“I fear we lose either way,” Ezren said. The words were hard to say, harder to hear, but it was time he acknowledged the truth.

“Gilla is a pawn.” Arbon still held Cosana in his arms. “The king and queen are still in play. We should go on.”

Bethral shook her head. “It’s check, Arbon.”

Arbon frowned, and lifted his tear-stained face toward her. “How so?”

“Check for the taking of one of our warriors hostage, and the killing of Cosana and El,” Bethral said. “We will not allow that to go unavenged.”

“Check for the magic, that might force me to the Heart anyway, even if we made our way to the mountains in peace,” Ezren added.

“Check for the fact that they will not be satisfied until they have Ezren one way or the other. If we continue on, they will continue their attacks. We cannot win that game,” Bethral added.

The warriors all stood, thinking it through.

“I’m going with you,” Lander growled. He wiped the blood from his face.

“But—” Ouse protested.

“No,” Ezren commanded. Both of them gave him startled looks. “He comes, if he is able. Someone must sing the truth of this.”

Ouse closed his mouth and looked away, then nodded.

“You are another matter.” Ezren turned to Tenna. Her ankle had been badly sprained in the fall from her horse. It couldn’t support her weight.

“I’ll take our dead back to Haya,” Tenna said. “I will tell her what has happened, and what you are going to do.” She looked at Arbon. “Avenge them for me.”

“No,” Arbon said. He started to lay Cosana’s body down carefully. “I will go with you. We must take word to Haya and the Tribe. If this goes badly, they will need to prepare.” He looked at Tenna. “With one, word might not get there. With two, we know that it will.” Arbon gave Bethral a rueful look. “The safety of our people is more important than anything else.”

“What if the ankle does not heal?” Ezren asked.

“No worries, Storyteller. We have no healing, true enough, but sprains happen in practice. I’ll take every care, I swear it to you.” Tenna struggled to her feet with Arbon’s aid. “Just get me to a mount.” She lifted her tear-stained face to look around at them. “I can’t believe they killed the horses.”

“I doubt they will pursue Tenna,” Bethral said. “We are the targets.”

Ouse and Chell were seeing to Cosana’s body, wrapping it in a cloak. Ezren stood, stifling a groan at his own bruises. “Any chance we can catch them?”

Bethral shook her head. “Unlikely. They will have aid and fresh horses along the way, I suspect. We can get remounts, so we can keep up. But catch them?”

“At least we know which direction to take,” Ezren said.

“We’ll get El,” Lander said.

“I’ll gather the horses,” Chell said.

The young ones scattered. Bethral pulled a waterskin from Bessie’s packs. “Drink.”

Ezren took the skin, and drank deeply. He wiped his mouth and looked at his lovely lady. She was examining Bessie, making sure she hadn’t been injured.

He opened his mouth to tell her his regrets, to urge her to flee by herself, to apologize. But then she looked at him with those lovely blue eyes, and he read the same intent in hers.

Bethral gave him a gentle smile. “If we are for each other, then we are one in the darkness as well as the light. For good or ill, I am yours, Ezren Storyteller. I will not walk away from you.”

She’d taken off her helmet, and her braid had come undone. He reached out and claimed a strand, feeling its silkiness between his fingers. He tugged, and she stepped closer to him. “As I am yours, Bethral of the Horse.” Ezren kissed her, her mouth warm against his cold lips. His hand moved to cup her neck and he demanded more. She opened her mouth, responding to him.

They broke it off for air, breathing hard, their heads still together.

Ezren chuckled softly. “And they call me Silvertongue,” he whispered in her ear.

Bethral flushed.

Then he took a deliberate step back, and handed her the waterskin. She took it just as deliberately, and slung it on the saddle. “I’m worried that the magic is taking more and more of you,” Bethral said. “Will you be able to make it?”

“Watch me,” Ezren said.

Chell brought up a horse, and Ezren mounted. The others were mounting as well.

Tenna was on her horse, and had the leads for the animals bearing the bodies of El and Cosana. Arbon was mounted next to her.

Tenna stared at all of them, and gave them a weak smile. “I don’t know if I will ever see you all again.”

“If not in this life, then beyond the snows,” Lander said.

Arbon cleared his throat. “The elements go with you all.”

Chell brought her horse in close and hugged the smaller woman. Tenna returned the hug fiercely.

She and Arbon gave them all another look, turned their horses, and rode away.

Ezren looked at the bodies of the warrior-priests left where they fell, and at Cosana’s drying blood. In silence, he faced the northwest, and started his horse off at a trot.

The others followed.

It took a few minutes to remember and understand what had happened. She’d been taken, and that could only be to lure Ezren Storyteller to the Heart of the Plains.

She had the sense to keep her head down and her body loose. The rider had one arm around her waist, her head against his chest. With half-open eyes, rolling her head, she could just make out that they were surrounded by other riders. It was light, the sun high in the sky. But how many days had it been? Her head ached, though not as hard as one would think after being hit to unconsciousness. A full day? Two?

She’d been stripped of her armor and was clothed in simple tunic and trous, her feet bare. She wondered who had stripped her, then how else they had used her body. Rape was rare on the Plains, but then again, they’d killed horses, hadn’t they?

There were too many to try anything on horseback. She fought down a surge of fear, and concentrated on what she could do. Her hands were bound in front, and her legs were hanging loose. If she could get free, and get a weapon . . . they all wore those sacrifice daggers at their waists.

If she couldn’t escape, she would kill herself.

She tried to stay limp, but the riding was too uncomfortable if she was flopping about. She straightened a bit, and put her bare feet on her captor’s boots to steady her legs.

He noticed, of course, but said nothing. The arm around her waist tightened; that was the only response.

A bit more comfortable, she strained to remember. They’d been ambushed, there’d been a fight . . . El.

She gasped, trying hard not to weep but crying anyway. The lance, the way he had fallen. He was dead, no doubt of that. She’d run toward him, and now she kicked herself for it. If she’d gone for his horse, been focused on the battle, they’d never have been able to take her.

And the others? What about the others? What if they were all dead and—

Enough. She stopped her wild thoughts. Thinking that way did nothing but waste her strength.

She looked around openly now, and saw a small group of horses and warrior-priests waiting ahead. The horse started to slow. Remounts, most likely.

She was lowered to the ground and held by two warrior-priests, one on each arm. They took care of her needs with a callousness that frightened her. Almost as if she was a gurtle to be cared for until the slaughter. The two dealt with her quickly as a third kept watch just a few paces away.

The necessary details handled, the gag was removed and she was offered water. After she’d drunk her fill, she looked at the warrior-priest who bore his full tattoos. “What are you—”

Another gag was flipped over her head, and tied tight.

Before she could struggle, she was on another horse, another arm around her waist. And the horses tore off at high speed, heading northwest.

Gilla swallowed hard, fighting her terror. A chance would come, eventually. They would make a mistake, and she would take advantage of it.

She closed her eyes, suddenly aware of a hard truth. Even if she managed to deprive them of their hostage, they already had what they wanted. The Warlord and the Storyteller would give chase, and wouldn’t know of her death. They’d ride to their deaths regardless.

Enough of that. Her hands were in front of her, and they hadn’t checked the ropes. She’d work at getting free, moving her arms with the rhythm of the horse so her captor didn’t know what she was doing. Her chance would come, for either death or freedom.

She’d take either one.

The camp around him was buzzing with the comings and goings of the others. They were taking down the tents and making the preparations to move to the Heart of the Plains. Some had already left. He watched the stone that represented the Heart, and the little sparkles clustered around it.

The largest gathering of warrior-priests the Plains had ever seen. Every warrior-priest would be there, except those that wandered the rest of the world, seeking that which had now been found. He had summoned every warrior-priest, and they had obeyed. He would guide them through the restoration of all that they had lost.

The large swirl of sparkles was smaller than it should have been. They’d lost many good men and women over the Sacrifice; they would need to be replaced. But that would be easier with a true source of power. Hail Storm had no doubt of his ability to deal with that issue in the future.

But for now, he had to consider the matter of timing.

He focused his gaze on two other sparkles, one behind the other, heading for the Heart in a straight line. It was almost possible to see them move if you sat still long enough. Not long now, and the hostage and the Sacrifice would be where he wanted them to be. And the Sacrifice would be more than willing, eh? At least once he saw the hostage kneeling at Hail Storm’s feet, his dagger pressed to his or her neck. For a moment, he could see it in his mind’s eye.

He’d surround the stone with archers. The woman that traveled with the Sacrifice was supposedly encased in metal. Hail Storm didn’t see that as a problem. One swift arrow could pierce the metal easily, or kill the horse. Either one would deal with that problem.

The Sacrifice would approach the stone alone, unaided, and offer himself to Hail Storm’s blade.

And after the Sacrifice had willingly shed his blood, the hostage could die, too. That one would know too much of these events, and his or her truths would die with him or her. A demonstration of a new power source would be done and swiftly.

Oh, there might be an uproar about the killing, but they’d settle down once they’d seen the benefits. It was really just expanding the language of the prophecy. Blood of the Plains, willingly shed, in willing sacrifice.

No, the question now was the timing. How should he deal with Wild Winds?

Hail Storm had issued challenge, and in order to control the arrival of the Sacrifice, he had to be the eldest elder before the man arrived.

Wild Winds still had support among the warrior-priests. It would be good to silence the old man with his death.

On the other hand, there might be more sympathy gained for him if he allowed the old sick man to live, rather than killing him outright. It also brought home that Wild Winds was failing to follow the traditions of the Plains, by not going to the snows before his body failed completely.

A slight cough at the flap, and a server entered with kavage. Hail Storm acknowledged the service with a nod but remained silent, not taking up the mug until he was alone again.

It was best to bend with the winds on this. He’d wait and see what condition Wild Winds was in when he confronted him. If the old man was able to raise his sword, well, then, death would be his fate.

If the old man only had words, then Hail Storm would respond in kind, dealing with the confrontation with mercy and compassion. He’d claim the authority, and let the title rest with Wild Winds until the man breathed his last.

With any luck, Wild Winds would seek the snows before he ever arrived at the Heart.

He’d arrange it so that he appeared at Wild Winds’s tent at dawn. Once he was dealt with, Hail Storm would go to stand at the center of the stone circle, await the coming of the hostage, and prepare for the arrival of the Sacrifice. By day’s end, he’d have all the position and power he’d need to deal with the warlords and singers.

He took a sip of kavage, and smiled as he watched the sparkles move, as if by his will, and his will alone.

Another cough. Hail Storm waited.

“A visitor, Elder. He claims that you sent for him.”

Ah. Hail Storm rose to his feet. “Send him in.”

The man entered. He stood in silence, wrapped in a cloak, his face hidden by the hood. Hail Storm moved to the flap, and tied a set of bells to the outside. “Welcome, Antas of the Boar.”

Antas pulled back his hood just enough to reveal his brown, deeply wrinkled face. He wore his customary glare. “There’s been no word, Hail Storm. Other than the order to pull back from the Heart. If you support me in holding to our traditional ways, why have you delayed the spring challenges?”

“I will tell you as much as I can, but we must be swift,” Hail Storm said. “It would be best if you were not seen.”

“Granted,” Antas agreed. “I do not wish to cause problems for your quest to be the Eldest Elder. I will need your support when I march to destroy Xy and Keir of the Cat. But what has happened?”

“Sit,” Hail Storm said. “I will share my truths and my news.”