WarDance

  Simus grimaced in agreement.

  It was a sight Simus had never expected to see: the wounded of the Plains being tended by a Xyian healer.

  Hanstau had gathered the wounded together outside his small tent. The pallets were laid in rows, with wounded warriors sprawled on and under blankets, with bandages covering their wounds. Other warriors were moving about, serving kavage and bread to those that could feed themselves.

  Simus paused, as the memories of Lara tending his leg came back. Snowfall came up to stand next to him. She said nothing, but he knew she was looking for Wild Winds.

  Hanstau was looming over a wounded warrior, Cadr looking miserable at his side. Hanstau was yelling at—

  Loual of the Boar.

  “Oh, skies,” Snowfall breathed. “He’ll kill him.”

  Simus quickened his step, certain that Loual was going to gut the pudgy healer for insults. Loual was seated on a blanket, cradling his bandaged arm, and looking...confused.

  “Take to the ice?” Hanstau was almost purple with rage as he ranted in Xyian. “Idiot! Fool! What is the word?” He looked at Cadr. “What is the word?”

  “Stupid,” Cadr sighed, looking unhappy. A look of relief came over him when he spotted Simus. “Warlord, please. The healer is—”

  “You’ll answer to the God of the Sun if you waste your heart’s blood on the grass,” Hanstau declared, and nudged Cadr to translate. “Waste your life and your skills when your people need you the most. The feeling will return, I tell you. The wrist is splinted, the swelling will go down if you have a care and take the fever’s foe.”

  For the first time, Simus noticed Loual’s hand, swollen so badly the fingers looked discolored.

  “But go ahead, shove a blade in your guts. Just don’t do it on my blankets. Go off in the grass or better yet, better yet—” Hanstau drew himself up in a picture of righteous fury, waving his hands for emphasis. “Better yet, feed yourself to those monsters for all I care, and wander off to your precious ice.”

  “Snows,” Cadr said weakly. “The word is ‘snows’.”

  Loual of the Boar looked up at Simus. “Does he know?” he asked in the language of the Plains, his voice strained with pain. “That our truths are different? That I oppose you?”

  “I doubt it,” Simus said. “But it wouldn’t matter to him, even if he did.”

  Hanstau huffed out a breath. “Might as well save my breath, for all that anyone listens to me.” He knelt down in front of Loual. “Do this,” he demanded in rough Plains language as he held out his hand and made a fist.

  Loual tried and winced, but the swollen fingers moved.

  “Hah,” Hanstau snorted. “See? See?” He huffed as he got to his feet and switched back to Xyian. “Tell him, Cadr. Tell him to give it a few days, to take the fever’s foe as he was told—” Hanstau brushed off his tunic and trous. “And if there is no improvement—no improvement, mind, not perfection—” Hanstau waggled his finger at Loual, “—then he can kill himself with no objection from me. Stupid, impatient, thick-headed—” Hanstau muttered until he caught sight of Snowfall. “You, woman. Come with me. Wild Winds is awake and asking for you. Over here.”

  With that, the healer was gone, dragging a startled Snowfall in his wake.

  Cadr duly translated the words to Loual, and scrambled after the healer.

  “Any other would be bleeding at my feet for the insult,” Loual said. “But he is weaponless, and fat, and oddly angry.” Loual looked up at Simus, his brow furrowed. “What is my life to him?”

  “The same as mine,” Simus said simply. “That is his truth.”

  “You should have seen him charge toward a wyvern,” Mirro said.

  “What?” Loual asked, staring up at his Third, looking even more confused.

  Mirro knelt beside him, eager to tell the tale. Simus excused himself with a nod, and followed Hanstau to where Wild Winds lay.

  Wild Winds stretched out under his blanket, working out the stiffness in his muscles. He drew in a sweet breath, feeling the ache in his ribs as his chest expanded. He let the air out slowly, thanking the elements for the pain. A wet cloth covered his eyes, and he relished the damp, cool darkness.

  He had little memory of the attack, other than pain.

  Footsteps approached, and he heard the Xyian healer, Hanstau, say something in a voice too soft for him to hear.

  A warm presence knelt at his side. “Master,” came a soft, calm voice. Wild Winds smiled at the familiar sound.

  “Snowfall,” he said, taking care not to move his head. “How goes it with you? That feeling, that dread? For me it has faded. For you?”

  “Faded as well.” Snowfall’s voice was soft. “More important, how goes it with you?”

  “Alive.” Wild Winds drew another deep, satisfying, painful breath. “Bruised and sore, and alive.”

  “He is well,” Hanstau said haltingly. “He—” The man proceeded to rattle off something in Xyian, then paused. Wild Winds could just imagine that Snowfall had lifted her eyebrow at Hanstau.

  “His head,” Hanstau said.

  Someone was peeling back the wet cloth. Wild Winds winced at the light, and then blinked his eyes open.

  “Your eyes,” said the two Snowfalls of his doubled vision crouched beside him, their lips moving together.

  “Head blow.” Wild Winds said, and nodded, only to regret it as a wave of nausea washed over him.

  “Sickness.” She frowned. “Is your sight affected?”

  “Yes.” Wild Winds smiled at her concern. “But I am not the first to suffer this, nor the last. It will pass.”

  “With time,” Snowfall reminded him.

  Cadr came running up, breathing hard, to stand next to Hanstau. He said something in Xyian, clearly scolding the healer.

  “Hanstau was yelling at Loual,” Snowfall said quietly. “Cadr is explaining the risks.”

  Hanstau folded his arms over his chest, and looked stubborn. “He wants to get better,” Hanstau said. “He will listen.”

  “You have not answered my question,” Wild Winds said. He focused on Snowfall’s serene face, which could hide so much. “Are you well? You were not in the Council tent.”

  “I was with my Warlord,” Snowfall said.

  Wild Winds squinted, studying her face. Was that a blush on her cheek?

  “We were attacked,” she continued. “But he killed the beast.”

  “With your help,” Simus said as he walked up and knelt at her side.

  Wild Winds squinted at the man. “Simus of the Hawk, I thank you for my life.”

  “I am honored to have assisted you, Eldest Elder.” Simus bowed his head. “And I am sorry to see that you are injured.”

  “Pain is better than death.”

  Snowfall was not fooled. “I have mushrooms,” she offered, pulling out a few tiny dried pieces.

  Wild Winds held out a shaky hand and took one.

  “What is that?” Hanstau demanded, nudging Cadr, pointing at the mushrooms. “He’s already had willow-bark tea.”

  Wild Winds slipped a small piece between his teeth and gums. “You explain, Snowfall,” he said, waiting for the dulling effects to begin.

  “I will,” Snowfall promised as she gave the healer the rest. “But first I must tell you, Master. This healer sees the power in the land.”

  Wild Winds snapped his eyes open. “What?”

  Cadr huffed out a breath and started translating the flurry of questions and answers that followed.

  “A Xyian,” Wild Winds breathed out in wonder. It had never occurred to him that they might be able to use the magic of the Plains. “You must come with me, when I leave,” Wild Winds said. “You must be taught.”

  “Leave?” Simus asked.

  “I must return to Lightning Strike and the young ones,” Wild Winds reminded him. “Who must also be trained. He must come with me.”

  But Hanstau was listening to Cadr, shaking his head. “No. My place is with Lord Simus, by the command of my
Queen. I will not leave his side.”

  Wild Winds closed his eyes, gathering his thoughts. “Our ‘healing’ powers were mostly illusion. Certain plants, dried mushrooms, were our only tools.” He waited for Cadr to translate.

  “I have power,” Wild Winds continued slowly. “But I have no idea how to use it to heal, even though I know it can heal. Each who has the gift uses it in different ways. In any event, you must be trained.”

  Hanstau listened, and then stood as if lost in thought. “I wonder,” he said slowly. “I wonder if it could be used to counter that poison?”

  “And that is how you get in trouble,” Wild Winds said. “Wondering and trying without guidance.”

  “Hanstau,” Simus said, speaking in Xyian. Wild Winds looked at Cadr, who quickly translated for him. “I respect your abilities, and you are an asset to my people.” Simus pointedly looked out over the wounded. “To all our people.” Then Simus drew a breath. “But I also know the Warprize. If Lara thought there was a chance, any chance, that you could bring magical healing to Xy and the Plains, she would want you to seek it out.”

  Hanstau looked thoughtful. “I will think on your words, Lord Simus. In the meantime, I pledge to you,” he shifted his gaze to Wild Winds, “I will not experiment with the glow. With the power.”

  “Thank you,” Wild Winds said.

  “I will talk to you later, about these.” Hanstau held up the mushrooms before tucking them into his satchel. “But now, I will return to my duties,” Hanstau said, and walked off, Cadr right behind him.

  “And I must to mine,” Snowfall said. “Lest I be seen as neglectful.”

  “But—” Simus cut off his words. Wild Winds watched as the blurry pair exchanged a long look.

  “Tonight?” Simus asked.

  “Tonight,” Snowfall whispered back, and now there was no doubt as to the color on her cheek and the glint in her eye.

  Well, well. Wild Winds cleared his throat. “So you looked deeper?” he asked.

  Simus looked confused, but Snowfall gave him a nod, her smile behind her eyes. “I did,” she said, then whispered, “and I found something...amazing.”

  “Ah.” Wild Winds tried very hard to suppress his satisfaction. “My thanks for the mushrooms,” he said as Snowfall rose to her feet.

  She gave a nod and walked off. Wild Winds couldn’t help watching Simus watch her go.

  Very well, indeed. Wild Winds relaxed under his blankets, well pleased. At best, he’d hoped that Snowfall and Simus might learn to trust one another. But this attraction showed much promise.

  Wild Winds smiled to himself. He was a meddling old man, and well satisfied in the role.

  Simus remained at his side. A silence fell between them then, surrounded as they were by the buzz of talk. Wild Winds could hear horns in the distance. “Horns?” he asked.

  “To warn of the monsters,” Simus explained. “Of the wyverns.”

  “Describe them,” Wild Winds said. “Tell me what happened. All I knew was the collapsing tent and pain.”

  Simus obliged him, describing the creatures in detail, explaining what he knew of the attack and the rescue.

  “There is nothing like that in my memory,” Wild Winds said. “Or in the memories passed down to me. Perhaps the Singers know more. Essa lives. He was here, earlier, speaking of our losses.”

  “Did he have numbers? Names?” Simus asked.

  “I do not—” Wild Winds sighed. “We spoke, but it is a hazy memory.”

  “Of course.” Simus shook his head. “Forgive me.”

  “We of the Plains are diminished, not defeated,” Wild Winds said. “Seek Essa. He will be the one to decide how we proceed.”

  “I will,” Simus said.

  The mushroom was beginning to dull his pain, but did nothing for his eyes. Wild Winds winced again at the light, and fumbled for the wet cloth. Simus took it from his fingers, and settled back over his face.

  “My thanks,” Wild Winds said, grateful for the relief from the light. “And Simus?’

  “Yes?’

  “Be good to her,” Wild Winds said.

  “My oath on it.” Simus’s voice held a note of joy he’d not heard in a long time. “Never fear. She is the flame of my heart, Wild Winds.”

  Satisfied, Wild Winds let the mushroom pull him down into sleep.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Simus finally gave up trying to locate Essa among the wounded and went to ask Hanstau and Cadr for help.

  The truths he’d discovered searching for the Singer, however, were dark. He’d walked between the pallets, speaking to a few, observing others, taking a head count and wincing internally at the results. There was no saying this was all; there may be many others that were with their own people, not needing Hanstau’s care. But the living were few.

  And the dead numbered far too many.

  The wounded and the healthy were starting to stir in the camp. The shock of the recent events was wearing off. He could feel their eyes on him and the weight of their questions.

  Pity he had no answers.

  He found Hanstau at Haya’s side, cleaning a wound in her upper arm. “We will not use bloodmoss,” he was explaining through Cadr. “The claws of the beasts are filthy and I fear for infection.”

  Haya glared at Simus. “Finally,” she said. “Seo? My camp?”

  Simus knelt. “Minor injuries, no deaths,” he reported, and watched the tightness clear from her eyes. “Seo was taking the children to a winter lodge for safety.”

  “Good,” Haya grunted. “Smart. But what of the future, Simus of the Hawk?”

  “Wild Winds told me to seek out Essa,” Simus said.

  Haya gestured outward with her good arm, toward a thick patch of the tallest grasses. “Behind there, off by himself,” she said, then sniffed. “Sulking, to my way of thinking.”

  Hanstau paused in his work, looked at both of them, and spoke in rapidfire Xyian.

  Simus nodded, and Cadr translated for the benefit of the others. “He says that as to Essa, he can heal wounds, not hearts. I don’t understand.”

  Haya just huffed a breath. Simus looked at the young warrior, just starting his second season in the army.

  “You will,” Simus said. “You will.”

  When Simus found him, Essa was sitting alone, looking out over the Plains, his back to the Heart. Simus approached slowly, crunching the grass beneath his feet and clearing his throat to announce his presence.

  Essa looked back over his shoulder. The side of his face was purple and bruised. He looked away pointedly.

  Simus stood, waiting.

  “Sit,” Essa said finally, with a grudging tone, resignation in his shoulders.

  “My thanks, Eldest Elder.” Simus circled around the man, and sat facing him.

  Now Simus could see that Essa’s entire face was bruised and swollen, his eyes mere slits. Simus could barely make out Essa’s Singer tattoo around his eye. Essa wore the tatters of fine colorful silks, clothing he would have donned for the ceremony.

  “Today was to have been a day of celebration.” Essa’s voice had an odd lisp to it, as he spoke slowly through swollen lips. “Solemn ritual, with singing and drumming, and offerings to the elements. We’d have raised the Council tent, the wisdom and strength of the Plains gathered within. We’d have chosen our best to enter the season of war and secure the needs of the people of the Plains.”

  Simus nodded, but didn’t speak.

  “I’d thought there would be debate,” Essa continued. “Hours of it, perhaps even days. Bitter words spoken, insights revealed. Then, as it has always been, the chosen Warlords would have been honored and their oaths taken. A full day of celebration afterward, before they and their armies departed.” He drew in a deep, clearly pained breath. “Now all that is left is to sing for the dead.”

  “Wild Winds said that we are diminished, not defeated,” Simus said.

  “I am not so sure,” Essa murmured.

  “He also said that there is n
othing like these monsters in his memory, or in the memories passed down to him.”

  Essa stiffened, a flash of pure anger in his eyes.

  Simus paused, taken aback. But when Essa said nothing, he cautiously continued. “What of the Singers?” he asked. “Do you—”

  “Nothing,” Essa spat. “There is nothing in my memory, or in the memories or songs passed down to me, about these creatures.”

  Simus raised an eyebrow. “I should ask for your token, Eldest Elder.”

  “No, no,” Essa said, deflating. His rage faded as quickly as it had come. “My anger is not aimed at you.” Essa raised his eyes to Simus. “And yet what have you unleashed upon us, Simus of the Hawk?”

  “Eldest Elder Singer Essa,” Simus said carefully. “Is that your truth? That I somehow called down all of this upon us?”

  “There are those that will blame you, and Keir,” Essa said.

  “I will face their truths with my own,” Simus said.

  “You think that will be enough?” Essa asked wearily.

  “Yes,” Simus said simply, and then focused on Essa. “You do not support Keir, then.”

  He didn’t make it a question.

  “The role of the Singer is to hold to our ways and to pass on the knowledge of the Plains,” Essa said. “I don’t know what I support, what I think, what to sing, or even if I should sing of this.”

  “You are the Eldest Elder of the Singers,” Simus said. “Your duty is to summon—”

  “And if I don’t?” Essa lashed out, his words cutting and cruel.

  “We will have lost more than we did to the wyverns,” Simus said.

  Essa sat silent, his head bowed. Simus waited, as the wind rustled the longer grasses, as horns blew in the distance.

  “The wind blows,” Essa whispered. “The grass bends.” He rose to his feet slowly, brushing off his tattered silken trous. Without looking at Simus, he limped off toward Hanstau’s tent, moving slowly and carefully.

  Simus rose and followed.

  The healing area held more people, standing and sitting around the wounded. Heads turned as Essa passed, and those that could struggled to their feet, to stand respectfully in the Eldest Elder’s presence.