EIGHTEEN
“I can’t believe you asked him that,” Gilla
whispered.
“I can’t believe he said no,” Cosana whispered
back. “I think Landers is right, else what’s wrong with the
man?”
Gilla rolled her eyes.
They had combined their tents with those of Landers
and Ouse for the night. El and Tenna were on patrol, and Bethral
and the Storyteller were asleep, each in their own tent. Chell and
Arbon had squeezed in with them, and they were all folded in
together, talking it out.
Landers was shaking his head. “No, we checked as we
were all bathing. He’s whole, and normal, as far as we could see.
Scarred, though. All over his back and chest. Wrists, too.”
“Did you get a good look at him?” Chell
asked.
“Well, we didn’t get to hold it, if that’s what you
mean,” Arbon said scathingly. His eyes peered out from the bruises
around them. Cosana giggled as he continued. “But he’s fine.”
“Could you get him to talk about her?” Gilla asked.
“Did you—”
“Talk? Skies above, we could not get him to stop!”
Landers laughed, and the others shushed him. He lowered his voice.
“I asked if all city women were as lovely as Bethral . . .”
“They are not,” El said in a dry voice. “They in no
way compare to her. ‘She is Light incarnate, a woman warrior of
amazing skill. She represents all that is good and true in this
life and the next.’ ”
“Wow!” Gilla blinked.
“But he is not worthy,” Arbon said. “For reasons
that seem important only to him. The fact that she is a skilled
warrior, and he is not, seems to be the main obstacle.”
“But he is a singer!” Cosana protested. “He’s of a
status above hers.”
“He also thinks he is too short,” Arbon
added.
“Why would her height matter?” Gilla asked.
“Why would his?” Arbon shrugged. “City
dwellers!”
“Well, she’s certainly made well. Her body is very
defined and strong,” Chell said. “Even for one of us. She said it
was because of the armor. Carrying the weight of it.” Chell
shrugged. “I do not know for certain, but I was attracted enough to
ask her to share.”
“You did?” El arched an eyebrow. “And?”
“She thanked me, but declined. Said her taste ran
to men.” Chell sighed. “Pity. I bet she’d be good in bed.”
“She didn’t want to talk about the Storyteller,
that was clear,” Cosana said. “I tried to ask her, but she cut me
off.”
“I thought she was going to kill you, there by the
fire, when you asked him to share.” Chell shook her head. “The look
on her face . . . they are bonded.”
“Bonded?” Ouse scoffed. “They have never shared,
that we know of.”
“They have bonded without sharing bodies,” Chell
repeated. “Why else her feelings of jealousy? If they are not
bonded, she would not feel that way. Bonded.”
“No,” Cosana gasped. “How could they—”
“Each has bonded to the other but does not know
that the other has bonded as well.”
“That is so . . . so . . .” Cosana sighed.
“Stupid,” Chell said firmly.
“Worthy of a song,” Landers declared. “Or a
story.”
“No, it is not,” Chell contradicted. “What would
you sing? That city dwellers share from a distance?”
“If that is so, I prefer our ways,” Lander said,
reaching out to stroke Ouse’s crotch.
“So do I,” Ouse said, covering Lander’s hand with
his and pressing it down. “Maybe we should show them—”
“Maybe they do not share at all,” Cosana
said.
“Please,” Ouse scoffed. “Where would more city
dwellers come from?”
“Maybe that’s it.” Gilla said. “Maybe they need to
share under the bells.”
“Why bother with bells?” Cosana asked.
Ouse frowned. “Gilla, I would offer no offense, but
they are elders. Why do you worry yourself about this? They can
solve their own problems.”
“No.” Gilla shook her head. “In this, we are the
wiser.”
“I think that you should have more concern for
their lives than their hearts,” Chell pointed out. “They are
focused on getting home, not sharing.”
Ouse grimaced. “All this thinking. My head hurts!
Lander and I need to take our watches.”
“We will trade,” Gilla said. “Cosana and I will
take this watch.”
“We will?” Cosana asked. “I want to sleep.”
“I need to think,” Gilla said, cracking open the
tent. “And if we don’t, they will keep us up all night with the
sounds of their sharing.”
“And sharing and sharing and sharing,” Ouse said
proudly.
Lander stuffed a gurtle pad over his face.
IT took the better part of two days for the
warrior-priests to relocate the camp in an area where magic still
could be found in the earth. Hail Storm would have raged in anger,
except that every hour saw the arrival of more warrior-priests to
listen to his position and to see Wild Winds face his challenge.
He’d swilled many a cup of kavage beside fires over those days,
using his smooth voice and reasonable arguments to bring them to
his side.
But still the Sacrifice had not been spotted. He
had no choice. It was time he used the other knowledge he’d gained
in his wanderings.
It was late before he could see to his own project.
His tent was set and warmed when he entered. Arching Colors was
there, with a meal and hot kavage warming on one of the braziers.
She was wearing a sheer, flowing tunic of green, and he could see
her tight nipples thrusting against the fabric.
“I thought we would eat after the casting,” Arching
Colors said softly.
Hail Storm nodded. “It was well done.” He looked
over at the private portion of his tent. “Our pallet is
prepared?”
“Yes.” Arching Colors shivered, her lips
parted.
“We have fasted and purged,” Hail Storm said
softly. “I have cleansed myself.”
“I, as well, as you instructed.” Arching Colors
moved closer, and ran her hands over his chest, along the tattoo
lines. “I hunger for you.”
“As do I.” Hail Storm swept her up in a kiss,
pulling her close.
Arching Colors sighed, and responded, walking back
toward his pallet, her hands falling to his trous. Breaking the
kiss, she removed his belt, placing his sacrifice dagger off to the
side. She gave him a sly smile, then went to her knees before him,
her hands on his trous.
Hail Storm sighed at the wet heat of her mouth. He
allowed himself to enjoy the sensation for moments. Arching Colors
was well skilled.
With a sigh he pulled away from her and gathered
her into his arms. “No, sweet one,” he said as he eased her tunic
off, and lowered her to the pallet. “Your pleasure first, this
night.”
“As you say,” she murmured.
She was so sweet, hot and wet and willing. So
responsive. Writhing beneath him, Arching Colors dug her nails into
him and urged him on as he eased slowly into her.
Hail Storm grunted with the effort, thrusting into
her, concentrating on her pleasure.
Arching Colors moaned his name, her skin covered
with a sheen of perspiration. He watched her face, using his skills
to keep her on the very brink for as long as he could, until she
screamed and reached her peak, crying out her joy.
A quick move, and his dagger was in his hand.
Another instant to stab it between her ribs and into her
heart.
Arching Colors gasped, her eyes wide.
Hail Storm continued to thrust, chanting softly
under his breath, and concentrated on seizing the magic released by
her dying. He kept the blade in her, holding it steady, letting it
absorb her blood and her power.
Arching Colors gasped again, dying even as her
pleasure faded. There was no struggle. Her breaths just grew slower
and shallower. Her body grew lax, still warm under his.
It was well done. He was sure she hadn’t even felt
the blade. Continuing to chant, he strengthened his movements,
riding the wave of his own pleasures.
After a time, he eased himself from the body, and
then slowly drew out the dagger. Its magic almost pulsed in his
hand, and he smiled in satisfaction.
Hail Storm wiped himself clean, and then treated
the body as he would any lover, arranging it on the pallet to sleep
and drawing the blankets over its shoulders. “Sleep, little one.”
He spoke just loud enough to be heard by anyone outside the tent.
“I’ve work yet to do. But I will return, and we shall share again,
shall we?”
He gathered up his trous and his dagger, and went
to the main room. With a sigh, he looked around at his tent as he
dressed.
The large brazier in the center of the room was
still glowing with coals. Hail Storm helped himself to the warm
kavage, then added fuel slowly, until the flames jumped about
eagerly.
“Elder,” a voice came from outside the tent flap.
“Sweet Grasses sends word that they are ready for you.”
“Very well.” Hail Storm swept up his cloak and let
it cover his shoulders, then took up his staff. With a casual flip,
he put the tip of the staff under the brazier, and tipped it over
on the wooden platform. The coals made a gentle hiss as they
tumbled out, the flames following playfully. A shame, really. This
tent had served him well.
He stepped from the tent, letting the flap close
all the way behind him.
HAIL Storm had not anticipated that he’d have an
audience for this casting. Mist was waiting with Sweet Grasses when
he arrived, looking over the arrangements with a eagle’s eye.
The center of the tent had been cleared, and the
sod cut away. The earth beneath had been dug down for a hand’s
breadth in a circle as large as a man’s height, and lined with
leathers that had been oiled and sealed. At the very center sat a
large tree trunk, cut so that the top just emerged from the water.
Next to that was a large flat stone, also just above the surface of
the water.
“So, it represents the Plains,” Mist said. “And the
wood is the Heart.”
Hail Storm nodded as he removed his cloak. “The
rock is the lake beside it.” He drew a deep breath. “I think I can
cast a blessing spell in such a way as to tell us where magic is in
the Plains. When the Sacrifice loses control, as he will, there
will be a flare of fire in that location. I have warrior-priests
ready to sit and watch and wait.”
“A powerful spell, if you can manage it.” Mist eyed
him closely. “You think there is enough power here to do
this?”
“With care.” Hail Storm moved to the northernmost
corner, where a precious wood fire burned brightly. “I would prefer
to do this under the bells, Mist.”
“I am sure you would,” Mist replied. She planted
her feet and crossed her arms, causing the two skulls on her staff
to clatter together. “But I would learn from you, Hail
Storm.”
Damned old mare! She’d rattled her skulls on
purpose. Hail Storm’s temples pulsed with anger as he set his
staff, empty of skulls, against the side of the tent. But there was
little he could do. For now. He wondered briefly how much magic he
could pull from her dying, but then he forced himself to focus on
the task at hand.
He started with the fire element, then worked his
way around to each corner and each element, chanting softly,
pulling the magic from the land as he went, gathering it in his
hand. He knew he’d have to move with care, so that the old mare
wouldn’t see the source of power at his belt.
Easily done.
Finally, he stood at the southern point and turned
to face the center of the room. He knelt, and held out his arms,
palms out, fingers wide. He softly chanted the traditional words of
the blessing spell, with but the slightest of changes.
Blessing spells watched over the thea camps of each
tribe, helping to keep their people strong and fit. In the old
times, when the magic had been strong, the warrior-priests had been
warned of any sickness or threat to the People.
So Hail Storm changed the words, changed his focus,
seeking only to know when strong magic would flare anywhere on the
Plains. The Sacrifice would lose control sooner or later, and with
any luck it would happen before he could leave the Plains.
Hail Storm lowered his arms, letting his palm brush
against the hilt of his sacrifice blade. He didn’t even have to
pull—the magic flared up within him. Hail Storm raised his arms
again, this time to cross them before his chest and clench his
fists. He wove this new power into the spell, and let it settle
gently over the water. Only then did he let out a breath, allowing
the tension to ease from his body.
“Well done,” Mist said grudgingly. She came to
stand next to him.
“There will need to be watchers.” Hail Storm rubbed
his face with both hands. “At all times. I cannot—”
Mist nodded. “I’ve young ones waiting. They will
keep watch, and we will rotate them so their eyes stay sharp.” She
hesitated, giving Hail Storm a careful look. “It seemed to me that
the magic surged while you were casting. It had an odd feel to it,
a kind of—”
Shouts came from outside. “Hail Storm!” Someone
thrust the tent flap open. “Your tent is afire!”
“Go,” Mist said. “I will see to this.”
With a curse, Hail Storm ran from the tent,
perfectly prepared to mourn the death of Arching Colors.