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.”

“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.

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.

“Ah,” Ezren said, satisfaction in his voice.

The sides of the tent were being rolled down, and the tent secured for the night. Haya rose with a smile. “I’ll have Gilla and Lander place these items by your pallets, and you can go through them as you will. I think you will find that my people have done well by you, Ezren Silvertongue.”

Ezren nodded as Bethral translated for him. “Your people have given me a gift as well, Haya. I will tell another, if they will listen.”

Haya laughed. “Oh, they will listen. And I will pledge a saddle and tack to you, for the honor you have done to me this night.”

Bethral shot him a puzzled look, then laughed quietly as Lander and a red-haired lad helped her settle onto her pallet. “Storyteller, the Plains are filled with horses. No one owns the horses. They just are.”

“But, if you don’t own a horse, how do you get one?”

“You call one to you,” Bethral explained. “If you can’t do that, you don’t survive long on the Plains.” She caught her breath as she shifted her hip.

“I’d best see to that leg,” Ezren said. He switched to the language of the Plains. “Lander, what is the name of your friend?”

“Ouse,” Lander answered. “His name is Ouse, Storyteller.”

“All right, the two of you are going to help us.” Ezren knelt next to Bethral.

The young warriors looked confused, but they knelt as well. Ezren clenched his jaw when he saw Bethral shake her head. “I don’t see why you are bothering to—”

“I told a story, didn’t I?” he demanded, reaching out to loosen the bindings on her leg.

“Yes,” Bethral said. “Yes, you did.” There was resignation in her voice.

“Then you can put up with my attempts at healing.” Ezren gestured for Ouse to sit at Bethral’s shoulders and for Lander to grab her ankle. “I acknowledge that I do not know what I am doing, but it is better than doing nothing at all.”

He finished untying the bandages. “Now, Lander, I want you to grab her ankle and pull. A strong, slow pull. And you, Ouse, I want you to brace her, so he can pull the leg straight, understand?”

Bethral made sure that they did, translating quickly. Ouse nodded, and brought his arms under hers, hugging her ribs. Lander grasped her ankle and leaned back, a slow, steady pull.

Bethral closed her eyes and stayed silent, but Ezren could see the pain in the lines on her face.

The bone shifted under the skin. Ezren moved fast, retying the cloths and the wooden swords as tight as he could, making sure the toes faced the right way.

Bethral was stoic, but she was pale and breathing hard before they were finished. Once the task was done, she lowered herself to the pillows and sighed with relief.

“I wish I knew what I am doing.” Ezren drew the blankets up to cover her. “Or that what I am doing is actually helping.”

Gilla and a black-skinned young woman came into their area with their arms full. Bethral craned her neck to look around Ezren. “Is that a sword?”

Ezren glanced at a long scabbard sticking out from under the pile. Gilla pulled it free and handed it to him, but Bethral reached out her hand to intercept it, looking almost greedy. Gilla said something, and Bethral replied as she pulled the odd wooden sheath free. “Oh, this is lovely.”

“I have never seen a sword like that before. How can you wield that?” Ezren asked.

“Two-handed. It’s a lovely blade, but Gilla says it’s not of much use here on the Plains. It can’t be used from horseback, and not many are big enough to wield it properly.”

The blade was bright and very thick. The pommel was large, of polished metal. The handle was wrapped in leather, and there seemed to be two sets of crosspieces. “I don’t see how it could be more effective than a regular sword.”

“You can put a man down fast, with one blow.” Bethral stifled a yawn. “And if you hold it properly, it can punch through armor like—” She lost the battle, and yawned widely.

“We can talk more in the morning. You should sleep.”

Bethral blinked, her eyes watering. She sheathed the sword and laid it next to her pallet. “I won’t argue with that.” She started shrugging out of her tunic under the blanket.

Ezren turned away. “I will give you a bit of privacy, then.” He left the tent, escaping into the night air, ignoring the odd looks that the young ones gave him. They might be comfortable with naked bodies. He was not.

He saw to his own needs, then headed back to Haya’s tent. The stars were coming out in the spring sky, and there was a slight breeze. He paused to look out over the grasslands and the herd of horses that lay beyond.

This land was so lovely, yet so harsh. It was hard to believe that these people could live like this, and yet they did. He could hear laughter from the small tents that surrounded Haya’s.

As he walked back, several warriors saw him and smiled, inclining their heads. He returned the greetings, pleased that the storytelling had been so well received. He had done well enough, given that he hadn’t told a story to an audience in more than two years.

Still, his voice was not what it had been. And would never be again, although the Lady High Priestess Evelyn had held out some hope for the future. He had to face the fact that it was gone for good

He could accept that now, because he’d been gifted with something important tonight. He’d learned he could still tell a tale, could still hold an audience enthralled, even when his words were being translated.

Pleasure washed through him. It was so good, such a wonderful feeling, to tell a tale, to make the audience weep or laugh, or do both at the same time. He’d missed that, missed performing for an audience. To see their faces, eyes wide as they hung on every word. It was a special kind of power and joy, all in one.

It was a good story, filled with traditional archetypes. Blackhart’s restoration to honor, Evelyn having to deal with her internal conflict about Church politics. A classic villainess and horrifying monsters to top it off. There was even a descent into darkness, exploring the dungeons below the keep. . . . Classical elements, to be sure.

Still, he needed to improve. Not on the tale, but on the telling. Ezren frowned, looking at the grasses as he walked. How could he improve on the presentation when his voice was so very harsh? Perhaps he could . . .

He shook his head, as if to wake himself. Perhaps he should concentrate on surviving this little adventure before he worried about much else.

He chuckled to himself as he returned to their sleeping area. The sides of the tent had been lowered, and they were isolated once again from Haya’s portion and the main eating area. He stepped through the flap, then lowered it, making sure it closed all the way.

The young ones had left. There was a low brazier full of glowing coals between his pallet and Bethral’s. Just enough light to see . . .

She was asleep, her hair fanned out around her head. The blanket had slipped down, revealing her soft shoulders. No, those were not the right words. To reveal the soft skin of her powerful shoulders. One hand rested lightly on the pommel of the new sword.

Lust pierced Ezren through, leaving him standing trembling, breathless.

If the Gods of Palins saw into the hearts of men, the Lady of Laughter must be highly entertained that one such as he should desire a lady warrior.

He turned to his pallet, stripped off his tunic and shoes, and slipped between the blankets. He’d leave his trous on for decency’s sake. Not to mention avoiding embarrassment if his feeling should be discovered. He turned to face the tent wall, and closed his eyes resolutely. He’d recite the “Death March of Wils,” an epic poem he’d learned early in his studies. He had memorized all one hundred stanzas in his youth. The unending sufferings of Wils would bring his body under control.

He was on the eighty-third stanza when he finally fell asleep.