Patya embraced Hati, too. “For Marak,” Patya said. “For him.”

There was another rider near them. Norit was there, and her, too, he showed to his mother. “This is Norit, from Tarsa. I have two wives.”

“Two?” said Patya, a child of the west. But his mother never blinked. “Daughter,” Kaptai said, while the earth shivered. She reached up a hand, the token of an embrace, but Norit for whatever reason did not get down, and Menditak had come down, urgent to be away.

“Damn this shaking!” Menditak said. “Bargains with the omi Keran! Come on, there! Will you delay for a damned festival?”

“Up.” Marak heaved his sister up to her saddle. His mother, like Hati, needed no help. He made Osan extend a foreleg, and caught the strap and got up, recklessly, pridefully mounting like a tribesman in front of this arrogant old man, and Hati did the same.

“Away!” Menditak shouted, above the rumble from the skies and the earth, and the earth shuddered as Menditak took his company toward the north and east and Marak rode ahead of Hati and Norit toward the north and west.

“The god’s vengeance on the Ila’s enemies!” some lingering priest cried from the side of the ridge. “Salvation for the righteous! Pray for the Ila! Pray for our salvation!”

Tents were already beginning to collapse on the edge of the camp, adding to the confusion an unintended consequence. Essential landmarks were disappearing. Confusion multiplied. He rode through the diminishing crowd, past a camp edge that itself was blurred by so many, many people milling about trying to find the lost, the strayed, the ones who had to know what they had just heard. People shouted at one another, waved arms, cursed or pleaded. The noise of their confusion went up to the heavens.

Someone recognized them as they rode. People ran at them. Hands caught at their legs, at their beasts’ harness. People shouted questions, what they were to do, what the Ila might do. The lifesaving frenzy he had helped create threatened to overwhelm them.

“Pack and get to the south road!” Marak shouted, and brought his quirt down sharply on his beast’s hindquarters.

Osan leapt forward, scattering men who were closing in ahead of them, and Marak took that gift, rode after, trusting Hati to keep Norit with her and both of them behind him. A man went down, knocked aside: it was not his concern. He had held the visions at bay, he had spilled out everything he knew to two tribes of twenty, and now that the need to speak was past, he could no longer think, or see anything but the ring of fire.

Marak, the voices cried, wanting, demanding something more of him, urgent with this new, this ill-timed vision. Marak!