“I am sorry, Bethral,” Ezren said regretfully as she stepped to his side, “for what we will not have.”

Bethral took off her helmet, shaking out her long hair. “I’m grateful for what we have had. And who can say what comes after this life?” She hung her helmet on Bessie’s saddle, and her mace from her belt. “So, if you aren’t going to let me kill them all, and I’m not going to let them kill us, what are we going to do?”

Bessie snorted and shook her head, jingling her harness as if asking the same question.

Ezren laughed. The warmth in his chest grew as the wild magic laughed with him. He turned to face the crowd. “Bragnect!”

His voice rolled over the heads of the warrior-priests. That got their attention, and they all went silent. Even Hail Storm, the one that had held Gilla; he now stood at the edge of the stone, glaring with hate. Glaring with cold, dead eyes. Ezren knew that look all too well. Hail Storm’s eyes were the same as those of the blood mage. The one that had driven the stone knife into Ezren’s chest.

“Bragnect, all of you!” Ezren raised his voice, letting it carry above the crowd. He had a sense that his voice was carrying over the land, clear to all, even to those on the rise. “Horse killers! Slayers of young warriors! Arrogant, self-righteous fools, filled with your own importance and pride! What else have you done over the years in order to protect your rank and standing?”

Those around the stone raised their weapons, their faces filled with rage. But not one of them stepped on the glowing stone.

“I do not know the answer,” Ezren said, “but the Plains know. The Magic knows.”

Ezren focused on Hail Storm. “You want power and magic, and you are willing to do anything to make it happen. Even distort the words of your own tales and history to make it work for you.” Ezren could hear his voice—it had never sounded so powerful before, so strong. It was still not the voice he’d had before, but it was his, and it resonated as he spoke.

“Yes!” Hail Storm drew his sword with one hand, and held his sacrifice dagger with the other. He stepped past the cowering fools and put his foot onto the stone. “That which was lost is now found, and it is up to us, the warrior-priests of the Plains, to restore it.”

Bethral stepped forward, her mace back in her hand. But Ezren caught her elbow, and stopped her.

“Call them, Bethral.”

She tilted her head. “Who?” she asked in a whisper.

“Summon them,” Ezren said. His eyes glowed in the light. But there was something else. Something more in his green eyes. “Summon them here to witness and judge, Bethral of the Horse, Avatar and Warrior.”

Like that, Bethral knew exactly what he meant. She’d done this before, opened herself to that power; embodied all of the Spirit that was within her.

She whispered a prayer, put her hand on Bessie’s neck, threw her head back, and cried the call to summon horses of the Plains.

Bessie reared, neighing, adding the call of the lead mare.

A trembling started underfoot. Hail Storm jerked his foot off the stone.

Bethral felt it under her feet, and shared a delighted glance with Ezren. She called again, and the thundering grew, now clearly heard. All of the warrior-priests started to look around.

“There is an old saying in my land, Hail Storm.” Ezren’s voice rang with satisfaction. “Be careful what you wish for. You just might get it.”

They dragged her over to the crowd of warrior-priests at the top of the rise who were watching the Heart. Gilla jerked back, but Ouse shook his head. “We’ll explain, after.”

So they were standing close to the oldest of the warrior-priests, who was being supported by two younger ones. It was the one who had conducted the rites, the one who had spurned Hail Storm in the center of the Heart. Gilla gave him an uncertain glance, but the others were ignoring him.

“Look,” Ouse said.

Gilla’s eyes were drawn to where Ezren and Bethral were standing, just standing, in the glow, next to the roan horse. Why didn’t they . . .

“Bragnect!”

Gilla gasped as she heard every word, as clear as if the Storyteller was standing before her. Then the ground below their feet started to shake.

A group of horses came over the far rise, glowing with their own light. Horses like the ones on the Longest Night, when the dead appeared to bid farewell to the living. Spirit horses, too, ridden by . . .

Was that El?

Gilla’s grief spilled over. El was there, riding hard. Her tears fell as she recognized Cosana at his side. There was another as well, a young warrior-priestess, and from the gasps around them, she was known to the others.

The spirit horses plunged down off the rise, galloping straight for the Heart. Behind them streamed real horses, hundreds, thousands. Gilla had never seen so many horses in one herd at one time. They ran, tossing their heads, neighing, following the spirit horses as they charged the warrior-priests.

The warrior-priests reacted in various ways, some running away from the stone, some standing and waving their arms so that the horses would dodge around them. But the spirit horses made it their business to cut between the Heart and the warrior-priests, forcing them away.

Ezren and Bethral stood at the center as the horses swirled around the edge of the stone, pushing the warrior-priests farther and farther back. The thunder of their hooves seemed to fade as Ezren’s voice cut through the noise.

He scrambled back, barely dodging the cold, glowing hand of Arching Colors as she reached for him. Then she swept past, and the real horses followed, forcing him back and away from the stone. They continued to swirl around, thundering past, but Hail Storm’s attention was caught by the figures in the center of the glowing stone.

“You Warrior-Priests have wanted it all, and all for yourselves.”

The man, Ezren Storyteller, was digging in the roan horse’s saddlebags, and he pulled forth a bundle of rags. He stripped them away, revealing a sacrifice knife with stone blade and horn handle. Skies above, where had he gotten that?

The Storyteller held it up for all to see, and his voice echoed over the horses. “I bear the wild magic, by no choice of my own. But this was never the kind of power that I wished to possess. All I ever wanted was the power to tell stories, moving the hearts and minds of those that heard them, and learning the truths that are found in all tales.”

The Storyteller paused, and glanced at the woman at his side. “That, and the magic of Bethral’s love are all I need in this life, and the next.”

Once again he brandished the sacrifice knife, holding it high. “We will give you what you want. . . .”

The blade in the Storyteller’s hands seemed to grow blacker somehow, as if the stone was absorbing the light.

The Storyteller continued, his green eyes glowing with light. “. . . But may all the Gods, and all the elements, grant that you get exactly what you deserve.”

Bethral took off her gauntlet and tucked it into her belt. She looked beyond the horses that protected them, at the rise where they’d left the others. She smiled, extending her hand to Ezren, then took a deep breath, at peace with this decision.

“Blood of the Plains,” she announced, hearing the echo of her words. “Willing sacrifice, willingly made.”

Ezren sliced her palm, and blood swelled from the cut.

He held his own hand up, and cut his palm. “Willing sacrifice,” he repeated, his words echoing as well. “Willingly made.”

He grasped the knife hilt with his bloody hand, and reached out. Bethral put her hand over his, also touching the hilt. Their mingled blood dripped to the stone below.

Bethral felt it then, felt the joy and anticipation of the wild magic. It danced over their hands, little sparks of light. It tingled, and left her breathless with its power and its promise.

But when she looked in Ezren’s eyes, there was no regret. He was at peace with this choice. He meant what he had said about their love. This life, and the next.

She smiled and nodded, willing to follow his lead.

There was a shriek, and Hail Storm was visible for a moment, his face filled with horror. He was trying to dodge through the ring of horses, trying to prevent—

“You want power?” Ezren asked. “Well, we want justice. For us.” He knelt, and Bethral knelt with him.

“For the land.” Ezren lifted the knife high as their blood flowed down the blade and added to the pool below.

“FOR THE PEOPLE OF THE PLAINS!” Ezren and Bethral shouted together, and their joined hands plunged downward and shattered the stone blade against the Heart of the Plains.

The world around them disappeared as the light flared bright, white, and forever.