Talar rolled over on his bed, but couldn’t find a comfortable position. Mac hadn’t spent long with the Divine Voice and elders, and the preparations were well underway. There was nothing left for Talar to do but get rest. But he couldn’t get his thoughts to still. They kept whirling around and around, always flying back to Kaelyn, safe . . . with Wyndham.
He supposed it was fate, the way things were supposed to be. He just didn’t want to accept that. How could she be happy as a Princess?
He snorted. What woman didn’t want to be a princess? She just hadn’t struck him as the type to play court games. Which is what she’d have to face as Wyndham’s wife.
He jerked out of bed, dragged his shirt over his head, grabbed his sword and belt, and stalked out of the Inn. He didn’t want to think of her as Wyndham’s wife.
Cool wind slid through his clothes and he hugged himself but didn’t return for a cloak. It would warm up soon enough.
At least she was safe from the impending battle, which was more than he could say for himself.
He wandered through the maze of tents. Most of the clans had been on their way to Carthway for Wyndham’s marriage to a Child of the Goddess. It had been a matter of days for them to arrive and set up camp. After that, all that had remained was to wait for a Meriduinian army to crest the rise of the pass of Gentle Crossings. Now the waiting was almost done.
He meandered through to the other side and stopped, staring at the plain and the mountains. Only a few hours ago, he and Gerid had sat watch. Now the eastern horizon paled and a mist seeped up from the grass. If he just kept walking he could leave all of this behind. He wasn’t really a clansman any more. Nor was he of the south. He was a minstrel. He had no place being in a battle. And yet someone, at some point, needed to make a stand. From what Mac had told the elders, Harcourt wanted blood. Anyone’s blood. Everyone’s blood. No one clan could stand against the might of the Meriduinian army. They had to be united.
And still, a miracle would be nice.
He should probably see what Mac was doing. Maybe he’d have some words of advice. Or in the very least some bad jokes to distract themselves with.
He turned to go, but a man-shaped shadow caught his eye. He inched closer. The man was large, kneeling in the grass, his lips moving with whispered words. A clansman sitting in death meditation, preparing for battle. Not many kept the practice any more.
In the pale light, he could discern the swirls of black marks across the man’s face. Not surprising. Bledig seemed to embrace the old ways. If he thought Kaelyn was an avatar, why not practice the death meditation, too?
“Would you care to join me?” asked Bledig.
“I’m kind of hoping I won’t face the Goddess tomorrow.” At least not again or so soon.
“Not even Kaelyn?”
Heat washed over Talar then chilled. “She’s not the Goddess.”
“Then you haven’t really looked at her.”
Oh, he was pretty sure he’d looked at her. But not in the way Bledig meant.
“When the Goddess presents herself, shaman, you’ll know.”
Yep. She’ll stab you in the heart.
“I’m just a minstrel.”
“Your ink says otherwise.”
Talar tugged his sleeves over his wrists. “Looks can be deceiving.”
“Like tiny women with swords.”
#
A mist rolled onto the plain as dawn brightened the sky. Mac sat back, watching clansmen rush about finishing last minute preparations for battle. It had been a long time since he’d seen the unified war colors worn. Red and Black. Blood and Death. And it still sent a chill up his spine. The last time the tribes stood as one against the south was in a holy war brought about by a fanatical shaman. Mac had stopped the shaman, but not before many lives, northern and southern, had been lost. The Great Clan War the south called it, and truly The Clans were great.
His gaze wandered across the camp. The leaders were talking tactics a few paces away. He supposed he should be with them, but they needed his sword more than his leadership. Besides, Gregor had been the strategist. Mac just had a knack of making miracles happen.
He stood and walked back into camp to find Gerid and Talar. It would begin soon. Best to see how they were holding up. He found them by the healing tents in mismatched armor with a blotchy-faced Jillyn. Talar was intently cleaning his blade and Gerid looked ready to run. If the situation hadn’t been so serious, Mac would have burst out laughing.
“I said, no. You are not going into battle.” Jillyn crossed her arms.
Gerid glanced at Talar, who didn’t make eye contact. Smart boy. He knew when to stay out of the way of a woman on the rampage.
“Jillyn.”
“No. I won’t–” She sucked in a ragged breath and a tear traced a shimmering line down her cheek.
Gerid wrapped his arms around her and drew her close. “It must be done.”
Mac met Talar’s gaze, but the minstrel remained mute. Mac couldn’t tell what he thought and yet his silence said a lot. It was Gerid’s choice. For good or bad. And the clansmen needed every able-bodied man. But Mac couldn’t help but wonder if the young lord really understood what was about to happen. Gerid likely had no idea what war was really like.
But then neither had Mac when he’d joined the legionnaires. Perhaps Gerid had seen enough of the slaughter at Mythnar to prepare him. But the mystique created by legends and bard songs was hard to break.
Jillyn sniffed. “Please. Bledig spent the night performing a death mediation.”
“I gave my word,” said Gerid. “It’s my duty.”
She pushed away from him and wiped her eyes. “No. It’s not. You don’t owe these people anything. Certainly not your life.”
“She’s right,” said Mac–as much as they really did need him. “They’ll need healers as much as soldiers.”
“And I’m even less of a healer than I am a soldier.”
“You’ll be fighting your countrymen,” said Mac.
Gerid squared his shoulders. “I may not be very good at fighting, but I do know what’s right. Harcourt can’t be allowed to continue.”
“So be it,” said Mac.
Gerid gave Jillyn a final hug.
Mac drew his sword. “One last time for Queen and kingdom.”
