WarDance (Chronicles of the Warlands #5)(23)

For the first few hours of her ride, Eloix wallowed in her resentment and allowed it to fester. She’d had great plans to contest for Token-bearer, and yet here she was, returning to Xy with messages for Keir of the Cat, a task unlooked for and unwelcome. Destal was probably even now planning her challenges, and Eloix was certain she could’ve defeated her and claimed the place by the Warlord’s side.

There were clouds on the horizon behind her, but she’d out-ride them easily.

When it grew too dark to see, she stopped for the night. She made a cold camp after she’d seen to the horses. After a few gulps of cold kavage, and a handful of gurt, she’d rolled herself into her blankets, and lay for a moment, letting herself relax.

She could hear the horses chomping at the grass, which rustled as they tore the shoots with their teeth. The scent of crushed greens surrounded her. She heaved a deep sigh, and let the hurt and disappointment go. There would be other times, other chances. The winds knew that there would be challenges again next season, and next, and the season after that.

Rolling over, she admired the field of bright stars overhead. She’d a task at hand, one that showed Simus’s faith in her, so that bode well. While Xy was strange in its custom and ways, it was interesting. And the food was good. And she’d see Elois, and hear of her adventures.

Besides, she’d witness first hand Keir’s reaction when she brought word of the events on the Plains. Perhaps the Warprize had delivered her babe by now. Had the theas allowed her to keep the babe? Eloix rather suspected they had. She stretched under her blanket, glancing down at her own arm, wondering if the Warprize had gotten the traditional tattoo.

A smile drifted over her face as she settled down, fingers on the hilt of her sword next to her, and willed herself to sleep. She’d be up and riding at the first hint of sun.





Chapter Ten


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—