She’d been tending to the gurt drying racks, turning the pebbles of hard cheese so that they dried evenly. It was boring, a child’s task, not fit for one of her maturity. But she’d gritted her teeth and done it nonetheless, because being an adult meant that you did what had to be done without protest, now didn’t it?

She cast a quick glance behind her to see if anyone was watching her be responsible. But none of the Elders were in sight.

She sighed as she moved to the next rack, shooing gurtles out of her way. A few had wandered between the racks, looking for sweet grass. “Muwap.” One of them shook its head, protesting. This part of the herd had just been shorn, and they looked funny, stripped of their fur.

Gilla sighed again as she continued her chore. It was spring on the Plains. Soon, within days, the theas would be releasing the young adult warriors to seek out the armies of the warlords for service, and she’d qualify, if they felt she was ready. And she was more than ready, more than . . .

The sky crackled. The hair on Gilla’s arms stirred, as before a summer storm. The land shook with a pounding of thunder, under a cloudless open sky. She looked up and saw the blue sky tear open to show a white glow beyond.

Her heart froze, the gurtles stilled, everything was silent for a long moment. The edges of the tear pulsed above her, as if waiting.

In the next breath, a horse jumped through the tear, as if clearing the banks of some unseen shore. Gilla had a brief glimpse of two people, one astride in armor, one cradled in the other’s arms as they hung there in midair.

They fell in the next instant, plummeting down, loose and free-falling, and disappeared in the tall grass.

The rip in the sky exploded with light, and disappeared.

“Muwap! Muwap!” The gurtles around her exploded into action. Gurtles feared what they did not know, and once feared, all they knew was “away,” as fast as their hooves could carry them. Gilla grabbed at the nearest rack and struggled to stay upright as the gurtles bolted by her, bleating their warnings and running straight through camp.

Cries arose from the tents behind her, but Gilla did not glance that way. She kept her eyes on where the enemy had fallen, and warbled a cry to summon warriors to face this threat. She waited as the last of the gurtles ran past, then drew her dagger and started forward.

The young grasses were already springing back as she moved, their flowers torn and shredded by the gurtles’ hooves. She got low, taking what cover she could, and crawled toward the enemy, the hilt of her dagger in her hand, the blade pressed to her forearm. She’d worn her armor this morning, as a warrior should, and her blade was sharp and ready. Her heart beat faster as she moved closer. . . .

The horse staggered to its feet, shaking its head. It was huge, a big roan, and wearing armor the like of which she’d never seen, although she recognized the saddle and saddlebags. The animal stood there, its legs splayed out, head low, as if exhausted. Amazing that it hadn’t broken a leg in the fall.

Gilla watched for a moment, then eased the grasses back in front of her face, keeping a careful eye on the horse. There’d be others coming, but she wanted to be able to report the danger. She needed to see. . . .

Her blood singing in her ears, she slowly raised her head. Two people were sprawled in the grass. The one with the armor . . . Gilla winced at the sight of that one’s leg. Twisted like that, it had to be broken.

The other figure stirred, groaned, and sat up, his hand raised to his head. He was hurt as well, but there was no blood that Gilla could see. No armor, no weapons, either.

He saw the other person and cried out something, then crawled over to remove the helmet. Bright blond hair spilled out, and Gilla could see the still, slack face of a woman. The man grew distraught as he examined her, and raised his head to look around.

Gilla sucked in a breath as his bright green eyes stared directly into her brown ones.

A dull pain, as if his entire body had been wrung out like a cloth. It hurt to breathe, hurt to move. He had known beatings in the time he had been enslaved, and thought he had learned every manner of ways that a body could hurt.

He had been wrong.

Ezren concentrated on breathing for a moment, keeping his eyes closed. He was conscious of the sweet smell of grass crushed beneath him, warm sun, and a gentle spring breeze on his skin. Which was wrong. He was not sure exactly why, but it should be cold. . . .

A rasping purr and a wet nose in his ear made him jerk upright.

Lord of Light, that hurt. He wrapped an arm around his stomach and groaned. But the next breath was easier, and the next after that.

The hideous cat from the barn, the one that had attached itself to Bethral’s warhorse, sat next to him. With its mottled coat of black, brown, yellow, and a kind of green, it almost blended into the shadows in the grass. Its watery yellow eyes stared at him unwaveringly. Accusingly.

Ezren frowned, staring back. Last he recalled, he had been in the kitchens of the Castle of Edenrich, being presented with a bill for damages at the Flying Pig Tavern. He had taken it up, and gone to confront the miscreants, but now . . .

He looked out on nothing but grass and wildflowers, as far as the eye could see. Wide blue sky that stretched from horizon to horizon and filled his vision. His heart skipped a beat at the sight. He had never felt so exposed as at this moment; one man in an ocean of grass. He looked down, trying to steady himself.

The cat stirred, and slipped into the grass. Ezren watched it go, and then lifted his eyes and saw—

Bethral, sprawled on the ground like a broken doll. “Bethral.” He lurched onto his knees and crawled to her side, ignoring the rough grass that cut his hands and the pain that lanced through his bones.

She was still as death, and pale, so pale, under her helmet. He fell at her side, and pressed his fingers to her neck. Please, Lady of Laughter, let her not be dead.

She lived. Her heart still beat.

Relief flooded through Ezren as he fumbled with the chinstrap, then eased the helm from her head. Bright gold hair spilled out, covering the ground and his hands with its silken glory.

Lady of Laughter, she was lovely.

He had called her an angel once, one of the Angels of the Light, come to escort him to paradise. He had thought himself dead at that time, and had opened his eyes to find himself in a small hut with an angel at his bedside. He had never called her that again, unable, unwilling to try to place any claim upon her. But in all truth she was glorious to look on. Her lovely face, and those bright blue eyes.

Eyes now closed, in a face pale and still. Crumpled, broken, her leg twisted.

Ezren swallowed hard, and looked out at the emptiness around him in bleak despair.

And straight into the startled brown eyes of a young girl hiding in the tall grass.

A firm hand grasped her ankle, and Gilla froze.

The hand squeezed once, and Gilla breathed again. She looked back and saw Urte’s calm face. Relief washed over her. Urte was an elder. She’d know what to do.

Urte crawled forward, followed by Helfers, his dark face so serious. Both in leather armor, armed and grim. Relief flooded through her. Helfers was also a strong warrior, his skill with a sword well known.

They came up on either side of Gilla, until their heads were level. “Report,” Urte whispered.

“Two people, a man and a woman. A horse, too.” Gilla spoke fast. “Urte, they fell from the sky!”

“I saw,” Urte offered reassurance. “Continue.”

“They are not of the Plains. They seem hurt. The woman and horse wear armor. No weapons that I saw. Something small moved at the man’s side, but I didn’t see it clear.” Gilla stopped. “He saw me, Urte. I—”

Urte’s look silenced her. “Did he attack you?”

“No.” Gilla shook her head.

“What does that matter?” Helfers whispered. “They are not of the Plains, and therefore must die.”

Urte ignored him and considered the path Gilla had left in the grass. “The horse. Hurt?”

“It’s up, legs splayed. It looks exhausted,” Gilla said.

“Helfers, to the right. Make no move until I give the command.”

Helfers grunted, and wormed off through the grass. Urte started to crawl as well, angling away from Gilla’s path. Gilla sighed. She’d be ordered back, she just knew it, and wouldn’t get to see anything.

Urte looked back at her. “Go back up there, and wait for my command.”

With a thrill of pride, Gilla obeyed.

He got to his feet slowly, easing up as his muscles protested. A pause to catch his breath, as pain and exhaustion washed over him. Then he staggered over to Bethral’s horse.

Bessie stood motionless, her legs splayed, head hanging down. Poor beast. She didn’t react as he pulled the saddlebags and bedroll off her back, trying to get to the waterskin.

Ezren cast a glance back toward Bethral, but she was still silent and motionless. She’d want him to see to her horse before anything else, so he knelt by Bessie’s head and dug around for anything he could use. Finding a bowl, he filled it with water.

“Come, now,” he said softly, putting his wet hand under her nose. “Come on, Bessie.”

The cat emerged from the grass and started to rub against Bessie’s foreleg, a deep rumble coming from its chest.

Bessie snorted, started to lick at Ezren’s hand, and then put her nose in the bowl. Ezren struggled to give her as much water as he could, but the bowl wasn’t really deep enough for her to drink.

“Better?” he asked as Bessie lifted her head and straightened her legs.

It was all he could do for now. He crawled back to Bethral’s side, dragging the waterskin, saddlebags, and bedroll with him. He fumbled with the buckles and got the bedroll free. He settled the blankets around her as best he could. He didn’t dare move her, but she’d stay warmer this way. Besides, he wasn’t sure what else to do.

As he tucked the blankets around Bethral, Ezren used the concealment of the covers to pull one of Bethral’s daggers from her belt. He stuffed it in the grass by his leg, out of sight but well within reach.

He settled back on his heels and looked down at her.

He doubted there was much in the way of healing supplies in the bags. What he wouldn’t give for the Lady High Priestess and her healing magic to be standing next to him. But he might as well wish Edenrich Castle would appear around them.

Not a bird in the air, yet the meadowlarks seemed to be singing all around him. Ezren pulled the waterskin close and wet his fingers. He reached out and stroked Bethral’s pale cheek, and blew gently on her face. “Lady Bethral, wake for me.”

No response.

“Lady Bethral.” Ezren tried to keep his voice soft, but the rasp of it grated in his ears. His finger traced a damp line over her forehead. “I have no clue where we are, or how we came to be here, but I need you to wake up, Lady. We both know that I am a man used to city comforts. You are a skilled warrior, Lady, used to the trials and travails of the wilds.”

Bessie jerked her head up, and snorted.

The grasses moved, and armored warriors rose to surround them, swords and lances in hand. One of them barked out something in a language that Ezren did not comprehend.

“I do not understand you,” he responded as he fumbled under the blanket for the dagger.

She was dreaming. She had to be. She’d heard that husky voice call her name only in soft, sweet dreams.

There was a dull throb in the background of her dream, and it seemed to be her leg. It was a promise of pain to come, and she recognized it well. She’d enough experience with injury to know not to move without learning more. She knew full well it would be bad.

Better to float, and listen to that voice.

But . . .

Duty called her forward, demanded that she respond. But she didn’t want to answer. She wanted to listen to the dream, to pretend. . . .

Duty was a bitch.

A different voice spoke then, harsh, demanding, in a language she knew. Her eyes snapped open at the words, as fear surged over her.

“Intruders! Explain yourself, or die!”