Lara and Master Eln had no answers as to why. They made Joden try over and over again, for hours, until Joden dripped of sweat and his vision blurred. He’d stumbled to his room, collapsed into bed and fallen asleep immediately.
The next day as they ate the morning meal, Keir had asked him to open the senel with song.
Amyu hadn’t come to him in the night, no doubt busy with the babes and her duties. She’d hovered at the edges of the room as he’d worked with Master Eln and Lara. He’d hoped to see her before this moment, but in the flurry of getting ready there had been no time.
Now Joden stood next to the throne of Xy and tried to calm his stomach and his shaking hands. The throne room was filled to capacity, with Xyians and Plains warriors alike. The fancy
dress of the nobles blending with the armored warriors made an odd contrast, but the eagerness in all faces was clear. It seemed the two peoples were coming together, at least here and now. That was good to see.
If he could just calm his own fears. He felt the sweat gather on his scalp and the middle of his back.
The great doors swung open. Kendrick, Herald of Xy, stepped into the room. The old man was leaning on his staff a bit more, still looking as unsteady as a new colt, but he seemed determined to do his duty.
The crowd turned, and cleared a path from the doors to the throne. Joden noticed Heath, and the Castle Guards scanning the people, but there was no indication of trouble.
Kendrick lifted his staff with effort, and pounded it three times on the floor. “Lord and Ladies, all hail Keir, Warlord of the Plains, Overlord of Xy, and Xylara, Queen of Xy, Warprize… and Master Healer.”
Joden heard Lara’s chortle of delight above the wave of amusement that swept the room.
Keir was dressed in his finest armor, all black leathers and polished chain. Lara looked radiant in Xyian blue and white, the crown of Xy on her head and jewels sparkling at her throat. They both stepped into the room together, Lara’s hand on Keir’s.
Xyian and Plains warrior alike knelt as Lara and Keir approached, and rose as they passed by. When they reached the two thrones, Lara accepted Keir’s aid as she walked up the two steps to stand before her throne. Keir then took his place in front of the other one.
Joden licked his lips, knowing what was coming.
“I call this senel to order,” Keir said, his voice carrying over the crowd. “We will speak of events and announce our decisions. Know that we have considered all truths in deciding our best course.” Keir paused. “But first, in our tradition, let us thank the elements. I call on Joden of the Hawk for a song.
All eyes turned to Joden.
He stepped forward. He had practiced this.
As he had in the past, he let his gaze scan the crowd, seeking their attention. He raised his hand, palm to the sky, and opened his mouth to speak the ritual words.
The words froze on his tongue. He had no voice.
In that moment, he spotted Amyu. She was in the doorway off to the side, back behind the crowd, watching with Marcus at her side. Her eyes were bright with hope. Bright for him.
He found his voice. “May the skies hear my voice. May the people remember.”
It wasn’t perfect. His voice sounded too high to him, too sing-songy. Almost as if he mocked the ancient words. But elements above, his words flowed and the people understood him.
The response rose from the room, “We will remember.”
Joden didn’t hesitate. He drew a deep breath, and let loose with an old song, one he’d learned from the theas, praising each element in turn. His voice was strong, deep, and clear.
Relief flooded through him, and a joy so profound he almost wept. Instead, he continued with each refrain and verse, praising the fire, water, earth and air.
When he was done, when the last note hung in the air, he opened his eyes and sought for Amyu. She was still in the doorway, her face filled with tears of joy.
But why did he also see pain in her eyes?
“Our thanks, Joden of the Hawk, soon-to-be-Singer and well deserved,” Keir caught Joden’s eye, his face solemn but his gaze reflected Joden’s own joy.
Joden bowed his head and stepped back to his place beside Keir’s throne.
Lara seated herself on her throne, and Keir followed her example. “We wish to let all know that Xykeirson and Xykayla are well. They are strong and thriving.” She chuckled ruefully. “Keirson especially has very healthy lungs.”
The crowd’s laughter joined hers. Yet Joden could see relief in many eyes. She’d been wise to reassure them.
“We also extend our deepest thanks to the people of Water’s Fall,” Lara said. “Our warriors are now prepared, and fully supplied thanks to their efforts.”
“We depart for the border with the Plains in two days,” Keir said. “We will take a force of Plains and Xyian warriors with us.” He paused, surveying the faces around him, and then continued, apparently satisfied with their reactions. “We have had no word from Liam of the Deer or Simus of the Hawk in some time. We do not know what we will find there, but we will be ready for all things. Supply wagons will travel with us.”
“As will Xykeirson and Xykayla,” Lara’s voice was as sharp as a sword. Joden could see disapproval in some Xyian eyes.
“If they go, I go,” another voice chimed in. Anna stood there, defiant, back by the door with Marcus. Anna’s stout arms were crossed over her chest. “And none to say me nay, either.”
That caused a stir, but Joden frowned at something else. Amyu wasn’t where she had been, standing next to Marcus. Where was she?
“Heath will act as Warden of Xy in addition to his duties as Seneschal the Castle of Water’s Fall.” Lara said firmly, speaking over the murmurs. Heath stepped forward and bowed to her. Lara smiled. “He and his bonded, Atira of the Bear, have our full faith and trust.”
“Lord Marshall Warren and Wilsa of the Lark will be traveling with us. Wilsa will serve as my Second,” Keir said. He was the picture of confidence, seated on the throne. “They have sent word that they have routed the bandits and will arrive shortly. Forces will remain here and at the border to ward Xy.” Keir looked over at Heath. “As to the wyverns…” he gestured to the younger man.
“We have found age-old weapons called balista stored in the ancient tunnels,” Heath said. “I have men working to figure out how to install them on the various towers. In addition, every man on the walls has crossbows and bolts and alarm horns. We will be on watch for when, or if the creatures return.”
Joden shifted his weight slightly, anxious to have this senel over. He needed to go find Amyu, but he could not leave his post.
“Despite this activity, we do not feel that it should delay the departure of the trade mission to the Kingdoms of Nyland and Cadthorn,” Lara continued. “Lord Korvis, how go your preparations?”
Joden sighed as the man puffed up like a pigeon, and resolved himself to wait until the senel had ended.
Amyu wept to hear Joden’s voice ring through the throne room. Glorious, strong and clear.
He was a Singer.
She’d tried to avoid the truth of it even as he had worked with Master Eln and the Warprize.
He was a Singer.
She was a child.
Her heart filled with joy, but she felt the cracks as well, forming bitter, hard shards.
“I’ll check on the wet nurse,” she whispered to Marcus, unable to stop her tears.
He gave her a look with his one eye that told her he’d seen through her excuse, but he gave her a sharp nod.
All was well in the royal chambers. The smiling wet nurse was grateful to give up her watch. The babes were sleeping quietly, which was a blessing from the elements. Amyu took up one of the clean nappies, sat down and indulged in quiet tears.
Joden had found a way to deal with his voice, and she shouldn’t—couldn’t—cling to him. He would become a Singer, upholder of the traditions and the ways of the Plains. He was destined for glory, to stand at the side
of the Warlord and the Warprize, and yes, become Eldest Elder, of that she had no doubt. For him, for all that would be, she was so happy and so proud, and yet there was a blade caught in her heart, making it hard to breathe.
Amyu muffled her face with the cloth and let the sobs come freely.
But weeping endlessly is not a warrior’s way. She dried her face with a determination she did not feel, and yet anger boiled in her gut. Anger at a problem she could not solve, a flaw within her that she could not fix.
Marcus slid into the room, casting a careful eye toward the cradle. “Xyians,” he muttered. “They are still talking trade routes and will be at it most of the night.” He took in Amyu’s face. “Go. Eat. I will take watch.”
Amyu nodded and headed toward the door. Marcus stepped aside to let her through. “You could try talking to him,” Marcus offered. “Talk to Joden about—”
“As you did Liam?” Amyu lashed out.
Marcus stiffened. She’d never seen him so stricken but she couldn’t find it in herself to care.
“I will protect him from himself,” Amyu hissed, fully expecting Marcus to draw his daggers. “As you protected Liam. I know Joden’s worth, and I will not let him waste it on me.” Heart pounding, she continued recklessly on, “But do not tell me that all will be well. Any more than it is for you.”
She didn’t wait for his reaction. She slid out and eased the door closed, so as not to wake the babes. Her anger bubbled as she pounded down the stairs, but it faded with every step, leaving only pain.
The kitchens were being cleaned and settled for the night, but Amyu found a table full of warriors. Marcsi was serving them kavage, bread, and cheese and the talk was lively.
“Rafe?” Amyu called, and his head popped up from the table.
“Amyu,” Rafe gave her a grin. “Come and sit. We missed the senel, didn’t we?”
“It is still going on, but the Warlord announced that he would leave in two days’ time. Now they speak of Xyian matters.” she slid into a space on the bench next to him. “Did you find anything?”
Rafe shook his head. “No, no airions. We found the cave you were in, but little else. Still the mountain is beautiful, and we learned much of climbing.”
“And falling,” Ksand grimaced.
Rafe laughed. “True enough,” he said, taking a moment to stuff his face with a meat pie. “Good,” he mumbled around his mouthful. “Two days will give us enough time to prepare. Lasa lost her dagger in a tumble, and we left Fylin with Master Eln to stitch up a deep gash. Couldn’t use bloodmoss, too dirty.” Rafe took a long drink from his mug. “Let us tell you, that mountain is a force of the elements in its own right.”
Amyu let their talk wash over her as they described their adventure, chiming in and talking over each other. She even worked up enough of an appetite to eat a bit of bread and butter.
Horns sounded, and everyone lifted their heads. “End of the senel.” Rafe started to rise. “Best we report to the Warlord.”
They all rose. Amyu followed them out of the kitchens, but took another path as they headed to the royal chambers. She’d left a few tunics and the basket of shards in Joden’s room. She’d get them quickly, and be done.
The room was the same, unchanged, still smelling slightly of their bodies and sharing. Amyu opened the shutters and turned back. Joden had made up the bed and had folded her tunics off to the side, sitting them on a chair. On top of the tunics was the basket holding the shards of the sword.
Amyu took them up, and cast a glance about, looking for anything else she’d left behind. But there was nothing left of hers, well, no things. But her dreams?
Anxious not to cry again, anxious to have done with her pain, she shut that thought down and turned toward the door.
Joden stood there, his face filled with questions
Joden stood in the doorway, his heart sinking as he saw Amyu gather up her things.
She turned, her arms full and stared at him before dropping her gaze. Her eyes were red and puffy and stricken.
“Singer—” she started.
“Amyu,” he sang her name, not wanting to stumble over it.
Amyu frowned. “You don’t need to do that with me,” she said. “Not if you don’t want to.”
Joden nodded. “L-l-let t-t-there b-b-be t-t-truth b-b-between u-u-us.”
“Good.” She straightened and looked him straight in the eye, her sweet brown eyes sad and determined. “Here is my truth, Joden of the Hawk. You are a Singer, destined for greatness on the Plains and beyond. You have taken the old paths, and shown your willingness to sacrifice for your people.
“A Singer must be an example to the People,” her voice cracked. “A Keeper of the way of the Plains, of our traditions.” She drew a ragged breath. “This, what is between us, is not of our ways.”
“A-a-amyu,” Joden’s heart shared the pain he saw in her eyes.
“You are a Singer—” Amyu’s voice was shaking.
“N-n-not,” Joden shook his head. “M-m-may n-n-not.” He shook his head in frustration, then sang the words, “A Singer’s voice must be true, their words strong.”
“And yours are, and will grow stronger. You are an admired and respected Singer-to-be,” Amyu continued. “You can’t have a child in your tent or at your side, in defiance of the ways of the Plains.”
Joden stepped toward her, his arms open.
Amyu took a step back. “Look me in the eye, and deny this truth,” she challenged.
Joden lowered his own gaze and his arms, and could not speak. His throat closed with pain, his stomach knotted. As a Singer, he should be the first to urge her to the snows. But she stood before him, lovely, vibrant, her pained brown eyes wet with tears.
“The Warlord departs in two days,” she said. “You will ride with him, in all honor. I will remain in Xy. A child. An outcast.”
Joden shook his head. “W-w-we w-w-would p-p-protect—”
“And lose honor in so doing,” Amyu said. “The Warlord can’t risk losing all he has worked for in defense of one barren warrior,” she continued. “I have a worth here.” She looked down at the basket of shards. “I just haven’t found it yet.”
“W-w-worth t-t-to m-m-me,” Joden said. He couldn’t bear her pain any longer and opened his arms again.
Her face crumpled and she walked into his arms, crushing the basket and tunics between them. Her voice was muffled in his chest as he put his chin on the top of her head. “You have seen me as I am, not as child or as failure. I thank you for that truth. I will carry it with me as long as I live.”
Joden hugged her tight, taking in the scent of the Plains in her hair.
But then Amyu stepped back, and he let his arms drop, letting her go. She gave him a watery smile. “But here is another truth. I am too much the coward. I need to stop here. I will not come to you again, and I beg you not to come to me.”
She pushed past him to the door, and he turned to watch it close behind her. He sank down on the bed, his legs losing all their strength.
He had found his voice. He could still achieve his dream, at a price.
He’d lost his heart’s flame.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
The power of death was everywhere.
How had he never seen this before? Hail Storm mused on the nature of this new gift of the Plains as he trotted his dead steed over the wide grasses.
Perhaps it was because he’d been trained only to use the golden light that had been so rare and growing scarcer before the Sacrifice. He’d learned blood magic only by mistake, and had never shared his discovery of its use with the other warrior-priests. He had resorted to it when the elemental power of the Plains had gradually diminished. A shiver of delight went through him at the memory of killing Arched Colors. Her body had writhed under his in pleasure, pain, and her death throes.
He’d give much to be able to do that again.
And Mist, that old bitch. She’d supported him until the Sacrifice, and then tried to ki
ll him. Instead, he’d killed her, absorbing her life essence in the process.
The stone-handled dagger at his side throbbed with his memory of that moment.
The darkness, the power of death, was there under the grass, deep in the earth. Like a hidden treasure he’d passed over many times. What was around him wasn’t as strong as a true death at his hands, but it was plentiful. He wasn’t going to have to kill small animals or birds for power. The source was wide and vast and untouched.
The elements could rage at him all they wanted. He had what he needed.
Access to power gave him choices.
Hail Storm frowned down at his empty hand. There was no need for reins. The dead horse went exactly where he sent it. But it only moved when he willed it.
He could turn back. Cache the supplies and the saddle and let the horse drop where it stood. Return to Antas’s tent, worm his way back into favor. Build a network of support from within and betray him at the first chance. Hail Storm smiled at the idea of killing Antas and draining him dry. Fitting revenge for the loss of his arm.
But in truth, that would take time and the outcome was uncertain. Too many people to try to control, too many doubts as to everyone’s loyalties.
Besides, Wild Winds was dead, which meant that somewhere there was a group of young warrior-priests-in-training. Young. Malleable. He just had to find them, and court them with fine words, gestures of support, and promises of power. Some, not all maybe, but some would be lured to him and the knowledge he could teach.
A thump brought him out of his musings. The horse had stumbled ever so slightly. He looked down to see that the sinews of the leg were wearing at the hoof. He cursed, and eased the creature to a walk.
A dead horse was obedient, but not truly sustainable. The flesh had worn away under the saddle, and the smell left much to be desired. Hail Storm didn’t let the reek trouble him, but it had drawn scavengers when he’d camped for the evenings. And the dead horse never moved without a command, never grazed, only stared at him over the fire, light glittering in its clouded, rotting eyes.