Bethral sucked in a breath through her teeth. Haya and the Plains singer were still talking, unaware of what was happening.
The other warrior-priests were staring now, in open surprise. The first one had recovered, and his glare was fixed on the Storyteller. “You four,” he snapped, gesturing with his hand, “take word. Go. Now!”
Four of the warrior-priests turned their horses and galloped off, each in a different direction.
That caught Haya’s attention. “Warrior-Priest, what is wrong?”
“That man”—the Warrior-Priest pointed at the Storyteller—“he is coming with me. Now.”
Bethral growled. She stepped in front of Ezren, who was looking at them all, trying to follow their words.
“He is under the shelter of my tent.” Haya moved back a step, closer to Ezren. She put her hand on the pommel of her sword. “Why do you—”
“You break the rules of hospitality, Grass Fires.” The Singer stood calmly, looking up at the mounted man. “Why do you not follow the traditions of the Plains?”
“We will take him.” Grass Fires drew a lance from his quiver. “Do not stand in our way.”
The Singer frowned, then shrugged and stepped back, taking his horse with him, out of the conflict.
“What is this?” Haya spat. “Do you doubt the strength of my sword, that you threaten one under my protection?”
The three remaining warrior-priests dismounted and pulled their weapons. Grass Fires remained on his horse and pointed at Ezren. “Bind him. Quickly.”
“Seo!” Haya screamed, and charged Grass Fires. They met with a clash of swords. Their horses scattered.
The other two warrior-priests headed for Ezren, who started to back away. Grass Fires was dismounting, aiming his lance at Ezren’s chest, pulling his arm back for a throw.
Bethral fumbled with her support, as if to shift her weight. One of the two warrior-priests glanced at her, then focused on Ezren. His mistake.
She dropped the two-handed sword, pulled her own blade from its scabbard, and lunged. The splints on her leg held, but the bone grated within. Pain flared up, but it was distant and unimportant. Her focus was all on the enemy.
One warrior-priest tried to parry her stroke, but her blade scored off his ribs and cut into his upper arm. She pulled back, and tried to find the second warrior-priest—
But he’d gotten to her first. He came up behind, and kicked at the splints on her leg.
The old wooden practice swords splintered, and Bethral screamed as bone tore through flesh. She collapsed to the ground. The warrior-priest kicked her sword away and stood over her. A dagger flashed in his hand.
Her death was here.
She pulled her own dagger, determined to make him pay a price for it.
SO fast. It happened so fast. One moment he was staring at the oddly tattooed men and women that had ridden up, and then blades flashed, and in the next instant—
Bethral was down, her leg torn in two, with one of the bastards standing over her, brandishing a dagger.
Lord of Light, no! She had been hurt because of him; now she would die for him, and he could not—
Ezren cried out in rage and anger, and the wild magic rose within him, lashing out with hot fury.
NINE
THE Storyteller’s furious scream caught everyone by surprise. Bethral’s enemy made the mistake of glancing in Ezren’s direction.
She didn’t. She lunged at him, grabbing his trous at the waist. With one hand she pulled herself off the ground. With the other, she thrust her dagger deep into his groin.
He screamed and fell, blood spurting from the wound.
Bethral pushed him off. Pain lanced through her body, and she caught a glimpse of glistening white bone and her own red blood. She looked away, trying to focus past the pain. Her sword lay just out of reach, and she twisted to reach for it. Her fingers touched the pommel as the pain surged again, clouding her vision. It was a fight to stay conscious. She wanted a blade in her hand before—
Wild magic lashed past her.
She jerked her head around. The Storyteller stood covered in fire, his face screwed up in agony. The flames writhed around him, reaching out, seeking—
“Down!” Bethral shouted. “Get down, get down.” She didn’t wait to see if anyone listened. She flipped over, pressing her face to the grass, covered her head. Spirit of the Horse, protect me.
Heat washed over her back. She heard a horse screaming, and hooves running off. Her heart stopped at the thought that Bessie had been caught in this nightmare. But she forced herself to stay down.
The heat flared again. The grass around Bethral crackled and fizzed. She tried to breathe through cool soil. For a moment she felt as if a gentle hand had dropped a blanket over her, wrapping her in warmth. The hand squeezed, and her vision blurred as pain surged through her leg. She breathed through it, doggedly determined to stay awake and aware. The feeling was gone in an instant.
It took a bit longer for her vision to clear. She took a breath, listening to the silence around her. There was the smell of smoke and ash and burning flesh.
Carefully, Bethral raised her head and looked around.
The two that she’d attacked lay in the grass, dead. She couldn’t see any horses, and no one seemed to present a threat at the moment.
Ezren Storyteller was down, collapsed in the grass behind her. Pale, and still as death. The top of the tent behind him was burnt away, the leather edges smoldering.
Bethral rolled to her side to see better, and lifted her head higher.
There was another body, the warrior-priest they’d called Grass Fires. He . . . it . . . was charred black, the skin and muscle crisped. The smell . . .
Bethral swallowed hard and started to breathe through her mouth.
A rustle of grass, and the Singer . . . Quartis . . . lifted his head to look around.
Footsteps, and Haya appeared, grim and covered in ash and soot. She moved quickly, her sword out and her gaze fixed on Ezren Storyteller.
Bethral sucked in a breath. Haya was going to kill Ezren.
Her sword was gone, but in the grass close by was her makeshift crutch. Bethral jumped up, grabbing the two-handed sword. With one swift move, she ripped the cloth bindings and unsheathed the weapon. She dropped the scabbard and blocked Haya, bringing the bright blade up in a guard position.
Haya jerked to a stop. She stared at Bethral.
Bethral paused, in sudden realization. She was standing, free of pain. Her leg . . . the trous torn, ripped away. Beneath the fabric, her leg was whole and healthy. Healed.
Haya recovered first. Her eyes narrowed to a glare. “What monster have you brought into my camp?”
“No monster,” Bethral snapped back. “Did he violate your hospitality? Did he attack any that did not attack us first?” Bethral eased back a step, conscious that Ezren lay behind her, helpless.
Haya followed, her blade still at the ready. She glanced over the bodies on the ground, at the unharmed Quartis still trying to get to his feet. Her gaze flicked to the burnt tent and back to Bethral’s leg. She stopped advancing, but the look in her eyes . . .
Bethral spun, bringing the blade around in an arc. Seo was behind her, close to Ezren. With a snarl, she used both hands to brace the blade, and lunged—
“Stop!” Quartis commanded.
Seo froze.
Bethral diverted the tip of the blade, missing Seo. Her lunge carried her forward, and from the look on Seo’s face he knew that the blade would have pierced his chest. They stood, breathing hard, waiting.
Haya growled, “Singer, you do not have the right—” “I do not,” he agreed. “But I have seen enough to want to know more. So let us declare a battle truce among us, that we may see to our dead.”
“So be it.” Seo stepped back, sheathing his sword. “With any luck, the Storyteller is dead.”
Bethral sucked in her breath, then snarled in rage.
Seo backed away, eyeing her carefully. They
all moved off, Haya calling for more warriors to aid her. Bethral waited until they were out of range of swords, then fell to her knees beside her Storyteller. Her mouth dry with fear, she reached out and touched his face.
Pale, and cold to the touch. It didn’t appear that anything was broken. She bent over him, her hair falling down, curtaining off the rest of the world. The barest puff of breath touched her cheek.
Her heart leapt in her chest. Alive, he was still alive, praise the skies and the stars and the winds in between. She combed his auburn hair off his face, taking a liberty she wouldn’t have dared if he were conscious.
His dark lashes fluttered, and Bethral caught a flash of green. Joy and relief made her laugh out loud. Without another thought, she kissed him.
Lips touched lips, and a thrill shot through her, down to her toes. Like a fine wine, and she wanted more, so much more. His lips moved in response, and she moaned at the sensation. More, she wanted more and—
She jerked her head away, shocked at her daring. Dazed green eyes stared into hers, confused.
A sound brought her to her feet, sword in hand.
The young were all standing there, staring at them wide-eyed.
“REMOVE everything that is mine from that tent,” Haya growled at Urte. “Return it all to the main camp. Put it in Seo’s tent for now.”
Urte wasted no time, signaling other warriors to come with her.
“Guard them,” Seo said to a group of four warriors standing around him, their lances in their hands. “Do not approach, do not threaten, but guard them. If they ask for food and drink, provide it. Understood?”
Haya looked around. “I want the young to return to the main—”
“Too late for that,” Quartis said, pointing with his chin.
Haya looked over, and cursed when she saw the young warriors clustering around Bethral and Ezren. She opened her mouth to summon them, but the Singer put his hand on her arm. “Wait,” he said.
Haya watched as Bethral shook her head, and waved the young ones away. They moved off, and turned to help the other warriors with the dead.
“She takes no advantage,” Quartis pointed out.
“He threw fire,” Haya snapped. “Did you see what is left of that warrior-priest?”
“I did,” Quartis replied calmly, which set Haya’s teeth on edge even more. “I was on the ground, yet unharmed. Would your blade leave an enemy any less dead?”
Seo growled, his sword still in his hand. “We’d have been better off killing them when they fell from the sky.”
“As to that, I cannot say. What is, is,” Quartis said as he watched the blonde warrior care for her Singer. “I’d like to know more before decisions are made.”
“What did that warrior-priest say?” Seo demanded. “Those four riders tore off in a hurry, and at his command.”
“Two words,” Quartis said. “ ‘Take word.’ ”
They stood silent for a moment, each in their own thoughts.
“What did they see, that he would send word out in the four directions?” Haya asked.
“We’ll have more of them swarming down on us, then.” Seo sheathed his sword. “And soon.”
Quartis looked out over the Plains. “Let us get kavage and talk. There isn’t much time. I would hear how it happened that they fell from the sky.”
BETHRAL made sure the young ones had moved off before she gathered up her weapons and struggled to lift Ezren off the ground. She staggered under his weight. He was no longer the emaciated, beaten slave that she’d bought for a copper in the market. She managed to get him to his pallet, and covered him with blankets in an effort to warm him.
Ezren wasn’t truly conscious, thankfully. His eyes were open, and he responded to her commands, but he seemed only dimly aware of his surroundings. If the skies were kind, if his Gods were kind, he’d not remember that she’d kissed him.
Once under the blankets, Ezren sighed, then drifted off to sleep. There was a bit more color in his face, and his hands felt warmer.
Then Bethral set about her task.
She packed the saddlebags, both hers and the new ones Ezren had been gifted with. She took everything, trying to sort as she went, but she’d leave nothing behind. Everything had a use, even if only to be bartered away. She noticed some odd small sacks but didn’t bother to open them. Everything could be explored later. Right now, she had to be ready to mount and ride in an instant.
As she moved about, she worked her leg, taking the time to stretch the muscles. The absence of pain, the strength in the leg—Ezren had to have healed it with the wild magic. It was the second time her life had been given back to her, and it felt so odd to be healthy again. To have hope again. She’d resigned herself to her own death, but now . . . now, they’d be able to travel together.
Bethral flushed. Not that he’d have any interest in one such as her. A gentle maid of courtly airs, one skilled in the feminine arts, would be more suitable. Still, the Plains were wide and the trip would be a long one. She’d be satisfied to be at his side; to return him to his rightful place in Queen Gloriana’s court.
She noted the guards as she moved about. They were not threatening, but they were there for a reason. Bethral couldn’t blame Haya for her anger. There was no magic on the Plains except what was wielded by the warrior-priests, and Bethral had a firm idea that they didn’t wield fire as a weapon. Otherwise, they’d have guarded against it, wouldn’t they?
She paused in the packing, and considered. Her armor was stacked in the corner.
Packing could wait. She stripped off her tunic and trous, and reached for her gambeson and plate. Hope for the best. Plan for the worst.
She’d barely finished belting on her weapons when she heard the Storyteller moan. She knelt at his side. He stared at her for a moment, then awareness flooded his face. “I lost control.”
“You did.” Bethral offered him a mug of water and helped him support his head as he drank. “How do you feel?”
“Weak.” Ezren licked his lips. “Sore.” He blinked. “You—your leg?”
“Healed.” Bethral stood and gestured. “See?”
He gave her a blinding smile, but then frowned. “I seem to remember . . . What happened?”
Bethral settled him down as she spoke, and told him what he wanted to know.
Ezren closed his eyes, and his face grew tight. “I killed—”
“Those who threatened us,” Bethral finished firmly. “You defended us and healed my leg in the process.” She paused. “You did not kill anyone who did not threaten us.”
“Why did they attack us?” Ezren opened his eyes. “He deliberately—”
“We have other things to worry about.” Bethral looked over her shoulder, and then shifted to face the front.
Haya, Seo, and the man with the beaded hair stood there. Haya’s face was grim as she took in Bethral’s armor. “You will give my words to him,” Haya demanded.
Bethral stood. “I will give your words to Ezren Storyteller.”
“We called a battle truce, to see to our dead,” Haya looked down at Ezren.
“That is well,” Ezren replied. “Even though they threatened me and my token-bearer, I would not have their bodies dishonored.”
Bethral translated, careful to use his words.
“This is Singer Quartis. He wishes to hear your truths, if you will share them with him.” Haya gestured to the unknown man, who nodded
“The Singer honors me,” Ezren replied, speaking in their language. Bethral gave him a quick smile of approval, but noted his exhaustion. He was coming to the end of his strength. “We will hold a senel tonight, and decide what is to be done,” Haya said.
“Who will speak for us at this senel?” Bethral demanded. “Will no one hear our truths?”
“The senel is for those of the Plains.” Haya bristled. “You still have the shelter of this tent,” she added, casting an eye up to what was left of the top. “We will move you to an undamaged portion.” She hesitated
, then continued. “You harmed none but those that threatened you, and there was no harm to the horses or the young. You did not violate our hospitality. However”—she drew a deep breath—“I cannot—”
Bethral felt a tap on her foot. She looked down and saw the Storyteller struggling to sit up. “I missed that,” he said.
She knelt, helping him to stay upright. He listened as she explained what Haya had said. “Tell Haya the safety of the children is first before all else. You and I will abide by the decision of their people, as long as they do not call for our deaths.” Ezren sagged back against the pallet. “Tell her we understand, and we thank her.”
Bethral did so.
“You are tired. We will speak later,” Quartis said. “The senel will be called. We will consider all the truths of all concerned.”
With that, Haya, Seo, and Quartis walked away.
Bethral watched them go, Seo joining the young ones who were clearing the dead. “I do not like this. Not one bit.”
“No choice,” the Storyteller whispered. “If nothing else, we need the saddle she promised . . . and . . . directions.” His eyes fluttered as he fought to stay awake.
“I already know the direction to go,” Bethral said softly as she eased him down to the pallet. “Urte gave it away that first time, when she looked away when I mentioned Palins.”
There was no response. The Storyteller’s eyes were closed, and he was already asleep.
TEN
GILLA held her breath and swallowed hard, trying not to purge her stomach. Thankfully, the others looked like they were having the same problem.
“Breathe through your mouths,” Seo said gruffly as they worked. “It helps.”
She’d dealt with the dead before, but mostly those who had died in childbirth, or babies who had faded away. She’d seen corpses before, but not ones killed in combat. And never one burnt beyond recognition.
Seo had directed them to gather the bodies on blankets. It had been Lander who had nudged her and pointed his chin in the direction of the tent. She’d turned and seen Bethral check Ezren Storyteller. Her face had blazed with joy, and then to see them kiss . . . such passion.
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