“You keep looking back the way we came,” she said. “Why?”
“I don’t . . .” He looked over his shoulder again, the skin between his eyebrows wrinkling up. “I don’t know. I have this feeling. As if I’ve forgotten something. Something important.”
Bethral frowned. “We didn’t leave anything behind in Haya’s tent.”
“It’s nothing,” Ezren said, shaking his head.
“You’re tired,” Bethral said. “We all are. The horses, too. I’ve told the others that we’ll stop early tomorrow once we find a good camp. Hot food, water to wash if we can manage it.” She leaned down and opened his sleep tent. “Crawl in, Storyteller.”
“Armor and all.” Ezren took a final look to the north, then crawled in.
Bethral lowered the top, and he was encased in a moment, feeling the softness of his pallet beneath him. The gurtle pads beneath were also used as saddle pads, so there was a hint of horse in the spicy scent of the blankets. But right now it felt like the finest featherbed.
“Sleep well, Storyteller,” Bethral said. He heard the slight clank of her armor as she moved off. “Tomorrow will be an interesting day.”
He frowned, not sure he liked the idea of ‘interesting.’ It was a clever little tent. He was grateful for the warmth, but the best part was being off the horse.
His body was relaxing, and he took a moment to loosen his armor and get a bit more comfortable. Sleep wasn’t far off, but he was going to try to stay awake for a while.
Ezren eased down, and settled beneath the blankets. The tent had warmed, but there was cooler air seeping through the opening. Bethral had been right, it was very comfortable. But Ezren didn’t let himself relax too much. He needed to think. Because the ache in his chest was growing, and that meant only one thing.
The wild magic was back.
And growing stronger.
SIXTEEN
THE ache in his chest was usually the signal that the wild magic was back—no, that was not the right way to think about it. More like the pressure was building within him to release . . . something. As if lying with a woman, and building toward . . .
Ezren snorted. Lord Mage Marlon had put it in less than elegant terms. He’d likened it to the need to piss.
“Your body knows—you know—and barring illness or extraordinary circumstances you are in control. The urge that builds up, you delay, do a bit of a dance, eventually you gotta go or pee in your pants.” Marlon focused on Ezren. “He can’t, because he’s never learned. He doesn’t recognize what his body and the magic are telling him.”
Ezren fl ushed, and lifted his chin in defi ance. “I am certain I can learn.”
Marlon gave him the eye. “Maybe. You can learn the feelings, what they mean. But can you learn control? Especially when you are angry, or startled, or—”
Ezren rolled over on his back and stared at the leather over his face. “Or when I’m wandering on the Plains, where the only people who can help me deal with this want to kill me.”
“Mrowr.” There was a rustle down by his feet, and the edge of the tent lifted slightly as the cat thrust its head in and blinked at him.
Ezren eyed the cat. “You’re welcome to share, Cat. But no dead mice, if you please.”
The cat squirmed in, claiming the blankets over Ezren’s feet. It pawed and kneaded for a moment, then curled into a ball.
“Next I suppose you will start talking,” Ezren grumbled.
The cat ignored him.
Ezren sighed. He could hear the others settling into their tents or starting their watches. He should be sleeping. Bethral would want to start early in the morning.
Except the ache was growing, the farther south they rode.
It was like a pull, a tug . . . No. It was a longing. Ezren frowned as he thought about that. It was an emotion, and it wasn’t his. He’d asked Josiah about it, back when Josiah was trying to give him lessons. He’d lost control while trying to light a candle. It had felt like the magic had gotten excited. Overeager. But Josiah had shaken his head. “Magic doesn’t have a personality, Ezren. It doesn’t have emotion. It’s a tool.”
Josiah had been a powerful mage in his time, and Ezren had no reason to think that he was wrong.
Except that Josiah had never used or wielded wild magic. Any mage that did was destroyed by the Mage Guild. Which had been why Marlon had tried to kill him the first time he had seen him.
Maybe they were wrong. Maybe wild magic had a personality, had emotions. Maybe it worked off his . . . feelings.
Which was why it had healed Bethral.
That brought a smile to his face, and deep sense of relief. The wild magic might have caused this problem, but it had healed her. It eased some of his guilt, but not all. Bethral was determined to see him—both of them—safely back to Edenrich. Which meant that she stood between him and every warrior-priest on the Plains.
Ezren puffed out a breath. Enough worry. He shifted around a bit, getting comfortable, mindful of the cat at his feet.
Very well. He’d try to use some of this power. He’d try to light a fire, if there was time, when next they made camp. Not a candle—the memory of the burning tent and singed table were fresh in his mind. No, maybe a nice, large fire pit under an open sky. His eyes started to feel heavy.
In the morning . . .
“CHANGE of plans,” Bethral said.
They had gathered together for gurt and water. The horses were all saddled, the gear ready to go for another day of hard riding.
Ezren had slept well, but the first few steps out of his tent had made him wish for magical healing powers for his inner thighs. Lord of Light, he hadn’t known he had muscles in those places, but he knew now. Walking helped, and he assumed riding would help more, but what he wouldn’t give for a hot mineral bath to soak in.
Odd. This little reality was rarely mentioned in the stories and tales of adventure that he knew.
He had a mouthful of gurt when Bethral made her announcement, so he raised his eyebrows, looking for more information.
“There’s a large herd of horses off to the west,” Bethral said as she braided up her hair to stuff under her helmet. “We’re going to mingle with the herd and travel with it for a while.”
“Cover our tracks,” El said.
Bethral nodded as she tucked her braid up. “We’ll move with the herd, stay on the edges, and watch for a good campsite. We won’t make any distance, but we will confuse our pursuers.”
Arbon stood there, his arms crossed. “If we continue to ride hard, and make good time, we will outdistance them. That is a better course.”
“Warrior-priests have magic,” Ouse said. “They will find us anyway.”
Bethral glanced at both of them. “That may be true, or it may not. Either way, I say we join the herd.”
“No,” Arbon said.
Ezren looked at the lad in surprise, but noted quickly that the others didn’t share his emotion. The young shifted about, and suddenly Arbon was facing Bethral across an open space. Bethral just stood there, pulling on her gauntlets, watching Arbon. “What is this?” Ezren asked, conscious of the sudden tension.
“I challenge,” Arbon said. “I challenge you for—”
Bethral took three fast steps, and punched him in the face.
Arbon staggered back. Blood streamed down his nose, and his eyes were wide.
Rage swept through Ezren, focused on Arbon. How dare he—
Bethral was already grabbing her two-handed sword and unsheathing it in one long move. Grim-faced, she positioned herself before Arbon, bringing the blade to bear on him. Arbon fumbled with his sword and shield, and Bethral turned her head just enough to catch Ezren’s gaze.
She winked at him.
Ezren blinked, his anger draining away.
The young scattered, giving the two contestants room. Gilla grabbed Ezren’s elbow, pulling him back.
Bethral waited, letting Arbon get his sword out and his shield in a guard position. He manage
d it, and stood there for a moment, breathing hard.
“Ready?” she asked, arching an eyebrow.
Arbon scowled, his lips parting to speak.
Bethral lunged.
Ezren watched in horror and fascination. Tales told of brave warriors using a two-handed sword to battle their foes. But those tales had led him to expect the wielder would slash and stab with the weapon, bringing it up over her head.
Bethral used it as a club, never raising it over her head. Her first blow smashed into Arbon’s shield, forcing him to stagger back.
Gripping the second crosspiece, Bethral let the blade slide toward Arbon’s head. Arbon blocked with his sword, forcing her blade out and down.
Bethral let him, only to smack his thigh hard with the flat of the blade, enough to make Arbon stagger again.
“Ah,” Gilla said softly. “I best go keep watch.”
“Aye,” El said.
They both slipped off. Ezren couldn’t understand how they could take their eyes off the two fighters still exchanging blows before them.
But after a few more moments, he realized what they already knew. Arbon didn’t really stand much of a chance against Bethral.
It wasn’t that Arbon wasn’t a good fighter. He was. But Bethral was better, and by quite a bit. She also had options with the great sword that he didn’t have. She could use the reach of the weapon to keep him at bay, and slash with the sharp tip.
Even when Arbon tried to press in close, she used the crosspieces to attempt to disarm him, or just smacked him with the flat of the blade.
That young man was going to hurt worse tomorrow than Ezren did today.
Ezren had to give the lad credit. He didn’t give in easily; he kept at it even after Bethral scored the skin over his right eye, and blood poured down his face.
Bethral’s braid had come undone, and her blonde hair swung with her blows. She wasn’t fast; Ezren had seen her spar with other warriors and knew that others were faster. But she made every move count, waited for her best opportunities. He relaxed when he realized that she was enjoying herself.
He relaxed even more when her final blow cracked against Arbon’s shield and sent him sprawling in the grass.
He lay there, breathing hard, as Bethral put the tip of her sword to his neck. He grinned at her. “I yield, Warrior.”
“Really?” Bethral said. She didn’t move her sword. “On the Plains, the rules of challenge are clear. During the spring contests, but not once the army is in the field.”
Arbon’s eyes went wide, and he licked his lips.
“You should have challenged before we left Haya’s camp,” Bethral continued. “I’ve every right to kill you now.”
“Warrior, I—”
Bethral pressed the blade into Arbon’s skin. “Do you think me less than a warrior of the Plains?”
“Warlord,” Arbon gasped, “I yield.”
Bethral pulled the blade back, and turned and walked away. Her eyes flickered over the young warriors, and Ezren could tell that she had noted those on watch. “Mount up,” she said. “We’re joining the herd.”
THE herd was slowly moving south and east. The horses drifted for the most part, grazing and nursing the foals. It wasn’t going to gain them a lot of ground, but Bethral was satisfied. Their tracks were well and truly covered, and there’d been no sign of pursuit. Still, she’d had the warriors spread out on the edges of the herd, scanning the rises around them. She was keeping to the center of the herd. Bessie was tall enough to stand out like an ehat. Not that Bethral had seen one yet, but she was sure she’d know one when she saw it.
She was checking off to the east when Ezren sidled his horse up to Bessie. “Lady Bethral, I fear your idea of ‘interesting.’ ”
Bethral chuckled. “I knew it was coming. Arbon hadn’t lowered his eyes to me, which is a sign of respect between warriors, and he’d been giving me that cocky smile for some time.”
“Damn bold of him, to try something like that,” Ezren said.
“He’d have gained quite a bit of status if he’d taken over the leadership of our journey. Even more if he could claim to have seen us safe off the Plains.” Bethral shrugged. “I don’t blame him for trying, but he won’t do it again.”
“Why won’t he?” Ezren asked.
“That’s not done,” Bethral explained. “You don’t challenge a warlord while on campaign unless the circumstances are extraordinary. And you don’t repeatedly try a challenge after you’ve lost, unless you have gained new skills or experience. The warlord will not spare you a second time.”
“Oh, how I wish I had paper,” Ezren said. “I want to write this down, take notes, so that if we return—”
“When we return,” Bethral corrected him. “Little chance you’ll find paper and pen here, Storyteller.”
“I’m trying to remember everything I can. I could turn it into such a tale.” Ezren gave her a sly look, his green eyes bright. “With young Arbon there the butt of my jokes.”
Bethral laughed as Gilla appeared among the horses and headed for them.
“Warlord,” she said, as respectfully as anyone could ask.
“My name is enough, Gilla,” Bethral said.
“Chell sends word that a pride of cats are following the herd on the western side. They’re stalking right now, but she feels they will hunt soon.”
“Cats?” Ezren glanced at the cat perched on Bethral’s bedroll. Its eyes were half closed, as if sleeping, but its claws were sunk deep into the bedroll.
“No.” Gilla shook her head. “Cats of the Plains, Storyteller. Much bigger. Much, much bigger. Would you like to see?”
“Would I?” Ezren moved his horse forward. “Show me.”
“Don’t become prey yourselves,” Bethral called. She waited until they’d moved off before she started to wind her way through the horses to the eastern side of the herd. With any luck, the hunt would move the herd further east, which fitted her plans well enough.
But she couldn’t help scanning the rises, looking for signs of pursuit. She knew well enough that she wasn’t the only one making plans.
“WELL?” demanded Hail Storm as he entered the tent.
“Nothing.” The young warrior-priest lowered his eyes. “We have scryed, but have not found them in the area of the thea camp.” He hesitated, then continued. “It hampers our efforts that we do not know what the Sacrifice looks like.”
“What of the one that brought us word?” Hail Storm growled as he settled in his chair. “Did she not—”
“A fleeting glance, no more. Reddish hair, and outlined in magic.”
“Keep trying.”
“Elder, we have almost drained this place of its power.”
“Drain it dry, then we will move the camp.” Hail Storm paused. “Have the summons gone out?”
“Yes, Elder. All of the warrior-priests have been summoned. We have even sent out summons to those that wander, but it is doubtful that—”
“To the Heart?” Hail Storm demanded. “You summoned them to the Heart?”
“Yes, Elder.”
Hail Storm paused, aware that he’d been a bit abrupt. “You have done well, Gray Cloud.”
The warrior-priest bowed his head in quiet thanks, and left the tent.
If the magics had been drained, so be it. After years of conserving the power, there was now a need. And such a need. The source of magic, the source of the restoration of their power, was here. Hail Storm’s heart beat faster at the idea of being the one who would lead the warrior-priests back to their glory.
Glory for the people of the Plains, certainly. But what heights of power could he rise to, with the magics returned to the Plains?
But he had to remain focused. The Sacrifice was wandering the Plains, and he must be found and brought to the Heart. Word of this must not reach the warlords or any of the eldest elders. This was a matter for the warrior-priests of the Plains, and them alone.
Hail Storm calmed himself. He’d wandered in hi
s time, wandered the wide outer rim of the world. He’d ventured into the “civilized” lands and learned what he needed to know of other paths to power that the weak feared to tread. When the time was right, he wouldn’t hesitate.
He’d make any sacrifice necessary to achieve the powers of his ancestors.
SEVENTEEN
“THEY surely were not cats,” the Storyteller said. “Closer to lions, I would think. The color is the same, but not the teeth. Theirs were huge.”
They were all gathered by the fire as the stars started to appear. All except Lander and Ouse, who’d drawn the first watch. The cat had climbed into Gilla’s lap, and she carefully scratched the top of its head. It was rumbling fiercely, working its claws against her leather trous.
The warlord—Bethral—had warned her that the cat would bite, so she made sure to keep her fingers well away from its mouth. She wasn’t sure of its sex, and she wasn’t going to explore its nether regions to find out. Those claws were sharp.
“It’s said that a pride of cats can pull down an ehat,” El told the Storyteller.
“What is ‘pull down’?”
Gilla giggled a bit at that. The Storyteller insisted that they all speak with him and force him to learn their language. Bethral was not allowed to translate for him unless he asked her to. So they had to try to use their own language to explain words. El was trying to mime a group of cats killing an ehat, and it was fun to see such a wise one try to figure out the meaning.
“Ah! To kill, to pull down,” Ezren crowed, his green eyes flashing with success. “I want to see an ehat before we leave the Plains. That would be a grand tale.”
They’d found a good camp, one that already had a fire circle, by a pond. Farther east than anyone had planned, because the herd had run quite a way after the Plains cats had attacked. But the alders were heavy, and the water was sweet, so Bethral had ordered an early stop.
The herd had encircled them, to be near the water. Tenna and Chell had set snares for rabbits in the tall grasses, and gotten enough for their meal. Tenna had tried to tempt the cat with bits of raw meat, but it had sniffed it in disdain and then disappeared into the grasses. It had returned apparently sated.
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