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animal.
    “They are . . .”—Bethral used a word that Gilla hadn’t heard before—“pets. This one lived in the barn with my horse.” Bethral reached out and petted the animal as she spoke.
    Gilla frowned. Those were words she didn’t know. It sounded like the woman thought she owned her horse and the tiny creature. But that couldn’t be right.
    Haya and Seo slowly sat down, sheathing their weapons. Gilla followed their example, then retrieved her pitcher. She stood there, staring at the cat.
    The cat’s eyes were half-closed as it made the rumbling noise. But Gilla had an odd feeling that it was looking at her, as if—
    “Child,” Seo snapped, “don’t gawk like a gurtle. Be about your duties.”
    Gilla flushed, and hurried off.
    But not without a backward glance at the strangers.
     
     
    THE tent was up now, and they’d been given a private section divided off from the larger part. They’d been left alone for the time being. Ezren had offered to see to Bessie, in order to give Bethral a bit of privacy while she removed her armor.
    Bethral didn’t know how to tell him that two male warriors had assisted her. She had yet to figure out how to explain the ways of the Plains when it came to the sexes. She was going to have to tell him, that was clear, because he would need to know everything he could for his journey back to Palins.
    A journey she would not take.
    She’d stripped down with the help of the lads and had eased the armor off her injured leg with care. The skin wasn’t broken, but the bone was. She could feel it grate within. The pain seemed to throb with every breath she took. It was bearable if she lay flat—standing or walking was not going to be an option.
    The warriors had left her after they’d seen to her needs. For now, she was clean and warm. The spicy scent of gurtle fur rose from the pallet and blankets. Bethral was reminded of the old blanket her mother had on her bed back home. She was as comfortable as she could be, given the circumstances.
    Time to think it through.
    If a rescue was coming, it would have been there by now. Evelyn had probably lost control of the portal. Bethral knew little of such things, but if Evelyn had been able, she would have opened another portal. So she and Ezren would have to deal with the situation at hand.
    A situation that had been caused by one of the Plains. That black man, the one in the courtyard in Edenrich, the one with the ritual scarring. He was a warrior-priest, she was sure of that. He’d answered her when she’d greeted him in the language of the Plains, before Ezren Storyteller had lost control. And the magic’s surge . . . Bethral closed her eyes, picturing the moment. She was certain that the magic had flared because of the warrior-priest. In recognition of the warrior-priest?
    Fear coursed through Bethral. This was a harsh land, and its people lived by a rigid code. If the Storyteller lost control of the wild magic . . . if he attacked someone while holding a token . . . they would cut him down immediately.
    Bethral swore silently. How to keep him safe?
    She glanced at her saddlebags over in the corner. What she did have was packed in there. She’d planned for a night, maybe two, chasing bandits. There was nowhere near what she and the Storyteller would need in the way of supplies in those packs. And all the gold in the world would buy little on the Plains. These people bartered for goods and services. A gold piece was more like to impress the cat than a warrior of the Plains.
    Bethral closed her eyes for a moment and cursed again. The idea that Ezren Storyteller, a man of swift intelligence and powerful ideas, would perish on the Plains, far from home and the people who needed him, made her sick to her stomach. There’d been nothing else she could have done—the wild magic had been about to destroy the castle and everyone in it. But now—
    Actually, what made her sick wasn’t that he wouldn’t make the Plains his home. It was