Joden nodded. “I must go,” he lied. “Eldest Elder Essa requires that I give a full account of what happened to me.” Joden kept his tone dry, “It will take days. I may have to repeat my words more than once.”
Keir chuckled, then grew serious. “But you will be at the Fall Council? You will seek us out?”
“As soon as my business is finished,” Joden sang. “I will seek you out.”
The next morning,Joden rode down the switchback trail, leading a re-mount piled high with packs and a tent. Keir had provisioned him well, he wouldn’t need to delay his journey with foraging.
There was no sign of Veritt’s and Ietha’s armies. They had wasted no time leaving, as they had said they would.
He paused on the edge of the milling warriors. Simus’s warriors were making plans to travel up the longer, sloping road to the keep and busy with their own tasks.
He sat for a moment, looking out over the wide expanse of the grasslands.
Part of him knew what awaited him beyond. Hail Storm needed to be confronted and stopped and not by an army. Joden knew his task, but there was no certainty that he could defeat the warrior-priest. Or whatever Hail Storm had become. He was willing to take on this task, willing to face his own death, for the Plains and his people of both lands.
His regret was Amyu. Not to see her again, not to tell her of his need, his want, his love of her. The ache was deep and wide and almost more than he could bear.
“I hope you fly, beloved,” he whispered to the winds.
If the winds heard, they gave no sign.
The warriors called out greetings, and Joden raised his hand in acknowledgment. Wanting no questions, he headed his horse to the east, in the direction Essa had taken, until he was out of their sight.
Finally alone, with only the grass and the skies for company, he looked south.
Wild Winds sat astride a horse, waiting on a far rise. He turned his mount and headed toward the Heart.
Joden followed.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Marcus awoke in an instant.
His training kept him still and silent, with no change to his breathing. His eyes closed, his other senses provided the information he sought.
He was bound, spread-eagle, but not painfully so. There was a pallet under him, the scent of crushed grass in the air. His jaw throbbed with his pulse.
No sounds of warriors, or horses, no smell of a fire.
He was still armored, not stripped. No sense of the sun, but there was light on his eyelids, so—
“I know you are awake,” came a dear, longed-for voice.
His eyes snapped open, taking in the tent above him, the sides all rolled up. The sun was waning but not yet set, and beside him, beside him—
Liam of the Deer sat crossed legged by Marcus’s feet, two daggers in the grass next to him.
“Marcus,” Liam’s voice and face were stone-cold, but so precious. Marcus looked his fill for a long, sweet moment. Still so handsome, but with new crinkles in the corner of his eyes, and some grey in that long flowing hair. His chest still just as gorgeous, his belly still as taut. A hunger flooded through Marcus, but then steel entered his soul.
Marcus narrowed his eyes and growled, “I told you that if you—”
“Yes,” Liam sighed. “You would take yourself off to the snows. And I will follow behind.”
“What?” Marcus tried his bonds, but the leather straps held his wrists tight. “What do you mean?”
Marcus’s eye widened, taking in the fact that Liam was dressed only in thin white trous.
He glanced around, seeing only grass in every direction.
