Who could say that the winds did not have a sense of humor?

He looked back at the green-eyed man and the blonde woman just behind him. Two city dwellers, holding the fate of his world in their hands. All the wisdom of his elders told him what he should do. And yet . . .

“I am the Eldest Elder of the Warrior-Priests of the Plains,” Wild Winds began. “I have led my people as I was taught—as my elders were in their turn taught. There was wisdom in the ways—our ways—or so I thought.”

The Storyteller sat, still and quiet, as if absorbing every word. Perhaps he was, but these city dwellers had such bad memories . . .

“Now—I am no longer certain. Change sweeps over the Plains as surely as a grass fire and with almost as much destruction in its wake.” Wild Winds could not keep the pain out of his voice. “Now warrior-priest fights warrior-priest and the Council of Elders is sundered. I’d hoped to restore the Council, perhaps even talk more with young Xylara, the Warprize. Even find an understanding with Keir of the Cat, for he hates the warrior-priests more than most.” Wild Winds shook his head. “I have little time left. Know you our ways?”

Ezren nodded as he listened to Bethral’s translation. “Your people seek the snows when ill or disabled.”

“I will lead my people to the best of my ability for as long as I may.” Wild Winds straightened his back, his decision made. “I will speak to you as I would a young warrior-priest with his first tattoos.”

“I will remember your words, Elder,” the Storyteller said.

“We warrior-priests are the Strength of the Plains. Once we walked with the magic, and the magic and the land were one. We kept our people strong and proud. Magic was gifted to us by the elements themselves, and the land that nurtured us.” Wild Winds recited the old tale slowly, so that Bethral could translate.

“Warrior-priests have always sacrificed for the Plains and its people. We sacrifice our names, taking new ones. We sacrifice our blood, to create our blades. We sacrifice our bodies, to bear the ritual tattoos. We sacrifice our bones”—Wild Winds looked at the three skulls on his staff and could almost hear his mentors echo the words as he spoke—“so that our knowledge is passed down to those that learn from us.

“But somehow, for some time, we no longer walk with the magic. The land and the magic were sundered in a time long past the living memory of any warrior-priest.” Wild Wind kept his voice low. “But we know—we remember through the truths of those that came before, for their words have been passed from the old to the young, in an unbroken chain, to this moment.”

“How many?” the Storyteller whispered. “How many old and young?”

Wild Winds held up a hand, his fingers spread wide. “Ten generations. And each elder tells the young warrior-priest the same thing upon initiation: ‘Magic was taken from the Plains. Only the blood of the Plains can restore it, in a willing sacrifice. Willing blood, willingly spilled.’ ”

Bethral stiffened. Ezren glanced at her and she translated for him, but her glare was only for Wild Winds.

“The magic was lost,” Wild Winds continued. “Now we are but a shadow of our former selves, using what little magic remains within the earth. It is bare and thin, and used only with the greatest need. We no longer have the magics; therefore we maintain our status through silence. Thus it is, and thus it will be until the magic is returned to the Heart of the Plains.”

Ezren leaned forward. “How did it happen? How was the magic lost?”

Wild Winds shook his head. “The details are lost. All we know is that it will be found again, and returned to us—”

“Through willing sacrifice,” Ezren mused. He ran his fingers through his hair. “And what magics do you still wield?”

Wild Winds shook his head again, his locks swaying back and forth. “That I will not say.

“For years, we have sent wanderers out into the kingdoms that surround the Plains to search for the magic. To find it and return here—to be the willing sacrifice.” Wild Winds looked up at the sky. “Yet here you sit. A city dweller. Not of the Plains, yes?” Wild Winds focused back on Ezren. “Perhaps you are of the blood?”

Ezren shook his head. “Not that I know of. I am a son of Edenrich as far back as my own history goes.”

“It was but a hope. You would bear tattoos, had any in your family been of the Plains.” Wild Winds shrugged. “I can only assume that when Grass Fires saw you and what you bear, that he . . . was too swift in his actions.”

“He paid,” Bethral growled.

“So he did.” Wild Winds nodded. “But others will try to bring you to the Heart of the Plains. There are those that would perform the ritual with or without your willingness.”

“What is the ritual?” Ezren demanded. “What is the sacrifice?”

“We do not know,” Wild Winds said. “All we know is that the sacrifice must be made at the center of the Heart of the Plains. Beyond that—” Wild Winds shrugged. “We do not know.”

“Except that it involves blood,” Bethral said, trying to keep the anger out of her voice. “You are going to ask him to go to his death.”

“I do not know what I ask.” Wild Winds stared at Ezren. “But I do ask.”

“I don’t believe—” Bethral growled.

Wild Winds raised his hand and cut her off. “I ask this of you, Ezren of Edenrich, Singer of the City. Come with me to the Heart of the Plains under my protection. Once there, I will summon all of the warrior-priests, and we will try to resolve this with no further shedding of blood. What say you?”

“Can you promise his safety?” Bethral demanded. “Here, before the elements, can you promise that if they can’t restore the magic, they will allow him to go free?”

“I cannot,” Wild Winds responded. “But if the magic does not leave him, he will die anyway, consumed from within.”

“So you want him to return the magic to arrogant bastards who think more of their—”

Ezren reached back and put his hand on her knee. The Token-Bearer cut her words, but her eyes still flashed with anger.

“The warrior-priests are no longer of one mind,” Wild Winds explained. “There are those that will honor my pledge to you. Others will not. It matters not. The magic you bear cannot be sustained by any one man.”

“I am new to the Plains. New to your ways.” Ezren spoke slowly as Bethral translated. “I am new to the power I bear. What has happened to me in the last few years, since I was enslaved, I understand very little of it.

“It seems to me that the warrior-priests of the Plains have cared too much for their own prestige and too little for the people they are supposed to serve. But how am I to judge the truth of that, being an outsider?”

Ezren paused, and Wild Winds waited. When Ezren continued, he did so in his own language. “I hate bullies.”

Wild Winds looked at Bethral, who began to translate.

“I hate those that try to force my actions or words by threat of violence or injury. In my homeland, my voice was . . .” Ezren hesitated, then continued. “My voice was silenced, so that I could not speak of my opposition to the actions of others in power. And violence was used to try to force me to speak words I did not believe, to force me to tell stories that had no truth to them.

“Now, warrior-priests have tried to kill my Token-Bearer and to take me by force. Their actions speak louder than your words. I will not aid them.” Ezren stood, and inclined his head. “I thank you for your truths, Wild Winds. But I . . . we . . . are going home.”

Now her back was to the warrior-priest, and it itched. She couldn’t see them, but she was certain there were other warrior-priests hidden in the tall grasses. It was all she could do not to look back. Ezren was walking forward without a single backward glance, and Bethral could do no less. Haya was watching; she would have to be satisfied with that.

“Your talk is done?” Haya growled once Ezren drew close.

Ezren nodded.

“Then let us return to the camp. Who knows what forces lurk in the grass.” Haya started walking, but Bethral noticed she kept her bow strung.

“My thought as well,” Bethral echoed.

“Arrogant fools,” Haya grumbled as she walked, scanning the grasses around them. “To refuse to talk to me, then to speak to you and bind your tongues . . . it’s a wonder the sundering did not happen before this time.”

“Wild Winds did not bind my tongue,” Ezren said as he kept walking.

Haya stopped in her tracks.

Bethral stopped even with her, keeping watch. “Ezren,” she called.

Ezren looked back and frowned. “What?”

“Singer, I would ask for your token,” Haya said.

Ezren fumbled in his sleeve for the gold coin, then gave it to her.

“We should keep moving,” Bethral said.

Haya ignored her. “I would give voice to one truth.”

“I will speak to your truth,” Ezren responded.

“City dwellers forget things,” Haya said quickly. “Is it possible that you have forgotten that Wild Winds sealed your mouths? Bound you not to speak of what was said?”

“No,” Ezren said firmly, then continued in his own tongue. “Yes, it is true I do not have a memory such as yours. But I would never forget a promise to stay silent or to keep what is said to myself. If you did not hold my token, I would be insulted.”

Haya looked at Bethral, who translated for her, then added her own assurance. “It is as he says, Elder Thea. I offer my own truth with his.”

Haya shook her head in disbelief.

Ezren reached out for his token, and Haya returned it. “Crafty bastard, isn’t he?” Ezren pointed as he put the coin in his sleeve. “Wild Winds can’t bring himself to tell the tale to anyone of the Plains, so he uses us instead.”

“We need to keep moving,” Bethral insisted.

“Will you tell me what he told you?” Haya demanded.

“Yes,” Ezren said. “But then we have to leave, Haya. More warrior-priests will come, and the children must be safe.”

“You will tell me what he said?” Haya repeated, as if she doubted his words.

“Everything,” Ezren said.

“But not here,” Bethral added.

“No.” Haya started to walk again, picking up her pace. “No, tonight, after the Rite of Ascension begins. We will gather in your tent and we will talk.”

“Rite of Ascension? For the young ones?” Ezren asked. “Can I watch?”

“No,” Haya said firmly. “We will return to the camp. You will sleep, and I will summon those I trust to guard you. After the rite begins, we will talk, but we must speak swiftly. Because at dawn, you must flee.”

He reached for the other bowl. “Water, receive my thanks for witnessing these truths.” Just as carefully, he poured the water on the ground and covered the dampness with the bowl.

He lifted both hands, palms up, and tilted his head back. “Air, receive my thanks for witnessing these truths.”

Finally, he bowed, setting both palms firmly on the soil. “Earth, receive my thanks for witnessing these truths.”

Wild Winds rose to his knees, letting his hands rest on his thighs, and took a deep breath.

A rustle of leaves, and Snowfall rose from the tall grass, sheathing her dagger at her belt. Her soft brown shoulders were covered in tattoos that were not yet complete, as befitted one who had not yet made her final vows as a warrior-priest. “You heard?” he asked.

She nodded as she moved toward the pile of sod and reached for a piece. “What will happen, Elder? When he dies?”

“I wish I knew.” Wild Winds used his staff to lever himself to his feet. The skulls swung on their leather strips and clattered together. “It is his choice, and we will abide by his decision.”

“The others will not, Elder.” Snowfall knelt and pressed the sod back into place.

“That is beyond my control,” Wild Winds said. “We will conduct the rite of passage for the young of this tribe, and then I will seek out other warrior-priests who will still listen to my truths.”

“As you wish, Elder.” Snowfall took up another piece of sod.

“It is not as I wish, but it is as it is,” Wild Winds growled. “And you should do as I bid.”

Snowfall said nothing as she pressed the grass back to the earth.

“Perhaps you have not heard my words?”

“I have, Elder.” Snowfall raised her lovely face and fixed her light gray eyes on him.

“You wish me to travel to the Heart of the Plains where the contests for warlord will be held. You wish me to find Simus of the Hawk and seek to serve as his token-bearer.”

“So,” Wild Winds said, “you do listen. If Simus achieves the status of warlord, he will be able to support Keir of the Cat. And you—”

“Elder,” Snowfall interrupted, “I do not see—”

“We cannot continue as we have,” Wild Winds repeated patiently. “The sundering of the Council of Elders means that we must end our isolation and our silence. Simus will have the status of a warrior-priest as token-bearer, and you will have access to Simus and, through him, to Keir the Cat and the Warprize.”

“He will never accept—”

“He will. In time,” Wild Winds argued. “It is what I ask of you.”

Snowfall looked up. “I will not leave you, Elder. You have taught me all that I know of our ways, and I will—”

“Obey your elder. Your eldest elder,” Wild Winds said. “As you honor me, you will do as I bid.”

Snowfall shrugged, and started to place the last piece of sod.

“I assume that silence is assent,” Wild Winds commented dryly.

“Silence is silence, unless the silence speaks to the listener,” Snowfall replied. “Is that not what you taught me, Elder?”

“Bitter indeed, the retort of an ungrateful student who learns her lessons all too well.” Wild Winds sighed.

Snowfall shrugged. “The contests for warlord are not for some time yet. The task can wait.”

“Summon the others,” Wild Winds said. “We will perform the Rite of Ascension and then depart.”

Snowfall rose. “After that, Elder?”

“The winds alone know.”