WarDance (Chronicles of the Warlands #5)(12)

He signaled the scouts back, and slowed their progress to a walk. He did not hail the camp, but made no secret of their approach. Yet they went unnoticed, the group’s focus seemingly on a tall, fully tattooed warrior-priest in the center of the group.

“Wild Winds,” Simus said softly. Joden nodded his agreement.

Wild Winds stood, staff in one hand, talking to four or five young warriors of the Plains. Still, there was no threat in any of their gestures or faces, no fear or anger. Instead, Simus could have sworn there was relief and even joy.

Yers caught Simus’s eye, then pointed with his chin to where one of the young warrior-priestesses was seeing to a horse, removing its tack. The horse was nuzzling the young one’s hair as she worked.

Something painful eased in Simus’s chest. Still, it was no reason to relax. Even less to trust. Wild Winds was the Eldest Elder of the Warrior-Priests of the Plains. His cold disdain and opposition to Keir of the Cat was known. His refusal to consider any new ideas and his opposition to the confirmation of the Warprize had resulted in the sundering of the Council of Elders. Simus had no reason to expect a welcome. Even so, he had to try to learn the truth of all of this.

“Wild Winds,” he called, louder than he intended, fully expecting a hostile greeting.

Which made the open expression on the tattooed face that turned his way even more of a shock.

“Simus of the Hawk.” Wild Winds strode up and stood before him, planting his skull-less staff next to him. “How may I aid you?”

Simus studied the man. Wild Winds seemed stronger somehow, yet the three human skulls no longer dangled from the leather thongs on his staff. Wild Winds still bore his full tattoos, the only one in the crowd to do so. And his eyes...

Simus glanced at the others that surrounded him and saw the same things in the eyes of the others. Over-bright and wild, as if they’d drunk enough fermented gurtle milk to be seeing the dead. Or survived their first battle. Rattled, nervous, relieved, scared, anxious; it was all there in their eyes.

Except one. A woman standing just behind Wild Winds, at his shoulder. Lovely, with firm breasts and skin the color of kavage laced with milk. Her black hair was twisted into curls that crowned her head. Her bare shoulders were capped with green and black tattoos in a twisting vine pattern that trailed down her arms just far enough to cover the tattoos of her tribes and her birth offerings to the Plains.

But what really caught his attention were her cool, grey eyes, which regarded the crowd calmly. She, whoever she was, was keeping a calm face and a steady hand.

Their eyes met, and Simus was lost.

There was beauty there, but there were mysteries as well. Simus couldn’t read her expression or her emotions. But there were secrets in the depths of those eyes that he wanted to explore.

Her gaze slid away from his. Simus realized that the chatter around them had died off.

It took Simus a breath to turn his attention back to Wild Winds and his greeting. A breath too long, since the old man seemed to sense his...distraction.

Simus narrowed his eyes, staring at Wild Winds. “An explanation would be a good start,” Simus said carefully. If Wild Winds could act as if nothing had happened, so could he. “My evening pleasures were interrupted by a needle of light that pierced the sky, and a Singer with an itch of curiosity.” Simus nodded his head toward Joden. “I had no choice but to leave my bed and seek you out.”

Wild Winds greeted Joden, and continued talking, inviting them all into his tent, and offering to tell the tale. Simus listened, caught off guard by this change of tone from the Eldest Elder Warrior-Priest. Still...Simus opened his mouth to refuse.

Joden dismounted beside him, taking the decision out of his hands. Damn all Singers to the snows, he’d little choice now. Yet there would be no harm in listening, and any knowledge gained would aid them.

Besides, he was just as curious as Joden to hear what the man would say.

Simus signaled Eloix and Yers to join them. He’d listen.

Whether he’d trust was another tale entirely.




So this was Simus of the Hawk.

Snowfall wasn’t impressed.

She’d been at Wind Winds’s side all through the eventful night, ready to both serve and protect her mentor. She’d stay close, although he would claim she was hovering.

So she was slightly behind Wild Winds when the riders approached and hailed the camp.

Simus was tall and imposing, she’d grant him that. One of the largest, blackest warriors she’d ever seen, with skin that shone like obsidian rock. He sat his horse with confidence, dressed in fine chain, his sword on his back. His dark eyes flashed as they swept over them and the gold earrings in his ears caught the morning light.

Handsome, of that there was no doubt, but he knew that all too well, Snowfall thought. She’d heard tales of his wit and charm. But he was certainly rude, greeting Wild Winds without his honors. She wasn’t fooled by his—

Their eyes met, and something sang through her, like the power of the Plains itself.

His eyes were dark in color but bright with suspicion, yet under that there was strength, and joy of life itself, as if every breath was a gift to be savored, enjoyed, relished.

The tattoos on her shoulders began to tingle. Snowfall didn’t react, didn’t gasp. She slowly slid her gaze from his and stood, trying to quiet her inner tremble as he and Wild Winds talked.

Her training kept her face a void, where no warrior could read her thoughts. ‘A warrior-priest keeps their own counsel at all times,’ was the command, and she’d learned her lessons well. But her tattoos—