The Cursed Ones were slower to rise. Some crawled away. Other were killed by those centaurs who recovered first, but Alain could do nothing to help them, any of them. All he could do was help the shaman to rise. This close, he saw the horrible bruises across her torso, the marks of a whip, and the mangled stump of one ear, its tip cut clean off.

At last, Sos’ka appeared at his side, singed but living. “In the wagon,” she said. It was not easy to get Li’at’dano in, and a tight fit besides to place a centaur’s body in a bed meant for carrying two-legged creatures and their cargo. When they had done, other centaurs had already unfastened the stunned horses and harnessed themselves in their place.

“What did she do?” Alain asked, leaning on the wagon to catch his breath. His hair was finally beginning to settle. A huge scar marked the center of the road.

“Li’at’dano wields the weather magic,” said Sos’ka. “She called lightning.”

A new herd of centaurs galloped up, wielding torches like clubs as they scattered or killed the rest of the Cursed Ones. Only now could Alain hear the distant clash of battle by the fort, fading as wind rose up out the dark, a rushing in the nearby trees. He heard barking, coming closer.

Sos’ka whistled, and a centaur with burnt-butter-colored skin and a glossy gray coat trotted up. She carried a bow, with a quiver of arrows slung over her back. “He’ll need to ride if he’s to come with us,” said Sos’ka.

“He is not,” said Gray Coat. “His companions come now, on the backs of Ni’at’s foals. They must return to their own herd with this news.”

“Let him come before me.” The Holy One’s voice was soft, labored, yet it still sang sweetly. He turned to look. The shaman lifted her head, seeking; she seemed blind, although her eyes were open.

“Here I am,” he said, reaching out to touch her questing hand.

“Yes.” She caught hold of his fingers, her grip uncomfortably strong. “You are here. What is it that you wish to ask me?”

How did she know? “Are you the one called Liathano?” He stumbled over the pronunciation, trying it again. “Li’at’dano.”

“I am called Li’at’dano.” A thin smile teased her swollen lips. “But there is one who will be given my name in the time yet to come.”

“Ai, God.” Her words shuddered through him like the tolling of a bell. He glanced around at the centaurs looming and pacing, impatient to go, to get their rescued shaman to a place of safety where she could heal. But he still had so many questions. “Where am I, truly?”

“You are here.”

“Where was I before? Where was I when I was alive?”

“You are alive now.”

“Alive where?” The words caught on his tongue, all tangled and heavy. He could barely speak. “Alive when?”

A dozen centaurs pounded up, Agalleos and Maklos clinging to the backs of two roan mare women. Agalleos looked grim. Maklos seemed, as he dismounted, to be flirting with the pretty creature he had just ridden in on. Torches shifted and bobbed in the darkness as more gathered, retreating from the battle at the fort.

And he remembered: the soldier prince hadn’t died. He wasn’t a shade. He remained as alive, at this moment, as Alain was. “Ai, God. I’m not in the afterlife, am I?”

“No,” she said sadly, “you are not. I found you only because the one you call Liathano dragged you off the path that leads to the Other Side.”

“You mean I was truly dying.” Bitterness took hold of him as he blurted out his next words. “I served the Lady of Battles as she bid me. I died on that battlefield.”

“You did not die only because the fire’s child dragged you off the path. I saw you in the crossroads between worlds and lives, in the place where all that was and that is and that will be touches. There I got hold of you, and I brought you here. To this time. To Adica.” Pain creased her features, but she managed to speak. “Who needs you.”

Ai, God. Adica!

Rage and Sorrow swarmed him then, bounding up fearlessly through the herd of gathering centaurs, leaping over the corpses of the dead, and jumping up to lick his face.

“Down! Down!” he said, almost laughing. Almost crying.

Gray Coat lifted a conch shell to her lips and blew. She bent forward to touch, respectfully, one of the hooves of the shaman. “We must go. Our rear guard cannot hold off the Cursed Ones forever. You must be well away before they march out in force.”

“Yes,” agreed Li’at’dano. “I fell for their traps once. Not again.” She laid her head down and, with a ragged breath, closed her eyes.