Oren had carried him back to camp in the same way he’d been carried as a child. The Gibbor had slept for days and it was weeks before he could hold down more than broth or mashed chick peas. The grandmothers of the camp had cooked for him, feeding him like a baby. He’d recovered, though not fully, for he still tired easily and did not participate in the Spring Callings as he once had. 

            And now he held the blue feather. Proof that the wastrel King had been redeemed by that terrible cost. Could Oren refuse him?

            Of course not.  

            But the conversation wouldn’t be their own if bickering wasn’t involved.

            “I swear I will be shot on sight.”

            “How can that be when no one has seen you?” 

            “Not me, precisely, but a Whitehair. They say we all look alike.”

            The Gibbor arched a brow. “You will be fine as long as you remember to stay out of the taverns and pleasure houses.”

            Oren flushed again. It was true he had a prodigious sexual appetite, but the women in the camp were free with their favors, not just Nadia. He’d been with the widow off and on for two years, and when he wasn’t, she never reprimanded him.

            “The way is long,” Oren said, suppressing a smile.

            “Saddle that great horse of yours at first light and you’ll be at their gates by noon tomorrow.” When Oren didn’t concur, the Gibbor sighed. “I suppose I could go. The mule is old, but steady enough for an old man.”

            Neither referred to the fact that he seldom flew now. Since his battle with the Dark, he’d walked with a pronounced limp, his left leg was twisted at the hip. It interfered with flight. 

            Oren laughed. “You win, old man, I’m yours to command.”

            “I never doubted.” The Gibbor smiled, then suddenly turned serious. He grabbed Oren’s arm. “More than the feather must be delivered. You will be bringing a message that will turn their world upside down. A babe has been born.” 

            “Babes are being born all the time,” observed Oren. Again, he glanced at the scrub oak. 

            “Not one such as this. Jah spoke to me last night.” At Oren’s shocked expression, the Seer explained. “Through the stone, of course, otherwise I wouldn’t be living.” He pulled the blue stone from his cowl and dangled it from the chain. “The Dark comes at us with great strength, yet a child has been born to stand with us. A child born for such a time as this. He must not be killed, as were the others.”