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the idea that he’d be traveling without her. The idea of a journey at his side, sharing . . . whatever he was willing to share, for months . . . made her heart beat faster.
    But the harsh reality of the Plains would forbid it, as would her common sense. She knew exactly what to expect.
    So—they could trade armor, her weapons. The barding might not fit a horse of the Plains, but these people were scroungers. There’d be some use for it. If Bessie was to travel for long distances, she’d not need to bear the weight of the barding. Bessie would carry the Storyteller easily. Bethral would just have to find a way to get him an escort.
    Bethral reached for her saddlebags, tugging them closer. The pain flared, and she clenched her jaw tight and breathed through the agony. She flipped open the first bag and started to rummage around, giving herself something else to think about.
    Her spare tunic and trous, a few dishes. A small packet of bandages and some remedies that she’d learned to carry over the years. She set them aside for later.
    A few candle stubs, flint, and tinder. A bundle of leather cords, always useful. Trail rations, dried meat, some grain for Bessie. A small bottle of molasses . . . Bethral thought all of it could be used to barter for what they’d need. She’d crammed more in these bags than she’d thought—some of it she’d forgotten about.
    Then her hand brushed a leather bundle at the bottom, and she stilled.
    She was fairly certain she hadn’t packed that.
    Bethral wet her lips, and pulled the package out slowly. She wished she had some bells. Jingling them would keep anyone from entering this area of the tent. But Ezren Storyteller wouldn’t know what they meant, and he was the one she didn’t want to see this. She’d just have to listen for anyone coming close. This couldn’t be what she thought it was—
    She pulled back the leather, and then the ragged cloth within . . . and stared.
    It was. It was the odd knife that Red Gloves had pulled from Ezren’s chest that terrible day. They’d been ambushed, dragged into the swamp and sacrificed, one after the other, until Red had shown up and killed the blood mage and his men.
    When Red Gloves had pulled the knife from Ezren’s chest, the wild magic had been freed, saving all their lives . . . and cursing Ezren’s.
    She hadn’t packed it. Why would she? She’d been bound to deal with bandits for a day, maybe two. She’d had this in her room, deep in a chest, with a vague plan of destroying it when she had time. Certainly never to let the Storyteller see it again, not if she could help it.
    Bethral felt the hair on the back of her neck stir.
    Her sword-sister Red Gloves had been the Chosen of prophecy, or so Josiah of Athelbryght had believed. Red had felt differently, yet in the end she’d fulfilled that prophecy and then some.
    Bethral hadn’t felt any particular calling other than the challenge of helping Red. There’d been no touch of destiny on her shoulders, and she preferred it that way.
    But Ezren Silvertongue . . .
    The chill moved down her arms, as if seeking the stone blade. She quickly twisted the cloth and the leather around the knife, careful not to touch the blade. She shoved it back into the deepest part of the saddlebag.
    Bethral stuffed the bag between her and the tent wall, where none could get to it without her knowing. Then she settled back and pulled the warm blanket up to her neck.
    Her mother had always said that the dead followed the living until the longest night of winter, when they went beyond, to the very stars. Bethral settled deeper into her pallet with a sigh. She’d follow the Storyteller for as long as it took to see to his safe return.
    Weariness washed over her, and she let her eyes drift closed.
    She’d go to the snows, but the stars would have to wait.

    EZREN shouldered aside the flap of their portion of the tent, his arms full of rolled horse barding. Gilla was just behind him, her arms filled as