Ezren swallowed hard, his mouth as dry as dust. He felt flushed and chilled at the same time, and he sank to the ground and sat for a moment, trying to breathe.

The stone dagger lay there in the cloth and leather as if it had never plunged into his chest.

Red Gloves had told them the rest of the tale. How she’d killed the mage and then each of his men. How she’d pulled the dagger free from his chest and the magic had surged up and out, restoring his life and the lives of their friends.

Ezren remembered awakening to her wide eyes with a sense of heat and power, and looking over to see Bethral lying there, her body tossed aside like a rag doll. Remembered extending his hand, and asking . . . wanting . . .

Ezren swallowed hard.

Lord High Mage Marlon had said that he carried the wild magic within him, and that the dagger was not magical. But Ezren wasn’t sure he believed that.

There was something else . . .

The cat was batting at the bundle of leather strips now, as if it were prey. Ezren closed his eyes and forced himself to remember, to see again what had happened.

No emotion in their eyes, as if they were doing a simple chore.

Too late. He had known she could not stop them, known she needed surprise . . .

He could see the man’s sharp face and his cold, dead eyes. So cruel, and yet it was as if the soul behind those eyes was frozen in pure ice.

Ezren opened his eyes, and stared at the leather walls of the tent.

He’d been willing. Willing to die to give her the chance to avenge them. Willing sacrifice, willingly made.

Wild Winds’s voice echoed in Ezren’s head. “Magic was taken from the Plains. Only the blood of the Plains can restore it, in a willing sacrifi ce. Willing blood, willingly spilled.”

Lord of Light and Lady of Laughter, what did it mean?

A rustle at the tent flap was the only warning he got. He looked up, and saw Bethral staring at the dagger.

Her blue eyes took him in with concern. “Did you touch it?”

Ezren shook his head. “No. The cat—”

Bethral knelt, and wrapped the dagger in the cloth and leather. She crammed it into the saddlebag with a sharp thrust. “We’ll talk about this later. Haya is just behind me.” She paused, looking at him. “I . . .” She looked away. “I didn’t pack it. I wouldn’t—”

Ezren drew a breath, caught by the fear now plain in her eyes. “I think,” he whispered, “I remembered—”

Footsteps outside brought them to their feet as Haya pushed aside the flap. “Let’s see if this fits you.”

“Who?” Ezren asked, confused at the sight of the leather armor in her hands. Bethral was already dressed in her plate.

“You, Storyteller.”

The rite had ended, and the new warriors had emerged into the sun to be greeted by the tribe with loud rejoicing. Wild Winds and the other warrior-priests who had conducted the ceremony had left immediately, destination unknown.

In the distance, sounds of celebration came from the main camp. The drums were signaling the start of the dancing. Bethral looked for disappointment in the young faces around her, but all she saw was fascination.

Rare to have such an audience for horseshoe removal.

Bessie lifted her last hoof at Bethral’s command, then leaned in on her. Bethral grunted, and dug an elbow into the horse’s side. “Not so much, lazy girl.”

Bessie snorted, but straightened a bit. She bore only her normal saddle and saddlebags. The barding had been packed away, distributed between the packhorses. Bethral had tried to gift it to Haya, but she had refused. “Our horses would not tolerate it,” Haya had said. “Besides, I suspect you’ll need it at some point.”

Bethral was afraid she was right. But for now, for a full-out forced run, Bessie didn’t need the weight.

Bethral worked the shoe loose and let it drop to the grass. Gilla picked it up, examining it. “All the horses wear these?”

“Yes,” Bethral said shortly, checking Bessie’s hoof for splits before she released it. “It protects their feet in the cities.”

“But why remove them?” El asked, his brown eyes intent.

“Think,” Seo commanded.

El frowned. Arbon elbowed him in the side. “Tracks.”

“Tracks,” Haya confirmed as Bethral put her tools in her saddlebags. “Now, warriors, to me.”

Bethral watched as the young ones gathered close to Haya, surrounding her. They all wore newer armor and all had been given weapons. The tribe had equipped them with the basics they needed to start their new lives as warriors. Their horses were saddled and packed, and each warrior bore a bow with arrows and a quiver of lances. Anything else they would have to earn from their military service.

Haya lowered her voice, and they leaned in and listened intently, nodding.

Bethral gave the lances another look. They were about four feet in length, with deadly stone tips and feathered ends. The tips were designed to break off in the enemy’s body, causing terrible wounds. She’d like to try her hand at using one, if she had the chance.

She’d thought of going without her plate and arming herself as one of the Plains. But the plate was her best defense . . . and a Plains warrior or a warrior-priest might think twice before attacking a warrior wrapped in metal.

Haya stepped back, away from the young warriors. “So. The tribe has provided you with your needs. Honor the tribe with your deeds and your truths. Mount and away. Seo and I must return to the celebrations before we are missed.”

“Orient me,” Ezren said. “Which way is the Heart?”

Everyone pointed north.

“So Palins is—”

Everyone pointed south.

Ezren muttered something under his breath that sounded like Elvish. Bethral suppressed a smile. Knowing him, it was probably something fairly rude.

Ezren reached for the reins and turned to mount his horse. Bethral took a moment to appreciate the view as he put his foot in the stirrup.

They’d found hardened leather armor for him to wear. It was an older set, and the brown showed signs of use. But the color suited him well, echoing the reddish tint of his hair. And the leathers . . .

Bethral swallowed as they tightened over his buttocks when the Storyteller swung into the saddle.

Haya had insisted that he be armored. Her concern had been more for arrows and lances then for sword fighting. “The armor isn’t as good as Bethral’s,” she’d said, “but it’s better than plain cloth.”

Yes, Haya was right. The leathers had been a fine idea.

Bethral flushed a bit at the fact that she was ogling Ezren, but she could not tear her eyes away as he settled in the saddle. So she caught an odd look in Ezren’s eyes when he gathered the reins and looked to the north.

“Storyteller?” She moved closer, and saw a haunted expression in his green eyes.

“You didn’t tell me he couldn’t ride,” Haya said.

“What?” As Ezren spoke, the odd look disappeared, to be replaced with indignation. “I can ride.”

“The way you sit—” Seo frowned.

“Maybe he could ride double?” Haya asked.

“He’ll be fine.” Bethral swung up in her saddle. “All he has to do is stay in the saddle.”

All eyes turned to her, and Seo nodded in satisfaction. “Now, she can ride a horse.”

“I can ride.” Ezren gave them all a glare. He gathered the reins, clicked his tongue, and urged the horse on.

Nothing happened.

Bethral had to bite her lip hard and look away at the outrage on the Storyteller’s face.

“Double, I think.” Haya confirmed. “With Gilla. She’s the smallest.”

Now Bethral had to look away from Gilla’s face before she laughed right out loud. “Storyteller, lean forward and use your toes under the horses’ front legs, instead of your heels.”

Bethral looked over at Haya. “We use different signals with our animals, that’s all.”

Ezren’s horse moved a few steps, but Haya frowned just the same. “His seat is pathetic.”

“Look here,” Seo asked, “the last warrior to join the party, eh?”

Bethral looked down and saw the cat at Seo’s feet. The cat thumped down on its side and curled up, showing its belly. “Don’t fall for—”

Too late. Seo had already bent down, reaching for the enticing softness. “You’ve grown fat on our mice, Warrior.”

The cat bit his finger.

Seo jerked his hand back, and the cat leapt for the bedroll attached to Bessie’s saddle. It kneaded the cloth for a moment, then sank its claws deep and settled down with a smug look.

“Ha!” Seo shook his head with a rueful look. “I should have known a fierce warrior wouldn’t show its belly that way.”

“Looks are deceiving,” Bethral agreed, relieved to note that the skin of his finger was unbroken. She looked around the group. “Ready?”

The Storyteller was facing north, but he turned to her and nodded. The rest of the warriors gazed at her, their faces eager.

Bethral looked down at Haya, who also gave her a nod. “Time, and past. Storyteller, when you tell this tale, speak of the honor of the Tribe of the Snake, and those who have dealt with you fairly.”

“I will,” Ezren promised.

“Bethral of the Horse”—Haya stepped close and lowered her voice—“you ride with unblooded warriors. We have offered you one of our most precious resources, the lives of our young.”

“I am their warlord in all things,” Bethral said softly. “Their flesh is my flesh, their blood is my blood.”

“Then ride.” Haya stepped back, and raised her voice for all to hear. “May the elements guide and protect you all.”

Bethral started Bessie off at a trot, and the others followed.

He swung down from his horse and had to clutch at the saddle, willing his legs to support him. The rite had taken much of his strength. He closed his eyes against the weakness. He should have left it up to the younger warrior-priests, he supposed, but he’d always enjoyed bringing the young to adulthood. Something about their eager faces . . .

“Elder,” Snowfall said quietly behind him, “I’ve set your stool in the shade. Take your rest while we set up the tents.”

Wild Winds nodded. He untied his staff from his saddle, and took a step away from the horse. His legs steadied beneath him.

Snowfall moved with him, and he gratefully placed a hand on her shoulder. Gone were the days when he tried to hide his weakness from his fellow warrior-priests. And as for the people of the Plains learning of his illness, well, that prey had fled now, and he’d been the one to spook it, hadn’t he?

Using the staff for support, he eased onto his stool with a sigh.

“Do you wish food, or kavage?” Snowfall asked softly. “There’s none hot, but—”

“I’m well enough,” Wild Winds replied.

Snowfall hesitated. “Your scrying bowl?”

“Not right now,” Wild Winds said. “That can wait until the camp is set and we have eaten.”

“As you say,” Snowfall replied, the slightest of smiles on her lips. “Night Clouds has decided to hunt, and a few of the others are going with him. They spotted a herd of red deer, and there’s odan root along the stream.”

“Fresh meat is always welcome.” Wild Winds set his staff down, careful of the skulls. “Leave me to my thoughts, Snowfall. I am not so far gone as to need a thea once again.”

“As you say,” she answered, and her tone made it clear that she wasn’t pleased. But she did as he had bidden.

So. Wild Winds drew a breath of sweet air and let it out slowly.

There would be no healing at the hands of the Singer of the City. When he’d heard that the token-bearer’s leg had been healed, he’d hoped. But it was not to be. And even if the young man . . . Ezren Storyteller . . . had been willing to release the magic with his death, still it would take time to relearn the old ways. Wild Winds wasn’t such a fool as to think that the magic would instantly gift warrior-priests with powers.

But they were such fools, and they were not listening to an elder sickened and dying.

The sundering of the Council of Elders had torn the Plains in two. Between two camps, as it were. Keir of the Cat sat on the one side, firm in his belief in changes to come and his hatred of the warrior-priests. Antas of the Boar on the other side, firm in his refusal to change the way of the Plains, and his certainty of the right-ness of his actions. Two strong warlords, stubborn and determined.

As Eldest Elder of the Warrior-Priests, Wild Winds was caught between the two, his fellows ranging on both sides. Add to that his . . . what was the Xyian word the Warprize had used?

He frowned. Eh, he was getting old.

Cancer. That was the word.

The coming of a Warprize. The sundering of the Council of Elders. The appearance of the Sacrifice. And his cancer on top of everything else.

He could almost hear the winds laugh as they rustled the leaves in the alders about him.

Wild Winds wasn’t sure he’d done the right thing by letting the Sacrifice—by letting Ezren Storyteller—return to his homeland. Certainly the others would not agree with his decision. But their belief had always been that a warrior-priest would return the magic to the Plains. The magic borne by a city dweller?

And if magic was restored in the midst of all this turmoil, what would that do?

Oh, yes, that was laughter on the wind, all right. He watched as his warriors worked on the camp. Watched the ripple of their muscles under the colored tattoos they all bore. Tattoos they had earned as they had learned the ways of the warrior-priests and had shown that they had the ability to wield magic. What little remained in the land. He’d taught them well, and they were loyal to him. How best to ensure they survived the coming wars?

For there would be wars. Wars between warlords, between the tribes. Wild Winds wasn’t certain there was any way to prevent that. Hadn’t Gathering Storm attacked him at the Council of Elders? Hadn’t Antas shouted orders for the death of the Warprize?

Wild Winds drew in another breath and tried to empty his mind as he released it, seeking guidance from the elements. He closed his eyes and listened, focusing on the now, on the essence of his life and breath, on the moment.

No easy answers flowed to mind. Such was not to be.

The only truth he knew at this moment was that he would not seek the snows. His death would come, that was sure. But as long as he drew breath, he’d try to do what he had sworn to do when he became the Eldest Elder of the Warrior-Priests of the Plains.

He would serve his people.

A slight creak of leathers. Wild Winds opened his eyes and saw young Lightning Strike standing there, his tattoos not yet filled in all the way. The youngest of his band.

“Your tent is ready, Elder. Would you rest until the meal is ready?”

Wild Winds considered. There were those waiting for his report, for news of the Sacrifice. But who could blame a dying old man for needing a nap?

Make them wait. Serve them right. Maybe even wait until the morning.

“Elder?” Lightning Strike repeated.

Wild Winds nodded, and accepted his hand to rise. He’d let them stew in their own juices.

And give the Sacrifice time to flee.