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 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.”

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.

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.”