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But the elements had not been with him, and he’d withdrawn with his warriors and those that agreed with him. Withdrawn to spend the winter in their lodges, discussing, planning, talking.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—
A pillar of light that appeared, piercing the night sky, so bright he’d had to shield his eyes. And then the rings of light that had followed, racing through the grass and disappearing.
No word had come, from Hail Storm, from the Heart. Antas had ordered his warriors not to approach the Heart. Whatever ceremony the warrior-priests had conducted, he’d wait to hear from them before approaching. But it was unsettling, and he wondered—
A rustling in the alders alerted him, and Antas raised his head. It was Veritt, his Second, who threaded his horse through the alders and drew close.
“The camp that lies over two rises,” Veritt pointed with his chin, “it’s a thea camp. Haya of the Snake is the Elder Thea.” He gave Antas a quick grin. “Not the friendliest of warriors.”
Antas frowned. “With a tongue as sharp as her blades and not afraid to speak her mind.”
“Do we approach her?” asked Veritt. “We could return to our camp, wait for word from the warrior-priests.”
Antas considered. “Her voice cuts like a dagger, but it carries weight. If she moves the camp again, we may not find her until after the Trials. Let us talk to her, then return to our camp.” He mounted, ducking alders as he settled in his saddle. “Nothing ventured, nothing gained.”
Veritt lowered his eyes, and bowed his head. “Yes, Warlord.” Then he snapped his head up, and flashed another grin. “Just as glad you’re the Warlord. You have to do the talking.”
Antas made nosecret of their approach, leading his men in a slow walk over the rises toward the tents of the thea camp.
Haya was waiting for them, the canny old gurtle, standing there, tall and straight and silent. Her white hair shone against her tan skin. Her dark eyes were like flint, cold as the Snake of her Tribe.
Antas slowed his horse, glancing around, looking for likely young warrior-children, but the camp was unusually silent. Antas wondered at that as he signaled a stop to his warriors, and dismounted.
“Greetings, Elder Thea Haya of the Snake,” he said lightly. “I’d speak with you, if you would.”
Haya studied him, then her gaze swept over the warriors of his party. Her eyes returned to Antas and she gave him the slightest of nods. “Antas of the Boar.”
Leaving off the honors he was entitled to. Antas kept a scowl from his face.
“The bodies of two of our young warriors have returned to the camp.” Haya’s voice was flat and hard. “We are preparing to mourn our dead,” she continued, giving a pointed look to the clouds on the horizon. “Now is not the time.”
“Death comes in an instant,” Antas said. “Even to the young.” He heaved a great sigh of sympathy. “But the dangers that threaten come in an instant as well. Best to be prepared.”
There was movement in the tent behind Haya. A man emerged, his head bald, his face brown and wrinkled in a frown.
