask you to give our words to Ezren Storyteller, the Singer of the City.”
BETHRAL was nodding to the children before Ezren could say a word. They rose to their feet, then knelt again, this time facing Ezren.
“I don’t know what they want, but that is not necessary.” Ezren shifted, uncomfortable with this recognition.
“It is necessary,” Bethral said softly. “The young are required to have absolute obedience and respect for their elders. They are being careful, because they do not know our ways. They wish to ask a favor of you.”
“Very well, then.” Ezren gestured to them. “I will listen.”
Bethral spoke, then listened as Gilla talked for a moment, never raising her eyes.
“The boy is Lander of the Snake,” Bethral explained. “Lander wishes to learn our language, and that of any other land you know. He plans to be a singer, and he wants to learn of other lands. He asks that he be allowed to serve you when his duties permit, and offers to help you learn their language in exchange.” Bethral stopped, and asked a sharp question. Both Gilla and Lander responded.
“They have asked Haya’s permission in this, and she has consented.”
“He can’t think me much of a singer, not with this voice.” Ezren spat out his words, conscious of the bitterness rising in the back of his throat.
“This is the only voice I have ever heard you speak with,” Bethral replied. “And it’s the only voice they know.” She paused. “None of us has anything to compare it to, Storyteller.”
Ezren stared down at his hands, the scars barely covered by his sleeve. He’d never thought of it like that. She’d seen him only as a crippled slave, his tongue cut out, unable even to control his bowels. Yet, there was a look of something else in her eyes. Dare he think it admiration?
“What shall I tell them, Storyteller?” Bethral said. “I warn you, Lander may follow you around like a lost puppy.”
Ezren looked at the two kneeling before him, their heads bowed. So young to be so intent, so serious. Had he looked like that to old Joseph Taleteller? “Yes,” he heard himself say, not really aware that he had changed his mind. “Tell him I am honored.”
Bethral spoke, and both Gilla and Lander jerked their heads up with wide smiles.
Ezren drew a breath and spoke fast, before his brain could catch up with his mouth. “And ask him to take a message to Haya for me. I will tell a story tonight.” He couldn’t believe what he was doing. The sick in the pit of his stomach grew. “Tell him to spread the word, then come back here, and we will start to teach each other.”
Gilla and Lander jumped up, their faces filled with delight as Bethral spoke. They raced off before Ezren could reconsider, calling back what had to be their thanks.
“Bravely done, Storyteller.” Bethral lifted her eyes to his. Dare he think there was a hint of admiration there?
More likely she was proud that her “stray” had grown a backbone. That was what Red Gloves had called him back in the barn when . . . He ran his fingers through his hair and tried to think of other things. “And what do all those references to snow mean?”
He had caught her off guard, and an embarrassed flush rose on Bethral’s cheeks. “To go to the snows means to die.”
Ezren grunted, then stood, brushing off his trous. “I thought so. I would remind you, Lady, that I am city born and bred. I need a guide to return to Palins. Alone, I would wander these grasses until I died.”
Bethral’s gaze dropped to the dagger in her lap.
Ezren looked at her golden head, and hated himself. It was his fault she was here, injured, forced to sacrifice herself for his worthless hide. Something clenched in his chest at the idea, but he forced it down. Not now. . . not here . . . he’d not fail her again.
“So.” His voice was rougher than normal. “I am going to go find more kavage. Then you had best help me pick an appropriate tale to tell, Lady. For I doubt very much these people will comprehend Romando and Julianna.”
Ezren strode off, ignoring Bethral’s snort of laughter behind him.
And trying to ignore the churning in his stomach.
TO Bethral’s delight, Haya’s tent wasn’t big enough.
The young warriors helped Bethral shift to the wooden platform, braced by a mound of pillows. A stool had been placed for the Storyteller, who sat as if facing a tent crammed full of Plains warriors was an everyday event.
They were rolling up the tent walls now, allowing even more people to crowd in, yet still breathe.
Bethral had to admit that she had butterflies in her stomach, since her job was to translate Ezren’s words for the crowd. She wished she could figure out a way to stand that would allow her to make sure she was heard, but she wouldn’t be able to last through an entire tale. The pain was bad enough just being shifted to this part of the tent.
Ezren Storyteller seemed calm with Lander kneeling on the other side, ready to provide whatever he needed. Those two had been together all afternoon, pacing around the camp. The Storyteller had claimed he thought better on his feet, but Bethral was sure he’d been working off his nerves.
He wasn’t the only one with nerves. Status was important to these people, and Ezren’s performance as a singer was the turning point. Ezren had decided on a story to tell, but had refused to share the information. He had, however, promised to talk slowly, to allow her to translate as he spoke. Bethral wasn’t sure that would work for the telling of a tale, but they’d make do with what they had.
Ezren stood, and waited as everyone sat and grew quiet. He looked around the tent, gathered their attention, and then bowed his head to Haya and Seo, who were seated before him.
They returned the nod, clearly pleased at his civility.
He raised his hand, palm up, as if holding out an invisible gift. To Bethral’s shock, he spoke in the language of the Plains. “May the skies hear my voice. May the people remember.”
There was a stir all around him, then a response rose from all those present. “We will remember.”
Bethral caught the pleased look Ezren and Lander exchanged before Ezren turned his bright green eyes on her, to see if she was ready. Apparently those two had already started their lessons.
“Hear now a tale of the Lady High Priestess Evelyn, a woman of great power and highest virtue, and Orrin Blackhart, Scourge of Palins, a warrior with a dark and terrible burden. Two people, different as night and day, who came together to fight the monsters that threatened their land.”
Bethral stared at Ezren, wondering if he had lost his mind. That story?
Ezren raised his eyebrows.
Bethral translated, speaking as loudly as she could. There was an odd murmur from the crowd, and she realized that they were repeating her words for those on the outer edges of the group. She relaxed then, and concentrated on Ezren and
finding the right words. This wasn’t the tale to tell, to her way of thinking.
She need not have worried. Ezren held them spell-bound. He didn’t seem to act out the story, but he used his body language and facial expressions, changing his voice just enough that the characters seemed to come alive. He even seemed to become one of the monsters, his face slack and expressionless as he described the gray rotting flesh falling off their bones.
It wasn’t perfect. Bethral felt that her translation drew attention away from where it should be, on the Storyteller. A few times she had to remember not to get caught up in the story itself.
They didn’t care. The audience sat quiet, reacting in just the right places, as they listened to the story. They were wide-eyed as he spoke of Evelyn’s kidnapping and Orrin’s pending execution. No one breathed as the Storyteller told the tale of magic wisely used, and magic abused horribly. Bethral saw some tears at the final wedding ceremony, when Evelyn’s and Orrin’s hearts were joined in marriage. Some ideas were universal, it seemed.
At the very end, in the silence after his last words, Ezren lifted his palm again, and spoke again in their language. “May the people remember.”
Again the response came. “We will remember.” Then the tent shook as they cheered, with joyous cries of “Heyla!”
Haya called out her praise as well, then continued, “My thanks, Ezren Storyteller. You honor us.”
Ezren sat on the stool, and bowed his head to her. His breathing was even, but Bethral could see a sheen of sweat on his forehead. His face was serene, yet he seemed both pleased and strangely surprised at his success.
Lander brought kavage as the tent slowly emptied, the warriors talking in low voices about what they had heard.
“Well done, Storyteller,” Bethral said.
Ezren glanced at her over his mug. “Are you sure? No one gave us—”
Bethral pointed with her chin to the far wall of the tent, where a pile of items had been left.