Bethral set a pace that demanded all they had, even the young ones. The horses were pushed to the edge of their endurance, but they loved to run, appearing in the morning to bear their riders willingly. Alternating trot and gallop, covering the ground as fast as the wind, the horses were in their element.

Ezren had feared for Bessie, who was larger than the Plains horses. But the big roan had more endurance than the others and more speed than he’d expected. Bethral would never let a beast founder under her charge, so Ezren decided to let that worry go.

There were other concerns. His endurance, for one.

It wasn’t that he was weakening, exactly. More and more, he couldn’t get enough to eat or drink, and when he rolled into the tent, he was asleep before Bethral had time to pull the blankets over them. He’d tried to apologize—he’d hoped to love his lady every night. Bethral had just pressed her fingers to his lips, and shaken her head with understanding.

He didn’t have to tell her. He knew she saw it in his body, in the definition of the muscles, in the thinning of his wrists. Those old scars from the slave chains were more pronounced, at least to his eyes. The power within was consuming him, as Wild Winds had predicted.

So he concentrated on keeping in the saddle, and riding hard. Lander had given him a small bag of dried meat, and he ate as they rode, working it with his jaws. Gurt, too, although he was getting tired of its bitter taste. It wasn’t that unpleasant, just not something he wanted to eat every day. Every hour of every day.

Interesting that adventure tales never seemed to mention trail rations.

“Third day.” Arbon was next to him as they saddled their horses and loaded the packs. Bethral had agreed to stop when they found a good-sized herd, and hide within it for a day or two to let them catch their breath. With any luck, maybe they could hunt. Fresh meat and greens would be more than welcome.

“Third day,” Ezren said with a smile. He swung into the saddle and turned his horse. “Let us get started.”

“Ezren.” Bethral grabbed his horse’s bridle. She was already mounted on Bessie, and her cloak covered her armor.

“What?” he asked crossly, suddenly irritated that she would get in his way.

“That’s the wrong direction,” she said, her blue eyes pained. “That’s northwest.”

“Oh.” Ezren turned his head and looked at the rising sun. “I thought—”

Bethral nodded. “I know. Let’s get moving.”

He nodded, and they headed out. Ezren noticed Bethral didn’t release her grip on his horse’s bridle until they were well on the way.

Gilla looked over her shoulder. Bethral had seen the horses. She didn’t say anything, but turned Bessie in that direction.

Gilla was grateful. It was early still, and the sun wasn’t that close to the horizon. Sleep would come easily this night, even if the sun wasn’t down. She was tired, and she wasn’t the only one.

The Storyteller was exhausted.

You couldn’t tell with just a casual glance, but the signs were there. A tremble in his hands and the strain around his eyes. Bethral was staying close, keeping an eye on him, trying to keep him in the center of the group. At the last rest break, while they had watered the horses and switched mounts, Ouse had said that the glow he saw seemed no different.

Gilla hoped it stayed that way.

Cosana had the lead. As they drew closer, she slowed her horse to a walk so as not to disturb the herd. She looked over her shoulder at Gilla with a smile.

So Cosana didn’t see the warrior-priestess at the edge of the herd, flinging a saddle on the back of a horse. Gilla caught her breath. Usually warrior-priests ignored warriors, as if they did not exist. But this one was giving them a hard look.

“Cosana,” Gilla said sharply, but Cosana had turned and spotted the problem. She angled her horse away, as if to avoid the warrior-priestess, just as any warrior would do. Gilla held her breath as they rode past. She could see other warrior-priests within the herd, selecting mounts. Ezren was in the middle of their party, and Bethral was cloaked. If they could just get past them and ride farther on—

“SACRIFICE! THE SACRIFICE!”

Damn them to the snows, they’d seen the Storyteller. Gilla yanked her horse’s head around and drew a lance.

She saw a flash of silver, and watched Bethral charge into the herd. Horses scattered, saddles falling off them and leaving warrior-priests standing there, drawing swords and bows. Bethral galloped past the first one, who was screaming and pulling a bow. She swung her mace at the woman’s exposed head, connecting with a solid hit.

The warrior-priestess collapsed.

The other warrior-priests scattered, but another one had brought his bow to bear on—

Gilla didn’t think. Her lance was in her hand, and she threw, aiming at his chest. She didn’t wait to see the result. She pulled her sword and shield. Her horse surged forward at her urging, and they were in the midst of the enemy. A warrior-priest came at her, sword held high.

Gilla took the blow on her shield, and countered as she had been trained. There was no thought other than to defend and strike, to dodge and parry, to protect . . . and kill.

The first he’d known of an attack was the cry of ”sacrifice.” Chell had pulled him from his saddle and to the ground. They’d planned this—the two closest warriors were to keep him down and sheltered from arrows and warrior-priests. He was to control his emotions and keep the magic under control. El was kneeling beside him, shield up, watching the fight.

Ezren opened his mouth to ask, then closed it firmly. Bethral was—they all were—trained warriors. They were fine . . . would be fine. There was no reason to fear, no reason to get angry. The warmth in his chest was just warmth. All’s well, he told himself, desperate to keep his emotions in check.

There were sounds, shouts, the clash of swords, the scream of a horse. Oh yes, this would be an epic tale when he told it back in Edenrich, with a glass of cold ale and a crowd’s wide-eyed excitement. Him in the grass, that part he might just leave out, thank you kindly. No need to—

El shifted next to him, and Ezren looked over. The lad’s eyes were fixed ahead, looking over his shield rim, his sword gripped tight in his hand.

Ezren could take no more. He eased up.

Chell pressed him down. “No, Storyteller.”

Yes. He’d leave that bit out as well. Not that it wouldn’t make for a decent comic tale, but one did have to think of one’s reputation—-

“Gilla,” El breathed, and was gone, running.

Ezren was on his feet next to Chell, both of them standing there. El was running toward a riderless horse and a warrior-priest with his sword high, about to strike at something on the ground. Bethral was fighting two of her own, and the others were too far away to aid.

Fear surged up, and then raw anger. Damn them! Lord of Light, damn them to the coldest hells!

Chell cried out, but Ezren ignored her. He raised his glowing hands and pointed at the warrior-priest.

The man went up in a pillar of fire.

Hail Storm turned, and there on the tiny Plains was a small flame, burning bright for an instant, then snuffed out, disappearing from sight.

“Quickly, how many others close to that place?” he asked.

“Three,” Thunder Clouds said. “And that one has to be Frost, coming from the south. He was performing the rites for the farthest tribe.”

“Prepare to send word,” Hail Storm ordered. The quick movements around him told him he was being obeyed.

He put his hand on the young warrior-priest who had alerted him. “Excellent. But keep watch. We need to track him for as long as we can.”

Hail Storm exited the tent, holding his staff. Thunder Clouds was waiting for him. “The others are preparing the casting in my tent. But the magics are failing—perhaps we should move—”

“No matter.” Hail Storm took his elbow and urged him on. “I have sufficient power. We will get a message to Frost, and send him to that location as best we can. He can track from there.” Hail Storm stopped for a moment. “We are so close, Thunder Clouds. I can feel it. Magics restored to the Plains.”

“And our powers restored as well,” Thunder Clouds finished for him. “Come. There is much yet to be done.”

She threw up again, as the image flashed before her eyes.

A cup appeared before her face. “Here.”

It was Arbon. If her face wasn’t already burning red, it would be now. She turned her face away, gasping for air, blinking away the tears.

“Don’t drink. Just rinse,” Arbon insisted.

She lifted a shaky hand, and took the cup. It did help, if only for a minute. She at least managed to stop heaving. Arbon took back the cup. Gilla crawled away from her mess and then sat, still trembling and shaking, trying to get her breathing under control.

Arbon knelt down next to her. “Here. I found some crittney. It helps.”

She reached for the leaves and crammed them into her mouth, chewing as fast as she could. The familiar taste flooded her mouth, sweet and tingling. “Thanks,” she whispered.

Arbon sat in the grass next to her. She dared a brief glance, and her eyes went wide.

His armor was covered with vomit. His face, red and tear-stained. And he was chewing crittney, too.

“You, too?” she asked.

“Yeah.” Arbon’s head hung down, his face averted. “The warlord sent me over here, to get me out of the way. They’re all dead. She gave mercy to the one that was still breathing. His head . . .” Arbon swallowed hard and looked away.

Gilla focused on chewing. Anything but—

“Killing isn’t easy.” Bethral appeared and knelt in front of them, holding out wet cloths. “It isn’t supposed to be.”

“We’re warriors.” Arbon’s voice trembled.

Gilla took the cold cloth and pressed it to her face.

“You are,” Bethral said quietly. “And you did well.”

“I’ve hunted and killed.” Gilla pulled the cloth away from her face. “I’ve seen death before. The old die. Babies die in camp. There are accidents.”

Bethral nodded. “But it’s not the same, is it?”

“No,” Arbon whispered. “It is not.”

“It never will be,” Bethral said. She rose to her feet. “The warrior-priests have chosen to threaten us. You defended yourselves and each other. Do not forget that.” She looked toward where the others had gathered. “We need to keep moving. The others are rolling the dead in their own cloaks. We will leave them here with their gear.”

“Some warriors we are.” Arbon looked down at his leather armor, and wiped at it with the cloth. “The others aren’t crying like a baby after a teat.”

“The others haven’t killed,” Bethral said.

Gilla looked at Bethral, into blue eyes that seemed to understand exactly what she was feeling. She stood up on shaky legs, and looked at her warlord. “I’m ready.”

Arbon stood, too. “So am I.”

“Then let’s be about it,” Bethral said. “I want to be as far as we can get from this place before we rest for the night.”

“Can the Storyteller . . . is he well?” Gilla asked.

“He is unconscious,” Bethral said. Her face was calm, but her pain was in her eyes.

The others were gathered with their horses, reins in hand, waiting. Gilla expected some teasing, but Cosana just gave her a steady look as she handed her the reins.

Ezren Storyteller was already mounted behind El, slumped against his back and his hands tied around El’s waist. His slack face was exhausted. For a moment, Gilla thought about the warrior-priest standing over her, about to kill her. He’d had a gloating look on his face until the moment his flesh had burst into flames.

El interrupted her thoughts. “Are you well, Gilla?”

She nodded. “I will be.”

“Mount up,” Bethral said. “We need to go.”