SIXTEEN
THE ache in his chest was usually the signal that
the wild magic was back—no, that was not the right way to think
about it. More like the pressure was building within him to release
. . . something. As if lying with a woman, and building toward . .
.
Ezren snorted. Lord Mage Marlon had put it in less
than elegant terms. He’d likened it to the need to piss.
“Your body knows—you know—and barring illness or
extraordinary circumstances you are in control. The urge that
builds up, you delay, do a bit of a dance, eventually you gotta go
or pee in your pants.” Marlon focused on Ezren. “He can’t, because
he’s never learned. He doesn’t recognize what his body and the
magic are telling him.”
Ezren fl ushed, and lifted his chin in defi
ance. “I am certain I can learn.”
Marlon gave him the eye. “Maybe. You can learn
the feelings, what they mean. But can you learn control? Especially
when you are angry, or startled, or—”
Ezren rolled over on his back and stared at the
leather over his face. “Or when I’m wandering on the Plains, where
the only people who can help me deal with this want to kill
me.”
“Mrowr.” There was a rustle down by his feet, and
the edge of the tent lifted slightly as the cat thrust its head in
and blinked at him.
Ezren eyed the cat. “You’re welcome to share, Cat.
But no dead mice, if you please.”
The cat squirmed in, claiming the blankets over
Ezren’s feet. It pawed and kneaded for a moment, then curled into a
ball.
“Next I suppose you will start talking,” Ezren
grumbled.
The cat ignored him.
Ezren sighed. He could hear the others settling
into their tents or starting their watches. He should be sleeping.
Bethral would want to start early in the morning.
Except the ache was growing, the farther south they
rode.
It was like a pull, a tug . . . No. It was a
longing. Ezren frowned as he thought about that. It was an emotion,
and it wasn’t his. He’d asked Josiah about it, back when Josiah was
trying to give him lessons. He’d lost control while trying to light
a candle. It had felt like the magic had gotten excited. Overeager.
But Josiah had shaken his head. “Magic doesn’t have a
personality, Ezren. It doesn’t have emotion. It’s a
tool.”
Josiah had been a powerful mage in his time, and
Ezren had no reason to think that he was wrong.
Except that Josiah had never used or wielded wild
magic. Any mage that did was destroyed by the Mage Guild. Which had
been why Marlon had tried to kill him the first time he had seen
him.
Maybe they were wrong. Maybe wild magic had a
personality, had emotions. Maybe it worked off his . . .
feelings.
Which was why it had healed Bethral.
That brought a smile to his face, and deep sense of
relief. The wild magic might have caused this problem, but it had
healed her. It eased some of his guilt, but not all. Bethral was
determined to see him—both of them—safely back to Edenrich. Which
meant that she stood between him and every warrior-priest on the
Plains.
Ezren puffed out a breath. Enough worry. He shifted
around a bit, getting comfortable, mindful of the cat at his
feet.
Very well. He’d try to use some of this power. He’d
try to light a fire, if there was time, when next they made camp.
Not a candle—the memory of the burning tent and singed table were
fresh in his mind. No, maybe a nice, large fire pit under an open
sky. His eyes started to feel heavy.
In the morning . . .
“CHANGE of plans,” Bethral said.
They had gathered together for gurt and water. The
horses were all saddled, the gear ready to go for another day of
hard riding.
Ezren had slept well, but the first few steps out
of his tent had made him wish for magical healing powers for his
inner thighs. Lord of Light, he hadn’t known he had muscles in
those places, but he knew now. Walking helped, and he assumed
riding would help more, but what he wouldn’t give for a hot mineral
bath to soak in.
Odd. This little reality was rarely mentioned in
the stories and tales of adventure that he knew.
He had a mouthful of gurt when Bethral made her
announcement, so he raised his eyebrows, looking for more
information.
“There’s a large herd of horses off to the west,”
Bethral said as she braided up her hair to stuff under her helmet.
“We’re going to mingle with the herd and travel with it for a
while.”
“Cover our tracks,” El said.
Bethral nodded as she tucked her braid up. “We’ll
move with the herd, stay on the edges, and watch for a good
campsite. We won’t make any distance, but we will confuse our
pursuers.”
Arbon stood there, his arms crossed. “If we
continue to ride hard, and make good time, we will outdistance
them. That is a better course.”
“Warrior-priests have magic,” Ouse said. “They will
find us anyway.”
Bethral glanced at both of them. “That may be true,
or it may not. Either way, I say we join the herd.”
“No,” Arbon said.
Ezren looked at the lad in surprise, but noted
quickly that the others didn’t share his emotion. The young shifted
about, and suddenly Arbon was facing Bethral across an open space.
Bethral just stood there, pulling on her gauntlets, watching Arbon.
“What is this?” Ezren asked, conscious of the sudden tension.
“I challenge,” Arbon said. “I challenge you
for—”
Bethral took three fast steps, and punched him in
the face.
Arbon staggered back. Blood streamed down his nose,
and his eyes were wide.
Rage swept through Ezren, focused on Arbon. How
dare he—
Bethral was already grabbing her two-handed sword
and unsheathing it in one long move. Grim-faced, she positioned
herself before Arbon, bringing the blade to bear on him. Arbon
fumbled with his sword and shield, and Bethral turned her head just
enough to catch Ezren’s gaze.
She winked at him.
Ezren blinked, his anger draining away.
The young scattered, giving the two contestants
room. Gilla grabbed Ezren’s elbow, pulling him back.
Bethral waited, letting Arbon get his sword out and
his shield in a guard position. He managed it, and stood there for
a moment, breathing hard.
“Ready?” she asked, arching an eyebrow.
Arbon scowled, his lips parting to speak.
Bethral lunged.
Ezren watched in horror and fascination. Tales told
of brave warriors using a two-handed sword to battle their foes.
But those tales had led him to expect the wielder would slash and
stab with the weapon, bringing it up over her head.
Bethral used it as a club, never raising it over
her head. Her first blow smashed into Arbon’s shield, forcing him
to stagger back.
Gripping the second crosspiece, Bethral let the
blade slide toward Arbon’s head. Arbon blocked with his sword,
forcing her blade out and down.
Bethral let him, only to smack his thigh hard with
the flat of the blade, enough to make Arbon stagger again.
“Ah,” Gilla said softly. “I best go keep
watch.”
“Aye,” El said.
They both slipped off. Ezren couldn’t understand
how they could take their eyes off the two fighters still
exchanging blows before them.
But after a few more moments, he realized what they
already knew. Arbon didn’t really stand much of a chance against
Bethral.
It wasn’t that Arbon wasn’t a good fighter. He was.
But Bethral was better, and by quite a bit. She also had options
with the great sword that he didn’t have. She could use the reach
of the weapon to keep him at bay, and slash with the sharp
tip.
Even when Arbon tried to press in close, she used
the crosspieces to attempt to disarm him, or just smacked him with
the flat of the blade.
That young man was going to hurt worse tomorrow
than Ezren did today.
Ezren had to give the lad credit. He didn’t give in
easily; he kept at it even after Bethral scored the skin over his
right eye, and blood poured down his face.
Bethral’s braid had come undone, and her blonde
hair swung with her blows. She wasn’t fast; Ezren had seen her spar
with other warriors and knew that others were faster. But she made
every move count, waited for her best opportunities. He relaxed
when he realized that she was enjoying herself.
He relaxed even more when her final blow cracked
against Arbon’s shield and sent him sprawling in the grass.
He lay there, breathing hard, as Bethral put the
tip of her sword to his neck. He grinned at her. “I yield,
Warrior.”
“Really?” Bethral said. She didn’t move her sword.
“On the Plains, the rules of challenge are clear. During the spring
contests, but not once the army is in the field.”
Arbon’s eyes went wide, and he licked his
lips.
“You should have challenged before we left Haya’s
camp,” Bethral continued. “I’ve every right to kill you now.”
“Warrior, I—”
Bethral pressed the blade into Arbon’s skin. “Do
you think me less than a warrior of the Plains?”
“Warlord,” Arbon gasped, “I yield.”
Bethral pulled the blade back, and turned and
walked away. Her eyes flickered over the young warriors, and Ezren
could tell that she had noted those on watch. “Mount up,” she said.
“We’re joining the herd.”
THE herd was slowly moving south and east. The
horses drifted for the most part, grazing and nursing the foals. It
wasn’t going to gain them a lot of ground, but Bethral was
satisfied. Their tracks were well and truly covered, and there’d
been no sign of pursuit. Still, she’d had the warriors spread out
on the edges of the herd, scanning the rises around them. She was
keeping to the center of the herd. Bessie was tall enough to stand
out like an ehat. Not that Bethral had seen one yet, but she was
sure she’d know one when she saw it.
She was checking off to the east when Ezren sidled
his horse up to Bessie. “Lady Bethral, I fear your idea of
‘interesting.’ ”
Bethral chuckled. “I knew it was coming. Arbon
hadn’t lowered his eyes to me, which is a sign of respect between
warriors, and he’d been giving me that cocky smile for some
time.”
“Damn bold of him, to try something like that,”
Ezren said.
“He’d have gained quite a bit of status if he’d
taken over the leadership of our journey. Even more if he could
claim to have seen us safe off the Plains.” Bethral shrugged. “I
don’t blame him for trying, but he won’t do it again.”
“Why won’t he?” Ezren asked.
“That’s not done,” Bethral explained. “You don’t
challenge a warlord while on campaign unless the circumstances are
extraordinary. And you don’t repeatedly try a challenge after
you’ve lost, unless you have gained new skills or experience. The
warlord will not spare you a second time.”
“Oh, how I wish I had paper,” Ezren said. “I want
to write this down, take notes, so that if we return—”
“When we return,” Bethral corrected him. “Little
chance you’ll find paper and pen here, Storyteller.”
“I’m trying to remember everything I can. I could
turn it into such a tale.” Ezren gave her a sly look, his green
eyes bright. “With young Arbon there the butt of my jokes.”
Bethral laughed as Gilla appeared among the horses
and headed for them.
“Warlord,” she said, as respectfully as anyone
could ask.
“My name is enough, Gilla,” Bethral said.
“Chell sends word that a pride of cats are
following the herd on the western side. They’re stalking right now,
but she feels they will hunt soon.”
“Cats?” Ezren glanced at the cat perched on
Bethral’s bedroll. Its eyes were half closed, as if sleeping, but
its claws were sunk deep into the bedroll.
“No.” Gilla shook her head. “Cats of the Plains,
Storyteller. Much bigger. Much, much bigger. Would you like to
see?”
“Would I?” Ezren moved his horse forward. “Show
me.”
“Don’t become prey yourselves,” Bethral called. She
waited until they’d moved off before she started to wind her way
through the horses to the eastern side of the herd. With any luck,
the hunt would move the herd further east, which fitted her plans
well enough.
But she couldn’t help scanning the rises, looking
for signs of pursuit. She knew well enough that she wasn’t the only
one making plans.
“WELL?” demanded Hail Storm as he entered the
tent.
“Nothing.” The young warrior-priest lowered his
eyes. “We have scryed, but have not found them in the area of the
thea camp.” He hesitated, then continued. “It hampers our efforts
that we do not know what the Sacrifice looks like.”
“What of the one that brought us word?” Hail Storm
growled as he settled in his chair. “Did she not—”
“A fleeting glance, no more. Reddish hair, and
outlined in magic.”
“Keep trying.”
“Elder, we have almost drained this place of its
power.”
“Drain it dry, then we will move the camp.” Hail
Storm paused. “Have the summons gone out?”
“Yes, Elder. All of the warrior-priests have been
summoned. We have even sent out summons to those that wander, but
it is doubtful that—”
“To the Heart?” Hail Storm demanded. “You summoned
them to the Heart?”
“Yes, Elder.”
Hail Storm paused, aware that he’d been a bit
abrupt. “You have done well, Gray Cloud.”
The warrior-priest bowed his head in quiet thanks,
and left the tent.
If the magics had been drained, so be it. After
years of conserving the power, there was now a need. And such a
need. The source of magic, the source of the restoration of their
power, was here. Hail Storm’s heart beat faster at the idea of
being the one who would lead the warrior-priests back to their
glory.
Glory for the people of the Plains, certainly. But
what heights of power could he rise to, with the magics returned to
the Plains?
But he had to remain focused. The Sacrifice was
wandering the Plains, and he must be found and brought to the
Heart. Word of this must not reach the warlords or any of the
eldest elders. This was a matter for the warrior-priests of the
Plains, and them alone.
Hail Storm calmed himself. He’d wandered in his
time, wandered the wide outer rim of the world. He’d ventured into
the “civilized” lands and learned what he needed to know of other
paths to power that the weak feared to tread. When the time was
right, he wouldn’t hesitate.
He’d make any sacrifice necessary to achieve the
powers of his ancestors.