Ouse was wide-eyed, as if shocked that he had spoken out loud. Lander nudged him. “Go ahead, tell them,” he urged.

Ouse wet his lips. “During the Rite of Ascension . . .” He swallowed hard. “I—”

“We aren’t supposed to talk about that.” Cosana bit her lip. “It’s not for—”

“That’s what a warrior-priest said,” El pointed out.

“Rites and rituals are important,” Ezren said softly. “Don’t tell me everything. Only what I need to know.”

“There is a part . . . where they take us off alone and ask us to look at something,” Ouse blurted out. “Then they whisper a question. I answered, and they said . . . they told me I could be a warrior-priest. That I had a gift.”

“I saw nothing,” Arbon frowned. “What did you see?”

“A glow.” Ouse glanced at Arbon and then looked back at Ezren. “The same kind of glow I see around you . . . around your chest.”

“Magic,” Bethral whispered.

Ezren nodded. “I think so. It makes sense. You identify the gift when the children become adults.”

“The warrior-priest was a young one. He didn’t have all of his tattoos yet,” Ouse said. “He said that if I felt this was my path, I should approach a warrior-priest and ask whatever questions I had, whenever I was ready.”

“But you’re not ready, right?” Lander said sharply.

Ouse looked hurt. “Lander, all I said was that I was interested. You have to admit that they wield great power and that—”

“No,” Lander said. “I can’t believe you’d even think of joining their ranks. Don’t you see that—”

“A singer and a warrior-priest,” Ouse pleaded. “Think of the influence and power we’d—”

“Warrior-priests don’t bond,” Lander said. “And the years of separation. I don’t want—”

“They haven’t bonded in the past, but we could be the first.” Ouse folded his arms over his chest. “And it takes years to become a singer. We could—”

“I refuse to listen to this,” Lander spat. “I don’t—”

“Stop!” Bethral commanded.

Both boys obeyed, each looking upset and angry.

“You refuse to hear a truth?” Ezren asked softly.

Lander looked away.

“What if the warrior-priests are right?” Chell asked softly. “What if the magic you bear belongs here?”

“In the hands of those that tried to kill him?” Bethral asked.

Chell gave her a thoughtful look, then dropped her gaze.

Ezren Storyteller stood, and sighed. “Ouse of the Fox, I cannot answer your truth. I do not know the answers. All I have are questions. What if magic was removed from this land for a very good reason? What if the stories are not true?”

“We have perfect memories, Ezren Storyteller. We wouldn’t change a word,” Ouse argued.

“I do not believe that. I know of at least three versions of most stories from many lands, and there are always slight differences. And I know people.” Ezren was looking at all of them. “People change stories. It is in the nature of stories to change over time.”

“Then if it’s not the magic that was taken—what is it?” Ouse asked, gesturing toward Ezren’s chest.

“I do not know. But I question the wisdom of trying to return this to the land. The warrior-priests are taking this for granted, and it makes me uncomfortable. Why did Wild Winds not recognize the altar where I—where this happened? And what about that spider statue—the one that disappeared?” Ezren shook his head. “He did not react at all. What if when this happened, the warrior-priests changed the tale themselves—but did not tell the next generation?”

“How much of this is their own desperation to restore their lost powers?” Bethral asked.

“Are there any answers?” Cosana twirled her hair around her finger. “All we seem to have are questions.”

“Welcome to the truth of being an adult.” Ezren gave her a sad smile. “Sometimes there is no right answer. No clear trail.

“This much I do know.” Ezren stood. “Long ago, someone did something that set a series of events in motion. Now here I am, like a chess piece on a board. Except I do not know all the pieces or all the rules, and I cannot see the entire board.”

“And you lose track of the moves after a while,” El said.

Even Ezren chuckled at that. “So true,” he said. “All I can do is make the best decision I can. The rest is in the hands of the Gods or the elements.”

The warriors nodded in agreement.

Ezren focused on Ouse. “All I can ask is for your truths and that you deal with me with honor. Would you betray me to any warrior-priests we encounter?”

“No,” Ouse said. He lifted his chin and looked at Lander, who nodded. Ouse’s shoulders relaxed. “I can promise you honor, Storyteller. Honor and truth.”

“Well, then”—Ezren looked around—“it seems the rain is letting up a bit. Shall we see to the day?”

“Do you two want help weaving your tents together?” Gilla asked.

Bethral blushed.

She pulled off her metal gauntlets and reached for the buckles that held the breastplate together.

“Let me,” Ezren said softly.

Bethral lifted her arm to give him access, watching his face as he worked. His eyes were intent, bright green with dark lashes. She looked away, and took a breath as he released the armor.

She caught the breastplate and held it in place as he moved to the other side, and the buckle under her other arm. With the pressure released, that one was easy, and she pulled the armor away from the gambeson as he caught the back piece.

“It is chafed here,” he said.

His warm breath touched the back of her neck. Bethral shivered. “It feels fine. . . .” she whispered.

“Just a bit of red,” Ezren whispered, and pressed his lips to her nape.

She sighed then, moving her head to let him trace her jaw with kisses. Putting on and taking off her armor was usually fairly tedious, something she did by rote. But not this time. Plate and chain seemed to melt away, each piece replaced with a caress and soft kisses.

Ezren eased the quilted tunic over her head, and Bethral pulled her head free. She knelt next to him, naked except for the curtain of her hair. “Your turn.” She smiled, and reached for the clasp that secured his leather armor.

“Wait,” he breathed.

Bethral’s face grew warm as his gaze wandered over her for the first time in the light of day. She didn’t look away, and was rewarded by the warmth and desire she saw in his eyes. Her body responded as well, and that pleased him even more.

She reached for the clasp again. He held her hand for a moment, stopping her, and then with a rueful shrug, started to undress. “There is no reason to hide it, is there? You have seen this all before, Angel. Scars and all.”

“Not like this,” she whispered.

It was her turn to stroke, and trace kisses over his skin. He flinched a bit as her lips brushed a scar on his back, then relaxed at her touch. Bethral noticed that his eyes never left her face, watching for any sign of disgust or pity.

He need not have worried. Bethral loved every inch, and in the light of day, his skin glowed. Ezren might not have the bulk that some warriors had, but he was all lean muscle. She hummed in appreciation of his arms and chest, although she hesitated over the definition in his stomach. The muscles there were pronounced, with almost no fat, narrowing down to . . .

She paused at the waist of his trous, and stroked his skin with her fingertips. “You’ve lost weight here. Too much. Are you—?”

Ezren caught her hand, and then pressed his lips over hers, taking the time for a long, sweet kiss. When he pulled away, she was breathless.

“We are not going to worry about that right now. For a few precious hours, we are going to worry about only one thing. . . .”

“What’s that?” she asked softly.

“How to keep busy until sunset, Angel. When I know that the herbs have taken effect.” Ezren kissed her throat. “Maybe I should tell you stories.”

“I love your stories,” Bethral said. “But I think I owe you something, Ezren Storyteller. Seems I am in your debt, after last night.” She eased her fingers down into his trous. “It’s only fair . . .”

“No debts between us. Only pleasure.” Ezren freed her hands, letting them travel down to ease his trous over his hips. They were soon both sprawled on the bedding, the gurtle mats cushioning them beneath, the blankets folded as pillows. Bethral was taking her time exploring him, and he returned the favor, his hands everywhere.

Finally he lay back on the pillows and let her have her way. She kissed him as she covered his length with her hand, and watched his eyes close as he arched his back and gave in to the demands of his body.

Hot and sweaty, she cleaned him, then cuddled close, resting her head on his shoulder. His voice was rough when he raised his hand to stroke her hair. “How I wish I had had the courage to say something sooner,” he said. “Think of all the wasted time and energy.”

“No, Ezren,” Bethral said. “We are the people we are now because of all those prior decisions. I refuse to regret any of my choices.” She lifted her head. “But I won’t waste one more moment.”

“All right, my love.” Ezren drew her in close. “It may not yet be sundown, but we have this day. We can touch, and talk, and dream a little, if that is acceptable.”

“It is.” Bethral settled her head with a sigh. “Tell me a story, Ezren.”

“Not the one of the Lord and the Lady,” Ezren said firmly. “I promised the others. Besides, it ends in a tryst, and I will not torture us both with that.” He pulled one of the lighter blankets over their bodies. “Tell me instead about your mother.”

“There is not much to tell,” Bethral said. “Her name is Amastra, and she was born of the Tribe of the Horse. She had her required children, served in the armies, and then decided to see the world. Her wandering brought her to Soccia, where she met my father, Caden. Father said he pursued her until she caught his heart.” Bethral lifted her head a bit. “Mother warned me that those of the Plains are prolific: I am the eldest of five children. Both Father and Mother taught me the way of the sword, and I set out to seek my way as a mercenary, which is how I linked up with Red Gloves.”

“Five?” Ezren asked. “After she had five on the Plains?”

Bethral nodded. “Two brothers and two sisters.”

“Would you have gone back to Soccia,” Ezren asked softly, “if this had not happened?”

Bethral placed her hand over his heart. “No. I’d thought to serve Gloriana for a few years, and then perhaps go to Athelbryght, and breed horses. I hoped that I might catch your eye, but I knew that in all likelihood you would be wed to one of the ladies of the Court within the year. Still, I dared to dream.”

Ezren snorted. “Oh my angel, there was no fear of a noble marriage for me. I am of common merchant stock and no warrior. My parents were good people who despaired that their only son was a wastrel and a sloth. I had no interest in buying and selling, only in running with friends and causing havoc. I was the life of the party, and loved to regale my friends with tales of my misdeeds.”

“Until . . .” Bethral said.

“Until I chanced to go to a tavern of even less than my normal low standards.” Ezren chuckled. “I and a few of my mates decided to go to the Crate of Diamonds, a tavern in the Wastesides of Edenrich. Its clientele was even more questionable than its beer.”

“I’ve been in a few of those in my day.” Bethral smiled.

“We grabbed a center table, demanded drinks, insulted the food, and began our usual drunken carousing.

“Until this tall, lean elf walked in, with a long braid of gray hair and a serious face. He sat on a stool by the fire, and the entire place went silent. Absolutely silent.” Ezren’s voice was distant. “We even shut up, if you can believe.

“He opened his mouth and told the tale of Radaback Roc-Rider, adventurer extraordinare. His face was so serious, and yet the story was so funny . . . the entire place was laughing within moments, and he never once lost them.” Ezren darted a glance at Bethral. “To tell a story that way—to hold your audience for that long . . . controlling everyone with his voice. It was like magic, the only kind of magic I ever wanted to wield. He was amazing.

“Once the tale was done, everyone pounded the tables and offered him drinks, but he shook his head, and waved them off with thanks. I could not believe it. He did not pass a hat, or have one at his feet.

“The next morning, I went to the Crate and found him, and asked him to teach me everything he knew.” Ezren gave her a grin. “After a bit of persuading, he agreed. So I was apprenticed to Joseph Taleteller, to my parent’s relief and my friends’ dismay. I was very lucky. King Everead heard my tales and asked me to his Court, and I received royal patronage and access to the castle libraries. That is when I started developing my theories about stories and people and how we . . . and if you don’t stop me, I can go on like this for days.”

Bethral propped herself up on her elbow, letting her hair fall on his chest. “Wait until foaling season, when I won’t leave the stables for any reason.” She ran her fingers through his hair. “Are your parents still alive?”

“No,” Ezren said, “and I thank the Lord of Light that they were gone before I was enslaved by the Usurper. Father died in his sleep. And Mother . . . well, the heart just went out of her. I lost her not six months later.”

Bethral leaned down and brushed her lips over his. Ezren cleared his throat. “Yours?”

“Alive and well, when last I saw them.” Bethral pulled back to look at him. “That was just before Red and I left Soccia to find work.” She rolled her eyes. “Mother will gloat when she learns I’ve been to the Plains. All those afternoons making me learn her language when all I wanted to do was ride.”

“I am grateful to her”—Ezren lifted his hand and ran it through Bethral’s hair—“for her beautiful—”

“You think I’m beautiful?” Bethral asked.

“Yes.” Ezren frowned. “Do you not think so?” Bethral shrugged. “I am not ugly. But I don’t see where I am anything special, Ezren.”

“Let me show you,” Ezren said. He reached up to tug her mouth down to his.

“It’s not yet sunset,” Bethral whispered against his mouth.

“No matter,” Ezren whispered back, “there is still so much we can do. . . .”