As the sun began to set, they were escorted into her portion of the tent. “The rite has begun,” she said softly as she settled in the chair beside Ezren. “Tomorrow morning, when the children emerge as warriors, there will be feasting and pattern dancing until everyone drops with exhaustion.”

“Pattern dancing?” Ezren asked.

“Group dancing,” Bethral murmured. She was standing just behind his shoulder.

“Ah.” Ezren would ask for more details later, if he remembered. For the hundredth time, he wished he had paper and ink, so he could write down everything about these people. Might as well ask for a portal to Edenrich.

For now, he’d just have to trust to his storyteller’s memory and remember what he heard and saw. But as he watched, more warriors entered the tent and settled down before them, and all he could think was how very different everything was here on the Plains.

“I’ve gathered the ones I trust.” Haya spoke for Ezren’s benefit alone. “Old and wise. We must hear, and we must consider.”

Ezren nodded and watched as a few more entered. Haya had seen to food and drink, with pitchers of kavage warming in braziers and bowls of gurt. Finally, Haya gestured, and the flap was sealed with what seemed to be a hundred bells. They chimed softly as people moved around the tent, settling down.

“So”—Haya raised her voice as the last one took his seat—“we are guarded and private. I would have you hear the words of Ezren Storyteller, Singer of the City, words that even I have not yet heard. But before he speaks, let us make sure we all know of recent events.” She started with the arrival of Ezren and Bethral.

There were fifteen warriors all told—a few that Ezren recognized, a few he didn’t. They listened in silence, their full attention on Haya. Some had their eyes half closed, looking down, absorbing the words.

She told of the fight with the warrior-priests, and the discovery of Wild Winds seated out on the Plains. Then she turned to Ezren, and all that attention focused directly on him.

Ezren glanced at Bethral before he started to talk, to make sure she was ready to translate. He didn’t want to risk any misunderstanding with this information. And he didn’t embellish, either—there was no need for dramatic pauses. The information was enough. He saw that in their eyes as he spoke of what Wild Winds had told him.

The warriors were silent, still, deep pools taking in every word. They reminded him of someone else, another warrior who had listened intently to the secret that he had shared. He frowned a bit, and forced himself to focus on the task at hand.

Finally, Ezren reached the point where he told Wild Winds that he would not go to the Heart of the Plains. There was silence after his last words, then Haya reached for a pitcher of kavage and poured him a mug. Everyone filled their cups and some took handfuls of gurt.

“This is the night of the Rite of Ascension, when our children emerge at dawn as warriors.” Haya spoke softly. “This is a night normally spent in consideration of what is past and what is to come. Joy that our children have grown tall and strong. Pain that they now leave our tents for the freedoms and the dangers of the Plains.”

Seo grunted. “But not this night.”

“No.” Haya drew a deep breath. “Not this night. The Singer of the City has honored us with information withheld by the—”

“Bragnects,” Urte growled. The warriors around her nodded in response. “Bragnects, all.”

That word. Bethral had used it when they’d first been challenged. Ezren turned his head slightly in her direction.

“A grave insult,” came a soft whisper. “To be used with care.”

“Is that a hard ‘g’ or a hard ‘c’?”

There was a pause, and a stifled cough. “They have no written language, Storyteller.” Bethral’s voice sounded a bit strangled. “It can be as you wish.”

“Ah.” Ezren turned his attention back to the group.

“Their status and power are all they care for,” another warrior spat. “May they wander in the snows forever.”

“Yet . . .” Seo waited until he had everyone’s attention. “Yet it is a warrior-priest that gives us the very information that has been withheld for so long.”

There was a murmur at that.

“Wild Winds is a clever fox,” Ezren said, then hesitated. “You know foxes?”

There were many smiles at that. “Aye, we know them well.”

“Seo is of the Fox Tribe, Storyteller,” Haya said with a smile.

“Oh.” Ezren flashed a nervous grin. “Then you know what I mean.”

“We do,” Seo said. “And I agree. I think Wild Winds is caught between rutting ehats and raging grass fires.”

“Pah. He does little enough, if what he says is true,” Urte said. “Does he offer the Storyteller aid with what he bears? No. ‘Come with me or die’ is all that he says.”

“He did not bind my words,” Ezren said. “By speaking to me, he spoke to you, even if it was indirectly. Maybe”—Ezren hesitated—“maybe he didn’t offer more because he has no more information to offer. No protections to give.”

“A warrior-priest who is . . . dying . . . and who has not sought the snows . . . his truths may not be considered,” Quartis spoke up. “For all their claim of magic, who has heard of a warrior-priest who cannot heal his own pains, eh?”

“What magics do they have?” Ezren looked intently at the faces around him. “He said their magic was weak and thin now. Do you know?”

A warrior growled. “For years, they have claimed much, and done little for the tribes. They have taken of the best of the raids, and claimed the prime meats of hunts. They swagger around as if the elements moved at their will and whim.”

“They are said to be able to heal,” Quartis said. “But they heal only those they deem worthy. They withhold that power more often than not.”

“And now we know why,” Urte grumbled.

“They disappear with no warning, out in the grasses,” another warrior added. “Seeming to disappear into the land itself.”

“And they seem to know things before any other, as if the messages ride the wind,” Seo said. “How else did Wild Winds know what had happened so fast?”

“One thing I know for certain,” Haya said. “I have never seen them throw fire at an enemy, Storyteller. Never once have I seen such a thing, in all the battles I have fought in. That I have heard of only in the oldest songs.”

“Songs so old, they are sung rarely. Songs of warrior-priests wielding magics in battle. Of calling fire from the skies, and freezing enemies with blasts of cold,” Quartis nodded. “Had I time, I’d sing them for you.”

“But time is what we do not have. The night flows past us like a stream, and we must make decisions before the rite ends.” Haya poured herself more kavage. “So—”

“We must leave,” Ezren said firmly. “Wild Winds said that more warrior-priests will come, and I will not endanger your camp. The children—”

“Peace, Storyteller,” Seo said. “I agree.”

There were nods all around.

“We are not comfortable with what you bear, Singer,” Haya said. “Although I think you would burn yourself to a blackened husk before you would hurt a child.”

Ezren gave her a grateful look.

“But the real question is where?” Quartis mused. “Where should you go?”

“I see three choices,” Haya said.

Ezren felt Bethral shift behind him.

“Three?” Seo looked at her. “Name them.”

Haya held up a finger. “They can return to their own land and seek out the wisdom of their own people in this matter.”

Ezren didn’t react, but he knew full well that the most experienced mages in the Kingdom of Edenrich hadn’t known how to deal with him and his rogue powers. But he kept silent.

Haya lifted another finger. “They could seek out Keir of the Cat and the Warprize. Who knows, perhaps the appearance of the Warprize called these people here.” Haya snorted. “If it is change Keir wants, here is change by the handful.”

“And the final choice, Haya?”

Haya hesitated, then lowered her hand. “They could seek the snows.”

Ezren jerked.

“I do not demand this,” Haya said. “But if you cannot control the magic, and you do not wish to see it used by the warrior-priests . . .” She let her voice trail off. “I know that is not your way, but it is ours.”

“No,” Ezren said firmly. “I understand your words, but we are going to return home. Wild Winds claims that the magic I bear is of the Plains, but I have no proof of that. We will go.”

“Then I will end this senel now,” Haya said.

“But there is more we need to decide,” Seo protested. “What will we do now that we—”

“True,” Haya said as she rose to her feet. “But these two must prepare to leave, and I will not waste another moment of their time. Later, we can debate what to do with our knowledge. For now—”

“We must end this talk,” Quartis said. He rose to his feet as well. “I wish you well, Storyteller.”

Ezren nodded as the others rose and left the tent.

Haya retied the flaps. “There is much to say, and little time.” She knelt on the edge of the platform. “Look here.”

She dipped her finger in a mug of kavage and drew a large circle on the rough wooden planks. “These are the Plains.”

Ezren leaned over as Bethral knelt next to the circle.

“The Heart lies here, beside a large lake.” Haya wet her finger again and dotted the center of the circle.

“The Kingdom of Xy?” Ezren asked. “Where is—”

Haya placed a dot almost due north of the Heart.

“Palins?” Bethral asked.

Haya placed a dot to the southeast of the Heart. “And we are here.” Her finger pressed a point just below the Heart of the Plains. “The mountains that circle the Plains are high and vast, but in certain places they are easily crossed.”

“That’s how you raid the surrounding kingdoms,” Ezren said.

Haya nodded. “As far as I know, there are but small trails into your land. But in a few places, like Xy, there are wide valleys that will take you to other lands and cities.”

“How far?” Ezren asked, pointing to the dot that was Palins. “How many miles?”

“Eh?” Haya looked at Bethral.

“How long to get there?” Bethral said.

“I do not know for certain.” Haya shrugged. “Almost a full round of the seasons.”

“A world away,” Ezren said slowly, studying the drying markings on the rough wood.

“To seek out the Warprize would take us past the Heart. I do not think that is wise. So we should head south,” Bethral said. “The most direct path.”

“No. The warrior-priests will expect that,” Haya replied softly. “Go northeast. There is a trade route through the mountains to the cities of Dellison. Those of the mountains will see you through.”

“Dellison shares a border with Soccia,” Bethral said.

“We don’t have much coin,” Ezren pointed out.

“But we have my sword and your stories,” Bethral replied. “We might not travel in the highest style, but we’d get you home.”

“Dellison, to Soccia, to Palins and home.” Ezren shook his head. “Months of travel.”

“But once you are off the Plains, you are safe—or at least safer,” Haya said. “Away from the warrior-priests and their schemes.” She looked at Bethral. “Tell no one of your path. Head south from the camp, then circle to the east and north.”

Bethral reached for the mug of kavage and spilled it on the platform, erasing the crude map. “Thank you for your wisdom, Elder.”

“There is more.” Haya looked at Ezren. “Some of the children”—she paused with a rueful smile—“some of the warriors have asked to quest, to travel with you and see you safely home. I have agreed to their request.”

“The young ones?” Ezren frowned. “Haya, no. They are children—”

“Children that know more about survival then we do,” Bethral said. “At least, under these conditions.”

“They are warriors now,” Haya said. “They have a right to make their own decisions. Normally, the young ones go off to the Heart to join the armies of the warlords once they have been selected. But that is not always the way. They will restore the honor of our tribe by seeing you home. Once that is accomplished, they can seek out the service of a warlord or take some other path. That is their choice.” Haya sighed. “I know you will take a great care for them, even as they care for you.” She stood. “You need to prepare. Bethral, come with me and we will see to the horses.”

“The new warriors will be disappointed that they will miss the celebrations,” Ezren said.

“Little do you know, Storyteller.” Haya chuckled. “They will think themselves in one of your stories, living a great adventure.”

The cat was spread out on Bethral’s pallet on its side, taking up every inch of space it could. When it spotted him, it half curled onto its back, purring roughly.

“Oh, no,” Ezren snorted, “I reach down to scratch that fat stomach and you bite me. I am not fooled.”

The cat half closed its eyes and increased the intensity of its rumbling.

“We’re going home. You had better stick close, because we are going to be moving fast.” Ezren rattled on, kneeling down to start rolling the bedding. Bethral had given him instructions, and it seemed easy enough.

“Although the Lady knows you are getting fat on the mice here.” He was babbling. He knew very well he was babbling, rattling along, talking to a cat, for the love of the Lady.

Haya’s words came back, haunting him as they echoed in his brain.

Living a great adventure was not a comfortable thing. People suffered in great adventures—died, even. He should know. He’d been in a few “adventures,” hadn’t he? Some, like Bethral, came out unscarred and unchanged. Others . . . he looked at the scars on his wrists. Others were not so lucky.

Not that he wished anyone to be hurt, or to have to go through what he had endured. Still . . .

He chuckled ruefully. He had told those kinds of stories for years, watched his audience suffer with the heroes. But those were not just characters that he had made up in his head. At one time, they had been real people, flesh and blood, flesh that suffered and blood that spilled.

And true enough, heroes suffered in stories. Else of what interest would they be?

The cat lifted its head, as if spotting prey. With a graceful ease, it rose and stalked over by Bethral’s packs, sniffing the area around them.

Ezren frowned as he continued to roll the bedding tight. With any luck, they would ride straight for the mountains with no trouble, no one hurt, no great adventure.

He sighed. Maybe he should go to the Heart.

The cat started pawing at Bethral’s pack, worming its head under the flap, trying to climb inside.

Ezren paused, looking down at the bedroll without really seeing it. Haya and the other warriors had explained the warrior-priests and their arrogance. He’d seen it himself when his attacker had raised the lance against him. He knew of the abuses of power, he’d felt that firsthand when he had been taken and enslaved. The scars on his wrists were a constant reminder of men and women abusing their power.

There didn’t seem to be any correct answer, and no sign from the Gods or the elements that those of the Plains worshipped. He had made a decision, and he’d abide by it. If the warrior-priests respected it as Wild Winds had, maybe their journey home would be a peaceful one.

Ezren finished the roll and looked about for the leather ties that Bethral had said were by her pallet. There was no sign of them. The cat had probably dragged them off someplace. Or perhaps there were more in her pack.

“Here, let’s see if your prey is in here.” Ezren reached over and started to empty the pack, piling the contents on Bethral’s pallet.

No mouse. The cat pawed around the various items as he worked, then pounced on a bundle of leather in the middle of the heap.

“Ah.” Ezren picked out the cluster of leather strips and started to return the other items to the pack. “Not the neatest job, but everything will at least be in the bag.” He glanced at the cat. “Now what is that you are playing with?”

The leather bundle lay open, and there, in the middle of a ragged bit of cloth, lay a dagger with a horn handle and a blade of stone.

The sacrifice blade.