Vengeance.

The others were with him, but there was little talk. They ate and slept and rode, following Ezren on a straight path across the vast grasslands. Whenever they came across a herd, Lander, Ouse, and Chell would summon fresh horses, and they’d shift the saddles and start to run again. Over and over, as the days and hours flew.

Night brought a quick meal, and sleep. Ezren would pull Bethral into his arms, and wrap the blankets around them. They sought comfort more than anything else in their tiredness. But just having her head on his shoulder, her scent on every breath he took, provided the strength to face the next day.

They were close now. Ezren looked at the lowering sun as the others summoned horses for the final push.

He heard a soft sound, and glanced at where Bethral was saddling a fresh mount. Bessie was close by, grazing while she could.

He stepped closer to Bethral, and saw wetness on her cheeks. The others couldn’t see her because she was concealed by the horse.

She glanced at him, then away.

He went to her side, and wiped her tears with his hand. “Oh, my Lady,” he said softly.

She looked at him, and choked back a sob. “It’s just that . . . there’s so much more I wanted with you. I just—” she cut herself off, and wiped her tears. “I’m so afraid of losing you.”

“Do you want to turn back?” He asked the question, but he already knew the answer.

She brought her head up, her face fierce and determined. “No.”

“Good. Because I am not sure I could, even if I wanted to.” Ezren admitted as he looked to the northeast. “We are so close. Another few hours should see the end of this.”

Bethral nodded, wiping her face. She tightened the girth of her saddle. “Give us some warning; we’ll need to stop and prepare before we come into view.” She glanced at Bessie. “I’ll want to be on Bessie when the time comes.”

Ezren pulled her face around and kissed her softly. “I wanted more as well, Angel.”

Bethral leaned in, seeking comfort. For just a moment, he breathed in her scent, lost in their private world.

“We’re ready.” Ouse said, riding up with packhorses in tow.

It wasn’t this.

Every warrior-priest was there, standing around the great stone that marked the Heart of the Plains. Every single one.

Wild Winds stood alone at the center of the stone, leaning on his staff.

Hail Storm had a moment to frown, and then Wild Winds looked at him, and every head turned his way.

He straightened in his saddle. If the old fool wanted a public confrontation, so much the better. A kick, and his horse started down the rise, followed by the others.

The only sounds were the wind in the grass and his horse’s hooves as he approached. The gathered warrior-priests melted away before him, leaving a clear path. Hail Storm dismounted and pulled his staff from its ties. The others did the same. Two of them pulled the hostage from the saddle. She kicked out, apparently not completely cowed. They threw her down, securing her at the knees and feet. She’d keep, until he was ready.

Hail Storm turned, and strode across the stone to stand some paces away from Wild Winds.

The old man did not look good. Ashen, with a white-knuckled grip on his staff. A staff with no skulls, Hail Storm noted immediately. Ah, he’d released his spirit mentors. A concession of defeat, if ever there was one.

Yet Wild Winds did not act defeated. He stared at Hail Storm with hooded eyes, and said nothing.

“Greetings, Wild Winds.” Hail Storm looked around at those gathered. “I have come to challenge, in the name of the—”

“In your own name,” Wild Winds said. “And in the name of your personal glory.” The old man’s voice carried well over the stone.

“Not so,” Hail Storm replied, calmly. “That which had been lost has been found, and the time of—”

“Spare me,” Wild Winds said. “Spare us all the speeches you prepared in the darkness of your tent.” He extended a hand, and gestured to the two who held the hostage. “Bring her here.”

Before Hail Storm could even speak, the two warrior-priests picked the girl up and brought her to stand before Wild Winds. As if the habit of obeying the old man was too ingrained to break.

“So.” Wild Winds looked at the gagged and bound girl, her hair in disarray, her trous stained and damp. Her face was stained with tears, but her eyes held frustration and rage. A low murmur swept through the crowd of witnesses as they noted her condition.

“This is how you treat the very people we are pledged to serve and protect.” Wild Winds let his anger show in his voice.

“Some must sacrifice, so that the magic can be restored to the Plains,” Hail Storm said, realizing that he had been put on the defensive.

“Willing sacrifice, willingly made,” Wild Winds said. “The very words of our tradition distorted and shifted, as if they were no more than sand in the wind.” He looked about their audience. “And those of you who stand here, the warrior-priests of the Plains, those that are supposed to be the very protectors of our land and our people, you agree with this? Sanction this?”

There were mutterings then, and some heads nodding as if agreeing with Wild Winds. But Hail Storm saw support for himself in the majority of those faces.

He drew his sacrifice dagger. “Wild Winds, answer my challenge. I claim the position of Eldest Elder Warrior-Priest. It is I that will lead our people to—”

“Pah,” Wild Winds said. “You are welcome to it.”

Hail Storm stood there, taken aback. What was the old man doing?

“I renounce my position as Eldest Elder.”

“You can’t reject—”

“Ah, but I do. I reject this path.” Wild Winds’s voice rolled over the crowd like thunder. “There is no honor, no truth in this, none whatsoever.”

“You would not return the magic?” Mist spoke from the edge of the stone.

“If this is what magic requires”—Wild Winds pointed at the girl—“I want none of it. The Plains would be better off without its return.” He lifted his head, and looked around. “Who will turn from this path with me?” With that, he started to walk off the stone, away from Hail Storm.

Hail Storm frowned, uncertain. He could kill the old man . . . but that might cost him support. He stared about, as others started to thread through the crowd, following Wild Winds. He held his breath, then let it out slowly when only twenty or so left the crowd. All young, none with full tattoos.

As Wild Winds left the stone platform, he staggered; a female warrior-priest ran up, and tucked herself under his arm to offer support. That decided Hail Storm. No need to kill a man already dead.

Mist watched Wild Winds leave, and for a moment it seemed as if she, too, would go. But then she turned her head and looked at Hail Storm, and seemed to make her decision.

Good. Hail Storm sheathed his dagger, and gestured for them to remove the hostage from the stone. Better if she was not so obvious. He turned, and smiled at those that remained. “I claim the position of Eldest Elder of the Warrior-Priests of the Plains. Will any say me nay?”

For a moment, there was only silence. Then, to Hail Storm’s delight, Mist started the chant to confirm his claim. With a deep sense of joy, he stood at the Heart of the Plains and received his due.

As the chant ended, he bowed his head, then began to speak. “The Sacrifice approaches, and is only a few hours away. There is much to be done. Let the elders gather here with me, and we will make our plans.”

Wild Winds was having trouble breathing as he leaned hard on Snowfall. There were only about twenty that had followed him. None with skulls on their staffs. None with their full tattoos. He licked his lips. Perhaps he should release them to return to the ceremony. The chant had just started.

An image flashed in his mind, one of a short woman with long, curly brown hair, looking at him with wide eyes of the lightest blue. Ah, of a certain the winds were laughing. He’d fought the change a Warprize represented, and now here was even worse, from his own people.

“Let us take you to your tent.” Lightning Strike came on his other side, and put his arm on his shoulders.

“No,” Wild Winds gasped. “Take me to that rise. I want to see what happens. There’s one last thing. . . .” He lost his breath, and his legs failed.

“Let us do the work, Eldest Elder.” Snowfall handed his staff to another, and she and Lightning Strike formed a chair with their arms.

“I am no longer eldest elder,” he wheezed.

“You are,” she said. “To us. Now, there’s ehat broth left, and I can—”

“Send someone else,” Wild Winds tried to command, but it came out as a strangled whisper. “I’ve another task for you, if you will. Take a message—”

“Breathe,” she ordered. “I will do whatever you ask, once we are at the top of the rise.”

“Bossy,” Wild Winds muttered, then decided to do the wise thing and do as she said.

Chell nodded. “That’s what I think, too.”

Bethral pulled her horse to a stop. “Then we’ll get ready here.”

“Rider,” Ouse said, pulling his bow up and taut.

They all turned and saw a rider coming at a gallop from the direction of the Heart. It was a warrior-priestess, heading right for them. When she saw that she’d been spotted, she raised both hands, to show that she carried no weapon.

“Steady,” Bethral said. They waited.

Chell squinted. “Isn’t that the female who was at the rites?”

“She was with Wild Winds?” Ezren craned to look.

The warrior-priestess pulled her horse up while still at a distance, then dismounted, and started to run toward them, her hands empty and no sword at her waist. She slowed as she neared, then stopped within calling distance. “Ezren Storyteller. I bring word from Eldest Elder Wild Winds.”

Ezren urged his horse forward. “What word?”

The woman walked slowly toward him, her hands held out to the sides. “I am Snowfall, in training with Wild Winds.”

“She offers her name,” Chell whispered, her eyes wide with astonishment.

“He asks that you hear his truths before you confront the one that has caused your warrior to be kidnapped.” Snowfall stood by Ezren’s horse, her face turned toward his. “He has sent me as his living token, your hostage to his honor. Will you come?”