Antas waited in one of the deeper gullies for his scouts to report.

The alders with their fresh green leaves hid him, and the stream that trickled past gave his horse a chance for a good drink. Antas dismounted, held the reins and patted the horse’s neck as it slurped at the clear water.

Time was he’d have never hesitated to approach a thea camp openly, certain of a warm welcome and the courtesy of its tents.

But times had changed, now, hadn’t they?

Keir and Simus had seen to that.

Antas stared at the leather reins in his hands, absently checking them for cracks or weak spots. He’d watched Keir and Simus and that foresworn Joden too. Watched as they advanced as warriors, through campaigns and the Trials.

He’d seen their loathing of the warrior-priests, listened to their first rumblings of change, but he’d thought nothing of it. Even when Keir had become Warlord, he’d shrugged. What could one fool young one do?

Keir had taken the northern most city of Xy as his target, and then announced to all his intent. Made no secret of it. Bad luck to him and good riddance had been Antas’s first thought, and who could blame him that? Who was Keir to speak of conquest? Of holding, occupying? Of dancing new patterns?

Foolishness.

Yet Keir had done just that, with Simus at his side. Against all odds. And then, to add insult to injury, he’d claimed a Warprize.

A Warprize. Antas growled under his breath as a sudden rage swept through him. Here he was, Antas of the Boar, a warrior, a Warlord, and Eldest Elder of the Warriors, and he’d no Warprize. How many seasons had he seen in battle, with no sign of such a prize.

Then for Keir to claim that his Warprize had healing powers that challenged the might of the warrior-priests? It was outrageous and an offense to the elements.

Antas rolled his shoulders, and twisted his head, trying to ease the knots of tension in his shoulders.

His horse sensed his anger, and stamped its foot. He reached out, stroking its neck until it relaxed and started to tear at the browse it could reach.

When Joden, that false Singer-to-be, had shifted like the winds to support the Warprize, that had been the last blow. The Council had forced his choice, forced him to take sword in hand to protect the Plains. Pity his blades hadn’t brought Keir down, and Simus and Joden for that matter.

But the elements had not been with him, and he’d withdrawn with his warriors and those that agreed with him. Withdrawn to spend the winter in their lodges, discussing, planning, talking.

A simple enough plan. First to solicit more warriors to his cause, theas included, to join their voices to his. Then to enter the Trials at the Heart, contest for Warlord, and confront the Council when it gathered. Reason with them about the paths they were seeking. They could not ignore his voice, especially with the other Elders behind him.

And when Hail Storm had approached him, and talked of replacing Wild Winds as Eldest Elder, well, that had been a blessing from the skies themselves.

Except something had gone wrong.

Hail Storm became cagey, saying only that there was a ceremony that the warrior-priests needed to conduct at the Heart, and that the warriors would all be driven back, the Trials delayed.

Antas had shrugged at that, for it seemed no matter. A day, a night, how could that make a difference? He’d continued his rounds of other camps, leaving his main force farther away from the Heart. He’d avoid conflict with others until he chose to start it.

Until this last night, with strange voices echoing over the Plains, horses running off as if summoned by the elements themselves—

A pillar of light that appeared, piercing the night sky, so bright he’d had to shield his eyes. And then the rings of light that had followed, racing through the grass and disappearing.

No word had come, from Hail Storm, from the Heart. Antas had ordered his warriors not to approach the Heart. Whatever ceremony the warrior-priests had conducted, he’d wait to hear from them before approaching. But it was unsettling, and he wondered—

A rustling in the alders alerted him, and Antas raised his head. It was Veritt, his Second, who threaded his horse through the alders and drew close.

“The camp that lies over two rises,” Veritt pointed with his chin, “it’s a thea camp. Haya of the Snake is the Elder Thea.” He gave Antas a quick grin. “Not the friendliest of warriors.”

Antas frowned. “With a tongue as sharp as her blades and not afraid to speak her mind.”

“Do we approach her?” asked Veritt. “We could return to our camp, wait for word from the warrior-priests.”

Antas considered. “Her voice cuts like a dagger, but it carries weight. If she moves the camp again, we may not find her until after the Trials. Let us talk to her, then return to our camp.” He mounted, ducking alders as he settled in his saddle. “Nothing ventured, nothing gained.”

Veritt lowered his eyes, and bowed his head. “Yes, Warlord.” Then he snapped his head up, and flashed another grin. “Just as glad you’re the Warlord. You have to do the talking.”

 

 

Antas made no secret of their approach, leading his men in a slow walk over the rises toward the tents of the thea camp.

Haya was waiting for them, the canny old gurtle, standing there, tall and straight and silent. Her white hair shone against her tan skin. Her dark eyes were like flint, cold as the Snake of her Tribe.

Antas slowed his horse, glancing around, looking for likely young warrior-children, but the camp was unusually silent. Antas wondered at that as he signaled a stop to his warriors, and dismounted.

“Greetings, Elder Thea Haya of the Snake,” he said lightly. “I’d speak with you, if you would.”

Haya studied him, then her gaze swept over the warriors of his party. Her eyes returned to Antas and she gave him the slightest of nods. “Antas of the Boar.”

Leaving off the honors he was entitled to. Antas kept a scowl from his face.

“The bodies of two of our young warriors have returned to the camp.” Haya’s voice was flat and hard. “We are preparing to mourn our dead,” she continued, giving a pointed look to the clouds on the horizon. “Now is not the time.”

“Death comes in an instant,” Antas said. “Even to the young.” He heaved a great sigh of sympathy. “But the dangers that threaten come in an instant as well. Best to be prepared.”

There was movement in the tent behind Haya. A man emerged, his head bald, his face brown and wrinkled in a frown.

Antas gave him a nod. “Greetings, Weaponsmaster, Seo of the Fox.”

Seo nodded in greeting, but said nothing.

“Do you bring news of the Heart?” Haya asked, not relaxing her stance. “Of the lance of light that pierced the sky?”

“No,” Antas answered truthfully. “That is a concern for the warrior-priests and I have had no word as to its meaning.” That was honest enough, although he was certain that Hail Storm would have a tale to tell when next they met. “No, Haya, I would speak of the Trials, and the dangers to our young ones.”

There was a long pause then, with nothing to be heard but the wind in the grass.

“It would be good to hear whatever news you bear,” Seo said.

Haya’s face was unreadable, but she lowered her arms. “I offer you and your warriors the shelter of my tent. Come within. Speak your truths.”

Antas entered Haya’s tent to find that her courtesy was a warm one, with a brazier glowing, hot kavage offered, and bowls of gurt placed within easy reach. But there was no warmth in Haya’s eyes as she gestured him and his Second to take their seats.

“This is Quartis,” Haya said shortly, indicating the younger man already seated to her left. He had the tattoo of a bird’s wing around his eye, and feathers braided into his long hair.

“Greetings, Singer.” Antas eyed the man warily, but Quartis’s face and nod were neutral and proper in all respects.

Antas gestured to the warrior who had followed him within the tent. “My Second is Veritt of the Bear.”

Haya sat, her back still and straight. “My people will offer kavage for your men, and see to their horses. As I said, I can offer you little time. I’ve two young warriors to mourn for this night, and a sorrowing camp.”

“Death comes in an instant,” Antas repeated, taking the kavage. The young warrior who served him limped slightly as she moved about with mugs and a pitcher. “A hard lesson for the young of the Plains to learn.”

“So it is,” Haya said. “Your truths?”

Blunt and to the point. Antas cleared his throat. “As Elders, you were at the Council of Elders when—”

“No,” Haya cut him off. “I was not in the Council that day.” She caught Antas’s glance at Seo. “Nor was Seo,” she continued. “Reness was there, but I have not heard her truths.” Haya paused, studying Antas intently. “I have heard many tales of what happened, but we did not see.”

“Ah.” Antas leaned forward, feeling a bit more confident. “But you know that the Council of Elders have failed us. Failed to protect the Plains from Keir of the Cat and those of his ilk.”

“I hear that blood was spilt,” Haya said, staring into her mug of kavage. “I hear that a Warprize was claimed, and that Keir of the Cat was stripped of his position, Warlord no longer. What dangers do you speak of, Antas?”

“The threat to our ways, our traditions,” Antas said. “The loss of respect for our warrior-priests—”

“If it’s lost, it’s their own fault,” snapped the young warrior who had served them, the pitcher of kavage clutched tight in her white-knuckled hands. “They—”

“Tenna,” Haya cut her off. “See to the warriors without.”

Tenna pressed her lips together, bowed her head, and limped from the tent.

“Forgive her lapse,” Haya said tightly. “The dead we mourn this day were of her tent.”

Antas gave her an understanding nod. “Haya, you are known as a thea of strength and ability. For years you have raised strong young warriors to serve the Plains—”

“I have already released my young ones to the Plains,” Haya said. “If you seek warriors, you must go the Heart and raise your banner.”

“I seek your entire camp, Haya, to place it under my protection,” Antas said.

That shocked the old gurtle into silence.

“I protect this camp,” Seo growled.

“I honor that.” Antas gave the Elder a nod. “You are weaponsmaster to the young, and keep them safe from the normal perils of the Plains. But these are not normal times, Seo. And the dangers can come in many forms. We must keep to the old paths and restore the old ways. The young ones must be kept safe and free of taint.”

The three before him were still and silent, waiting.

“There are those of us that feel that the Council itself is a danger, when it allows strange ideas and brings changes to our ways,” Antas continued. “I would gather those that would resist those changes, so that we may protect the Plains by any means necessary.”

He met their unblinking stares with his own.

The sound of wailing came through the tent walls.

Haya rose. “I thank you for your truths,” she said. “We will consider them.”

There wasn’t much more he could do but rise from his seat, and allow her to escort them from the tent.

Veritt waited until they were mounted and moving away from the camp before speaking. “She mentioned Reness,” he said under his breath. “Do you think she knows?”

Antas settled himself into his saddle. “She knows nothing of what has happened,” he huffed. “Else we’d have not been met with welcome.” He set his horse to a trot, and the others moved with him.

“And now?” Veritt asked.

“We’ve convinced three theas to join us,” Antas said, thinking aloud. “We’ll return to our camp. I hope to find Hail Storm there with word of what has happened at the Heart.”

Antas glanced over his shoulder at the tents behind them. Haya stood there, her arms crossed over her chest, watching them depart. He smiled grimly to himself as he faced forward. “From there, we will see. Decisions must wait until I know more.”

“Simus of the Hawk will be raising his banner,” Veritt warned.

“Let him,” Antas growled. “It will do him no good. If those that challenge him fail to take him down, I will face him myself, mace in hand.”

 

 

Haya watched as Antas and his warriors rode off. She felt Seo move up behind her, his warmth at her shoulder. “Of all the Councils I did not attend,” she muttered, irritated with herself. “It had to be this last one.”

“You had three life-bearers giving birth,” Seo reminded her.

“Truth,” Haya said.

“And if you had been there?” Seo asked. “Would you have supported Keir?”

“I don’t know,” Haya admitted with a shrug.

“But you weren’t there,” Seo said. “Besides, what are Councils but hot breath, wasted words, and stale kavage in a tent?”

“Useful, to have my words returned to me,” Haya said dryly. “My thanks for your truths.”

Seo chuckled.

“Antas drew first,” Quartis said as he emerged from the tent. “He called for the death of the city-dweller before she could be named as Warprize. Or so Essa said last season.”

“I would have preferred to have seen this truth for myself, or heard it from Reness.” Haya frowned as she watched Antas and his warriors disappear over a rise.

“You did not tell him of your role with the Sacrifice, the Token-bearer, and the Guardians you provided,” Quartis observed with a neutral tone.

“A Singer’s question,” Haya gave him an amused look. “Singers, ever asking without actually asking.”

Quartis returned her look with a half-smile.

Haya turned back to watch the departing warriors. “It seems to me the less said of that the better. Especially after last night.”

Tenna limped up, a basket of dirty mugs in her hands. Her hands were shaking, but she stood tall before them. She’d been one of the Guardians. Haya’s heart filled with pride, but it wouldn’t do to show it.

“Did you recognize any of them?” Haya demanded.

“No, dea-mine—” Tenna stopped, and gulped, her eyes going wide.

Haya let herself smile and reached out to brush back a lock of Tenna’s hair. “You’re an adult now, warrior. Such childish names are not for you anymore.”

Tenna blushed. “Yes, Elder.”

“A hard habit to break,” Seo chimed in.

“Yes, Weaponsmaster,” Tenna responded.

Haya watched with pride as Tenna took a breath to continue. “No, Elder Thea, I did not recognize any of his warriors.” Tenna met her gaze. “We were attacked by warrior-priests, and there were none in with his warriors. Even if there had been,” she added, her truth in her eyes, “I am not sure I would have been able to recognize them.”

“Fair enough.” Haya sighed, and gestured to the basket. “See to those later. Join Arbon and the others, and tell them we will be there shortly. We will mourn El and Cosanna this night.”

Tenna’s eyes glistened, but she gave a silent nod in response and left them.

Haya sighed, and lowered her voice so that only Seo and Quartis could hear her. “I’d thought I’d moved our camp far enough that we couldn’t be found easily. Yet Antas found us, and I fear the next time his request will be a demand.”

“Where can we go?” Seo asked. “To keep the young ones safe?”

“Where else? The Heart.”

Both Quartis and Seo stared at her as if her wits were gone with the winds.

“The young do not go to the Heart in the Spring, during the Trials. That is not done.” Seo glared at her. “The camps do not mingle except in the Fall, to gather for the final Council of Elders. Young ones underfoot of warriors preparing for war? That is not done,” he repeated.

“We know things that the Council will need to know,” Haya said. She turned to look at the horizon, her knowledge of the Heart’s location unerring.

“So, too, I need to find Essa,” Quartis said. “The Eldest Elder Singer must know as well.”

“But this is not done,” Seo protested again. “Thea camps do not mingle with—”

“Seasons change,” Haya said grimly. “So must we.”

 

 

Simus paused to wipe his brow with his forearm. His skin was gritty with sweat and dirt.

“I’ll thank the skies if this is the last,” he muttered to Joden as he reached for a large roll of sod and packed it back into the earth to cover the mass grave.

“It is.” Joden paused himself, raising his head to look around at the others.

Simus grunted, pressing the grass roots down harder than really needed. It had taken far longer to clear the Heart of the dead then he’d expected. Hours of digging so that the bodies could be returned to the earth; there was no way so many could be given to the air, water, or fire. Then too, there was the sorting out of supplies and gear, distributed equally among those who worked. No item would be allowed to go to waste. It wasn’t so much the time it took, but the work itself that dragged down the hearts and minds of the warriors around him.

Simus rose to his feet, dusting off his hands, then paused.

Someone was watching him.

“Something?” Joden asked softly, still pushing the sod into place.

Simus stretched, turning about, scanning the grasses, but all he could see were his own people, busy at their tasks. No one was staring, or trying to get his attention.

“Felt eyes on the back of my neck,” Simus admitted.

“A threat?” Joden stretched as well. “I don’t see—”

“Eh,” Simus said, brushing it off. “I’m weary. So are they.” He looked around, taking in his warriors. “You’d think they’d been defeated in battle,” Simus said.

Joden rose to his feet as well, cracking his back. “We of the Plains raid, Simus. We gallop in, wage the battle, and ride away. We are not used to dealing with the aftermath. The only other time we’ve had to deal with this...” Joden’s words trailed off, his eyes distant.

Simus knew well enough that Joden was in the past, burying the dead from the plague.

“Enough,” Simus put his hand on Joden’s shoulder, calling him back. “Enough, my friend. We’ll eat and rest and in the morning we’ll start fresh, and raise our tents for the Trials.”