Warsong

by Elizabeth Vaughan

  “I do,” Ksand said.

  “And Soar has dish duty for ten nights,” Rafe crowed, and plunged his horse ahead with a laugh over Soar’s protests.

  Joden knew it to be a truth. Someone’s always worse off than you.

  “The headaches are better,” Yers told Keir as they rode together. “And my vision improves. Maybe Master Eln is right, although lying in the dark in his healing rooms for days was a hell worse than the snows.”

  Keir nodded. “I think even Lara would agree that the healing can be more painful than the wound.”

  Joden noticed that Yers didn’t nod back; that he seemed to be keeping his head perfectly still, looking straight ahead at all times.

  “There was little I could do but think,” Yers continued. “And I thought on Simus.”

  Keir waited as their horses walked on.

  “I rescinded my oath, as is tradition when one can no longer support one’s Warlord,” Yers said. “I offered challenge for Warlord, as is tradition.”

  Keir stayed silent, and Joden wasn’t about to interrupt.

  “Simus defeated me,” Yers said. “And there is no shame in that. The shame,” he took a breath. “My shame was in my approach. I should have tried harder to make him see the danger in allowing a warrior-priestess to stand at his side.”

  “Yers, at any time did Simus say to you that he would rescind his oath to me?” Keir asked. “Withdraw his support?”

  Yers was silent for a time. “No, Warlord. But I fear Snowfall’s influence over him. Whenever have the warrior-priests offered us anything but scorn? There is no truth in her, for all her oaths.”

  “No messengers have come.” Keir shook his head. “There is nothing to do but wait and see.” He looked at Yers. “I know you declined to serve as a warleader, but if you are feeling better—”

  Yers shook his head, then winced. “No, Warlord. I am aiding Wilsa as best I can, when I can. I thank you, but I must decline.”

  “Very well,” Keir said. “But when the time comes, when Simus approaches, be with me to witness his truths.”

  “I will,” Yers said, and then moved off, leaving Joden and Keir alone.

  Keir reached into his saddle bags and pulled out a strip of bells. The other warriors melted back as Joden gave Keir an inquiring look.

  “So much hate,” Keir said. He gripped his reins tightly, and his knuckles whitened. “For so many years, I have considered the warrior-priests the greatest enemy to change on the Plains. My greatest enemy. Now word comes that some of the warrior-priests are dead, at their own hands, and one of my staunchest allies rides with a warrior-priestess at his side. What is worse,” Keir’s voice cracked. “Our children may have been touched by their evil.”

  Joden opened his mouth, but then closed it. Keir hadn’t noticed, and nothing Joden could say would aid him.

  Perhaps the best gift Joden could give his friend was the silence in which to find his own path.

  “I hate the warrior-priests,” Keir’s voice was almost a hiss. “For what they have done, and not done for our people for years. Hidden their powers or lack thereof. Refusing to change, to the benefit of all the Tribes. I loathe them, and will never forgive their arrogance and treachery.”

  Joden watched as Keir’s fists relaxed their grip on the reins.

  “But,” the reluctance in Keir’s voice was clear. “But maybe my greatest enemy is my hatred, that blinds me to the truth.” He looked over at Joden, clearly seeking reassurance.

  Joden hesitated, then shrugged.

  “There is truth in that, friend.” Keir grimaced. “And ‘wait and see’ seems to be the only option.” He leaned forward to remove the bells. “Come. I feel the need to be with Lara this night.”

  “She never once complains,” Marcus said quietly over the dying campfire.

  The others had all bedded down for the night, leaving Joden and Marcus alone by the fire. Joden lifted an eyebrow.

  Marcus jerked his chin toward the tents. “Anna. Poor lady is uncomfortable, unhappy, and as miserable as a person can be. But she never once has made a complaint, or said a word of her suffering.” Marcus shot Joden a look, a glint of humor in his one eye. “Even Herself complained on that first journey.”

  Joden smiled at the memory.

  Marcus continued, “Odd how even city-dwellers find the strength to endure when they act out of love.”

  Joden blinked, glanced at Marcus and then just as quickly decided to poke the coals with a handy stick. Marcus had a temper and he was known for his sharp tongue and sharper daggers. Silence was the best option.

  Marcus must have caught the look, because he glowered. “I know what you are thinking,” he growled.

  Joden shrugged.

  “You are thinking of Liam of the Deer.” Marcus stated flatly. “I know full well he holds the border for the Warlord, and I know full well he is at the keep we are heading to.” Marcus stood up. “I will not see him, will not speak to him. Our bonding severed when my ear melted away, and it is past time the damn fool saw the truth.”

  With that, Marcus stomped away, and disappeared behind the tents, where he had placed his pallet.

  Joden gave the coals another poke, and wondered how long Marcus could fight against his own truth.

  Prest appeared the next morning before the kavage was even hot. “My forward scouts have reported,” he said as he slid from his saddle. “Wellspring is a day’s march.”

  Wellspring. Joden felt his heart turn over in his chest.

  The plague village.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  The stone well was all that remained of Wellspring.

  Joden walked beside Lara and Keir as they slowly approached the place where the village had stood. The field was covered in thick green plants with purple flowers on tall stalks. The air was filled with their perfume. No trace was left of the pyres of the dead that had covered the area, or the smoke that filled the air. No trace, except in their memories.

  “We didn’t stop here on our way to Xy,” Lara said.

  “You were asleep in my arms,” Keir said. “We rode past. I saw no reason to wake you.”

  Lara frowned, running her fingers over a few flowers. “I don’t remember this lavender being here before. But we were here later in the year.”

  Keir stood next to the well, his jaw clenched, a muscle pulsing in his cheek. He reached out to Lara. She reached back, and stepped closer to hug him and bury her face in his chest.

  “S-s-safe?” Joden had to ask.

  “Yes,” Lara lifted her head to face him. “As far as I know.”

  “D-d-disrespectful?” Joden asked again, gesturing to the area around them. “T-t-to c-c-camp h-h-here?”

  “No,” Lara said, but her voice held doubt. “But the memories…” her voice trailed off.

  “We will march on,” Keir said. “Our dead are beyond the snows, and in the stars. But the living carry burdens of pain and sorrow. Joden, I would ask that you sing for our dead this evening. After we make camp.”

  Joden reached out and touched the stone of the well. It felt cold and rough under his fingers. He found himself nodding yes before he could really think about it.

  “You honor us. I will give the command,” Keir said, and tugged Lara away. They walked off together through the flowers, their arms wrapped around each other’s waist, Lara’s head on Keir’s shoulder.

  Joden watched them, an odd longing in his heart, mingling with his sorrow.

  “Would you drink, good sir?” came a cheerful voice from behind him.

  A Xyian woman with a lovely smile stood there, a bucket and rope in hand. She dropped the bucket into the well. Joden heard it splash into the water.

  “Clear and cold on the hottest day,” the woman continued. “It’s how Wellspring got its name.” She started hauling on the rope, bringing the full bucket up with ease. Water sloshed over the stones as she set it on the wall.

  Joden dipped a cupped hand and drank. The water was as she said, crisp
and sweet. “My thanks,” he said, the words flowing easily.

  He looked around, at the village around them. It was as it must have been before the Sweat, before it burned. People going about their business, calling out well-wishes for the evening meal. The gates were shut tight for the night.

  “Have you lived here long?” Joden asked.

  “All my days,” she said. “With my Ma and Pa and now my husband and firstborn. We have a fine place…” her voice trailed off, and her eyes grew wistful. “But I cannot find them, for some reason.”

  “Where are they?” Joden asked quietly.

  “I do not know,” her voice was small and pained, her smile gone. “I felt ill, and I lay down with my babe and…” She looked over her shoulder. “There are voices calling me from the gardens, but I can’t go. I can’t find her.”

  The village wavered, and started to fade.

  “What is your name, lady?” Joden asked.

  “Meara,” she said. “Meara of Wellspring.”

  Joden drew in a breath. “Meara,” he said, and knew what he had to do. “I can tell you of your babe.”

  Her eyes went wide as he told her what had happened, and that Lara had taken the babe into her care. “They did not know her name,” Joden said. “So they named her after you.”

  “The Queen gave her my name?” Meara asked, covering her mouth with the tips of her fingers. “And she is well?”

  “Well and happy,” Joden said.

  “Show me,” Meara demanded and held out her hands.

  Joden took them in his. “Meara, I don’t know how—”

  “Show me,” she begged, and gripped his hands tight.

  A vision rose up before his eyes, of Meara and Aurora in the kitchen gardens of the castle under Marcsi’s watchful eye. They were playing with the dogs, Aurora running, Meara toddling behind and laughing. She giggled as she plopped on her butt, the dogs wagging their tails and licking her face.

  Joden blinked to find Meara crying, clasping her hands to her breast. “Oh, she is beautiful and brimming with health and joy,” she said, weeping silent tears.

  “You’re crying,” Joden said.

  “I weep for what we have lost, Seer,” Meara’s voice broke. “I weep for the days I will not see her grow, for the nights I will not watch over her. She will not hear my voice or see my face but I hope she knows of my love.”

  “I will see to it,” Joden promised.

  The village faded away from around them. Meara looked over her shoulder again, then scooped up her apron to dry her eyes. “My family, my loved ones, they call me. They have been waiting so long.” She smoothed her apron down, and smiled at him through watery eyes. “Thank you, Seer. I am grateful.”

  She turned away, took a few steps and then stopped.

  “They tell me, Seer, to tell you,” Meara turned back, her eyes distant as if seeing something beyond him. “The Sweat waits. It will return. Warn the House of Xy.”

  Joden went cold. “When?”

  “I do not know,” she said with a shake of her head. “But it will come. Blessings on thee, Seer.”

  Before he could say a word, she took another step, and was gone.

  “Joden?” a worried voice this time. He turned to find Ksand staring at him. “Joden, are you well?” She gave him a squinty look. “Are you going to fall down?”

  “N-n-no,” Joden said, then smiled at her disappointment.

  “Come then,” Ksand said. “The army moves on without us.”

  Lara stared at him, white-faced. “She did not tell you when?”

  Joden shook his head. “S-s-she d-d-didn’t kn-kn-know.”

  Lara pressed her lips together, then shook her head. “There’s not much we can do,” she said. “We will spread the word, and make sure that everyone knows the signs. If any sicken we will know. There are healers in with the Xyian forces, and there’s fever’s foe aplenty in the wagons.” She gave Joden a weak smile. “At least we are warned.”

  Joden nodded, and went to step from the tent, but she stopped him with a gesture. “Joden, about tonight—” she hesitated, and he could see the blush rising on her cheeks. “I remember the ceremony from before, but we have Xyian warriors with us. I think it would be best if—”

  “N-n-no s-s-sharing,” Joden said solemnly.

  Lara relaxed with a nervous laugh. “No sharing.”

  The stars were out when Joden took his place before Keir and Lara, and faced the crowd. It was all Plains warriors. Warren had come to Keir with an offer from his men to take the watches so that all could mourn. Which was a kindness, but additional pressure Joden didn’t really want or need.

  Voices had been lowered as they went about the business of setting out tents and building cookfires. All were affected by the memories of this place and the losses they had suffered.

  The torches and fires were lit, and a dancing area cleared before the platform. The drummers were ready. The dancers were ready. That left only the signal to begin.

  Joden raised his face to the stars, and lifted his right palm to the sky. “May the skies hear my voice,” he chanted, a wave of relief washing over him as the words came out strong and clear. “May the people remember.”

  The response rose, “We will remember.”

  Joden lowered his arm and spoke again, “Birth of fire, death of air.”

  One of the dancers knelt, and blew on the coals within a brazier, feeding fuel that caused flames to leap up and dance.

  “Birth of water, death of earth,” Joden chanted.

  A second dancer knelt, dipping her hands in the brazier at her feet and letting the water trickle back down.

  “Birth of earth, death of fire.” Joden filled his lungs and chanted the next part, letting his voice rise to the skies.

  The third dancer knelt, raised a lump of dirt, breaking it up to let the clods fall back into the brazier.

  “Birth of air, death of water,” Joden sang the words, letting them ring out.

  The fourth dancer knelt. He too blew on coals, but the fuel he added caused a thin trail of smoke to rise up.

  The four dancers stood, bowed to their elements, and waited.

  “We gather tonight in remembrance of the dead,” Joden spoke-sang, keeping his voice deep and projecting as far as he could. “All life perishes. This we know. Our bodies arise from the elements, and return to them when we fall.”

  There was a deathly silence as he paused. All eyes turned to him, and Joden felt the power he wielded over them, felt the impact his words were having. He gestured, and the drummer started a beat then, a slow but steady pulse.

  “But we are also more than our bodies,” Joden reminded them. “This we know. That which is within each of us, lives on. Our dead travel with us until the snows, when they rise to the stars. They do not—”

  He cut himself off from the traditional words, but then continued, “They do not linger here.”

  No one seemed to notice. He took a deep breath, seeing some of the faces around him relaxing in the firelight. He nodded, to reassure one and all, then took up the ritual words, “How can we mourn then? How can we sorrow for what must be? If our dead are with us, and we will join with them when our bodies fail, how then do we weep?”

  The drummer’s beat continued, slow and steady.

  “We grieve for what we lost. For the hollow place within our hearts. For the loss that is felt each time we turn to confide a secret, to share a joke, or to reach for a familiar touch.” Joden kept his voice steady, but his anger grew. Anger for the loss of so many lives to something that could not be fought. Anger at old hatreds that had shaped the Plains in ways that no one knew. Anger at his own loss. “This is our pain, the pain of those left behind. This is our rage, that death must exist at all. Let us share it.”

  He raised his fists, and the other warriors roused and stood, raising theirs as well. Joden felt their pain and grief, and their anger like a wave over his body.

  “Death of earth, birth of water,” he chanted
as if it were a curse, and the crowd joined in their voices and their pain, repeating the words. “Death of water, birth of air, death of air, birth of fire, death of fire, birth of earth.”

  Over and over until the earth seemed to shake. Joden opened his fists, and the crowd went quiet, opening theirs.

  “Dance with me,” he sang. “Death and pain are a part of life. But not all of it, People of the Plains! Joy is also there, to be enjoyed and shared! Rejoice! Dance with me!”

  The crowd as one started to step to the drum beat. They formed patterns they’d known since the thea camps, lifting their hands to the skies and pounding the rhythms on the earth with their feet. Keir and Lara were also standing, their hands high, dancing with each other. Xyian warriors were pulled into the dance, welcomed by those of the Plains.

  This then, was the true power of a Singer. To bring the people together, to aid them in their sorrow and their joy. Joden’s tears streamed down his face, but he did nothing to stop them.

  “Heyla,” Joden roared.

  The crowd roared back their response. “HEYLA!”

  The drums continued, and Joden repeated the call and response for long glorious moments under the night sky.

  Joden dropped his hands, and the drums ceased.

  The warriors froze, all eyes on him.

  Joden dropped his words into the silence. “May the skies hear my voice,” he chanted. “May the people remember.”

  “We will remember,” came the response. With that, the warriors started to disburse to their tents, with a quiet reverence.

  Joden stood sweating, exhausted, filled with his own joy as he watched them leave.

  He was no longer the man he had been.

  Maybe, just maybe he was something more.

  He started toward his tent, passing various warriors that whispered thanks, or gave him nods of respect. He returned them, but didn’t linger.

  There were whispered invitations to share as well, but he declined those with a shake of the head and a regretful smile. The euphoria he’d felt was fading, and he ached. He might be something more, but at a cost. The sacrifice of his voice. The sacrifice of Amyu at his side.