Snowfall had ridden as close to the Heart as she dared, using her powers to mask her presence and protect her from prying eyes.

She’d released her horse back to the herds and cached her bedroll, gear, and saddle before she’d gone to watch Simus of the Hawk. She’d crept in close, an easy task given that there were few warriors and fewer camps established.

She’d watched, and as the sun had set, she’d returned and made a small, cold camp. Wrapped in her blankets, she looked up into the endless sky full of stars and thought on what she had seen, trying to ignore her nervousness.

Fireflies appeared, dancing in the air around her. Snowfall smiled to see them, remembering chasing them as a child in the thea camps.

On impulse, she worked a hand free of her blankets and called the power to her. She concentrated, trying to re-create the tiny bits of light in the air.

She wasn’t completely successful. Golden glitters just fell from her fingers and didn’t float like the living bugs. But as she waved her hand, it left a trail of bright light, like a ribbon that hung in the air before settling to the ground.

Guilt seized her then. It wasn’t proper to waste power on such things, even if the land now glowed with it. She stopped, pulled her hand back into the warmth of her blankets and forced herself to consider what she had seen.

She’d watched as Simus had helped his people clear the dead. Watched him do the actual work, not hover about giving orders to his warriors.

And he’d offered the dead respect, which had caught her by surprise. Simus of the Hawk was known to despise warrior-priests, yet the bodies of the fallen, punished for their offenses to the elements, were picked up and laid in rows, not tossed about like so much dried dung.

Her surprise had been enough that she’d made a mistake. She’d gone too close, stared too long.

Simus had sensed her watching.

A thrill went through her even now, as she lay under warm blankets. The memory sent shivers that went to her toes and made her skin prickle.

Her tattoos had tingled as his eyes had seemed to meet hers. She’d dropped her gaze in that instant, and pressed herself down in the grasses, holding her breath, afraid that he’d seen her. Somehow he’d known he was being watched.

She’d kept her eyes down, concentrating on her veil, on the grass, on her breathing, until he had shrugged and turned back to his duties.

That had never happened before. She vowed silently that it would not happen again. For she intended to keep watching, and listening, if she could get that close. There was something about Simus, something different.

More and more warriors would be pouring into the area around the Heart, and she’d need to have her wits about her if she wished to remain undiscovered. She’d have more care next time.

And there would be a next time.

 

 

Simus made it a point to rise early at first light, strike the tents, and with his warriors head to the Heart to choose his camp’s location for the trials. He got there first, much to his satisfaction, and claimed an area both close to the Heart and directly north, placing his tent between the Heart of the Plains and Xy. It put him in a place of prominence, and made clear his intentions. Both were important for the Trials.

He planted the first pole himself, and then his warriors gathered to aid in raising the large structure. Keir had loaned him his tent, looted long ago from one of the fat cities of the East. It was a clever thing, large enough to hold senels, and yet portions could be closed off for sleeping, eating, and private discussions. But they’d had to haul the support poles from Xy, and it was difficult to piece together. He and his people had a grand time, swearing and laughing loudly as it collapsed on top of them more than once.

He was glad of it, for at least among his people spirits were rising. As they should be, for the Spring Trials were a relief from the long, cold days of winter. Now was a time to prepare one’s gear, try one’s skill, and find one’s place within the armies of the Plains, and to dance one’s heart out in the evening revels. Simus grinned to himself as he tightened one of the last ties for the tent and stepped back to admire their handiwork. His warriors stood with him in the sun, smiles bright as they congratulated themselves.

“Let it be said that we were first,” he called out. “Let the Plains remember when we dance this night.” His warriors cheered his words. “But there’s still work to be done,” he reminded them all.

“We’ll start cutting the sod for a challenge circle next,” Yers said. “I’ll pace it out from your tent. About ten paces, I should think.”

Simus laughed his agreement. “Make it wide, so I can run them in circles.” He strode over to where Destal was directing the warriors unloading the packs from the horses, moving the gear into his tent. “We’ll need a hunt,” he said as he bent to pick up two packs.

Destal nodded. “I figured after the camp is established. There’s plenty of daylight left. We’ll put the individual tents behind yours, leaving spaces for cooking fires and the like. The privies are already dug, and the wells uncovered. It’s a good site, no question there.”

“We’ll call for a dance tonight, first at the Heart with our drums and patterns,” Simus said, well satisfied. “I’ll raise my banners at dawn.”

“There’s something to be said for waiting a day or two,” Destal pointed out as they carried the packs into the tent. “Saving your energies, assessing the challengers and watching their weak points...” Her voice trailed off as she studied his face, and then chuckled and lowered her gaze in respect. “And then, of course, there is your way, Warlord.”

Simus laughed and clapped her on the shoulder. “Truth. Do you intend to challenge for Token-bearer?”

She nodded. “I do.”

“Then let’s see this finished, so we can spar a bit before the dancing.”

Destal shook her head. “No, Warlord. I’ll set up your weapons rack. You see to your armor and weapons. We’ll deal with the camp.” She flicked him a sly look. “You’ll burn off that energy in the dancing tonight. And after.”

“Fair enough.” Simus grinned as he ducked into the tent, and entered his private chamber.

He’d spent his time in Xy wisely. No more cobbled-together armor pieces plundered during raids. Othur, Seneschal of Water’s Fall and Warder of Xy had taken the time to assist him in ‘commissioning’ new leathers and chain from the craftsmen of Xy. Simus shook his head, contrasting the welcoming faces of the craftsmen to the dead he’d looted in the past.

He’d taken full advantage, and had even indulged in gold trim to the chain, with leathers underneath dyed black. He racked the set piece by piece, making it ready for the morning. He shook out the black cloak, with the brooch Keir had given him pinned in place. He’d cut a fine figure tomorrow, that was certain. A pity that lovely warrior-priestess in training wouldn’t see him. Her dismissive gaze would have warmed, of that he was certain.

He’d just settled with his sword and whetstone when a voice came from the outer chamber. “The glitter of the armor matters little if the sword’s not wielded well.”

Simus pretended to shiver. “You sound like our old Weaponsmaster,” he snorted. “And where have you been, having managed to avoid all the work establishing camp?”

Joden pushed through the flap, looking hot and sweaty. “Doing what a would-be Singer does. Listening. Talking. Observing.”

“And what have you observed?” Simus gestured his friend to a seat beside him.

Joden sat, settling his sword on the ground next to him. “As to that, my throat is far too dry to talk.”

Simus laughed, even as Destal entered with a tray of kavage and gurt. She knelt to place it on the ground before them. “I thought this might be welcome, Singer.”

Joden smiled at her. “No more Singer than you are Token-bearer, but we are striving, eh?”

Destal tilted her head in acknowledgment. “Do you wish to speak under the bells?”

“No bells,” Joden said, reaching for a mug as he glanced at Simus. “Unless you—”

Simus shook his head.

“Then I will leave you to your words,” Destal said. “The set-up is almost complete. Only the senel chamber remains.” She chuckled as she raised the flap. “Already there are those that hover nearby.”

“A good sign,” Joden said as she left.

Simus nodded, set aside his blade, and took a handful of gurt from the bowl, popping one of the pieces in his mouth. “So?” he asked. “What did you learn?”

“I went looking for Essa, Eldest Elder of the Singers,” Joden said. “I did not find him.”

Simus frowned, and reached for kavage. “Odd. Essa is never far from the Heart of the Plains. Even if he was driven off as we were, he’d be close.”

“He’s not been seen,” Joden said. “The Singers I did find have not seen him either. Nor have they heard word of his whereabouts.”

Simus shrugged. “He will come, eventually.” He flashed a grin. “Nothing pulls Essa out like an audience or a dance.”

“Truth,” Joden said. “When the people are ready to listen, a Singer appears.”

“Now, who did you see?” Simus asked. “And in what numbers?”

Joden shrugged. “The Warlords that you know of, so far. Ultie’s people have appeared, with Elders among them.”

“Good,” Simus observed.

Joden drank deeply. “The candidates for Warlord are trickling in. Osa and Ultie were hard on your heels and have set their tents.” He lowered his mug. “Those that oppose you have spread their tents all around the Heart, the better to talk against you, I suspect. Loulal, Ietha, Nires—”

“Not a surprise,” Simus said.

“Rhet was talking to Zioa and Kiza as I walked past,” Joden said. “Their greetings were warm enough.”

“Rhet has not supported, but not opposed,” Simus mused. “Perhaps she can be convinced to join us.”

“Or perhaps she waits to support those who appear to be winning.” Joden gave Simus a warning look over his mug. “She has ever been quick to take advantage.”

Simus shrugged. “What else did you learn?”

“There is confusion and fear about the warrior-priests,” Joden said. “And much talk after Wild Winds’s disappearance.” He paused, a smile flickering over his face. “I caught a brief glimpse of Wyrik. Enough to see a bruised face and blackened eyes.”

Simus laughed. “Where have you set your tent?” he asked.

Joden hesitated. “I hadn’t decided. If I wish to be impartial, I must—”

Simus snorted. “As if all do not know that we are friends. That you support Keir.”

“I supported Keir in the claiming of his Warprize,” Joden said mildly. “That doesn’t mean that I will support him in all things. A Singer must be loyal to the truth, impartial, fair—”

“Warm,” Simus said dryly. “Fed. Comfortable. This tent is cavernous, and all know you support me in my challenge for Warlord. Put your bedroll down here, at least until you start your own Trials.”

Joden smiled his long, slow smile, and shrugged. “I will, and thank you.”

“And you’ll sing tonight? Lead the drumming at the very least?” Simus mock-scowled.

“Of course,” Joden said.

Simus smiled and took another swig of kavage. The truth was that Joden’s singing would say more for his support of Simus than which tent he slept in. As well his friend knew. Both of them had taken Keir’s lessons to heart. ‘You win more warriors with dance and drum and talk around the fires than with a naked blade,’ he’d said, and Simus knew it well, having watched Keir recruit these many seasons.

Now, it was his turn.

The flap stirred; Destal stood just behind. “Forgive the interruption,” she said, her tone a pleased one. “Two young warriors are without and would speak with the Warlord. They say they are here to offer their swords.”

“So it begins, the gathering of my army,” Simus intoned in a solemn voice.

His gaze caught Joden’s and they both started smiling, their grins growing wider and wider until Simus almost laughed out loud. The first to offer their swords! But he settled his face and tone to conceal his excitement, and rose to his feet. “I will see them.”

 

 

Lander stilled himself as they waited outside the Warlord’s tent, in the manner of a warrior. Ouse stood beside him, attempting the same stillness.

It was not to be.

“It’s huge,” Ouse said in a whisper. “There’s no tent so large in the thea camp.” He craned his neck and went to his toes, trying to look over the thing. “You could fit four thea tents in that one, for certain.”

“I know,” Lander said and pressed his shoulder against Ouse.

Ouse dropped back on to his feet and huffed out a breath, giving Lander a worried look. Lander smiled back fondly. Ouse’s red curls tossed in the breeze, and his pale skin was even paler under his golden freckles.

“It will be fine,” Lander reassured him.

“I don’t know,” Ouse said softly. “We don’t really have permission to do this and—”

The main tent flap pulled aside and Destal, the current Token-bearer to Simus of the Hawk, appeared.

“You may enter,” she said with a nod, gesturing them into the tent.

Lander pushed through the flaps, with Ouse so close behind he could feel his breath on his neck. Blinking to adjust to the dimness within, Lander took in the large area filled with gurtle pad seats spread out in front of a wooden platform.

Simus of the Hawk was seated in the center of the platform, studying both of them with a serious look. But what made Lander’s breath catch was that Joden of the Hawk was seated beside him. He knew of the warrior, rumored to be about to start his Singer Trials.

“Welcome, warriors.” The Warlord’s voice was deep and warm, befitting a man so big. “What truths would you share?”

Lander couldn’t seem to make his feet move, but Ouse jostled him from behind. Somehow he found himself kneeling before the platform, Ouse at his side. Lander opened his mouth, but to his horror, no words came.

Joden of the Hawk gave him a puzzled look, then lifted his eyebrows in recognition. “I know you both,” he said. “You are the warriors that told us of the Sacrifice. You were the guardians and guides, were you not?”

“We were some of them,” Lander blurted out. He swallowed hard and continued. “I am Lander of the Snake, and I would pledge my sword to your service for the coming season.”

“I am Ouse,” Ouse’s voice cracked. “Ouse of the Fox. I too would pledge my sword to your service for the coming season.”

The Warlord considered them carefully. “From which thea camp did you emerge?” he asked.

Landers winced, exchanging a quick glance with Ouse. How did he know? “Our thea was Elder Thea Haya of the Tribe of the Snake.”

He watched as Simus and Joden both glanced at each other. “Well, then you are well-trained,” Simus said dryly and Joden snorted as if over a private joke.

“She permitted us to escort the Sacrifice.” Ouse’s words spilled out from him in a rush. “But we were to aid him to reach the border of the Plains and find his way home. We were given no further instructions beyond.”

The Warlord didn’t smile, but the corners of his eyes crinkled a bit, and Lander’s heart lifted.

“So it is in battle,” Simus said, “that sometimes a warrior must think for himself. Still, tradition would have it that your thea would send you to Loual of the Snake, Warlord for many years.” He gave them a stern look. “Why me?”

“Because we have heard of the Warprize,” Ouse blurted out again. “We know you support her and Keir of the Cat. This is where the action will be, and who would not wish to be a part of that? Besides, Lander wishes to be a Singer.”

Lander blushed, wishing the earth would open and swallow his lover. “Ouse,” he hissed, even as Joden gave him a wide smile.

“What?” The Warlord was openly grinning now, his teeth white against his dark skin. “Not for my prowess? Not for my skill or strength or cunning?”

Ouse blinked at him, and Lander closed his eyes in resignation. “That too, Warlord,” he offered, but it sounded weak even to his own ears. “But I do wish to be a Singer, once I have met my obligations as a warrior of the Plains.”

“He’s already started an epic song of the Sacrifice,” Ouse said firmly.

“I’d be happy to hear it, if you wish assistance,” Joden said.

Lander felt a rush of gratitude, and heat to his cheeks. “My thanks,” he managed, without his voice breaking.

“Sit,” Simus commanded, gesturing them to gurtle pads close by. “Tell me this: What do you think of the warrior-priests?”

Lander exchanged a glance with Ouse as they sat. “Truth be told, Warlord, we are uncertain.”

“They pursued the Sacrifice,” Ouse said. “Killed two of our friends, and then took another friend hostage. Ezren, that’s the Sacrifice’s name.” He paused a moment to order his thoughts. “Ezren and his Token-bearer could have kept on, toward their home. Instead they chose to give chase to rescue Gilla of the Snake.”

“But we were met by a warrior-priestess who offered herself as hostage and took us to Wild Winds,” Lander added. “It would seem that the warrior-priests were not all of one mind. Then the Sacrifice occurred, and—” He swallowed, remembering the column of light and the swirling herds of horses around the Heart. “I do not know what to think,” Lander repeated. “But I try to remember that those responsible for what happened are not the warrior-priests that are now with Wild Winds.”

“Well said.” Joden nodded. “You think like a Singer would, and should.”

Lander dared to hope. “You’d take our oaths?” he asked, his eyes locked on the Warlord’s.

“Yes,” came the reply.

Lander’s heart rose in his throat.

“Pull out your swords,” the Warlord commanded. “I will take your oath here and now, conditioned only on my surviving the Trials. Destal and Joden will act as witness to your words.”

“Willingly,” Lander said, with mounting joy, and pulled his sword, taking care not to injure himself in his nervousness. It wouldn’t do to bleed on his Warlord.

The oath passed in a blur, and he found himself stumbling out of the tent, Ouse at his side, as Destal escorted them. He tried to focus on her advice as to the location of their tent, but all he really felt was the heady relief of success. They’d done it; they’d serve Simus, Warlord of the Plains, and who knew where that might lead.

Ouse nudged his arm and they exchanged grins, stumbling after the Token-bearer like two warriors giddy on too much drink.