He could not see it, but he knew that it was there. As the Prince’s heir it was his duty to hunt and kill it before it harmed his mothers or siblings. “Wana.” Stalking through the garden as quietly as he could—his legs were shorter, he had always been a quiet child—he hefted his spear and “Wana! Wake up, man! This is no time for daydreaming.” Wanahomen looked up and saw that the leopard had a human face. Unte. I must kill you, he thought. Then Unte was Unte again, and Wanahomen followed Unte’s arm to see what was the matter. A party of eight riders on horseback approached along the rocky trail that led through this part of the foothills. From the ledge high above where he and the rest of the Banbarra waited a-horseback, Wanahomen could make out only the voluminous hooded robes that each rider wore: five black, two blood-red, and one the color of sun-bleached bone. The last made him frown. “Hetawa?” asked Unte. Wanahomen nodded. “The black are Sentinels—the warrior-priests, deadly without weapons, nightmares with.
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