Warsong (Chronicles of the Warlands, #6)(112)

“You think—” Snowfall’s eyes were wide. “You think he went to the Heart? Alone?”

“I fear—” Amyu cut herself off, and stepped over to Night Cloud’s side. He had an image, bright in the bowl. Amyu leaned in and her heart stopped. “Joden,” she breathed.

“Tell me what you see,” Snowfall demanded.

“Joden is riding toward the Heart,” Amu shifted as others crowded around. “There is a man, dressed only in trous. He is surrounded by…” she trailed off, unsure what she was seeing.

“Odium,” Rhys breathed. Sidian sucked in a breath as Rhys continued, “Those are the undead he has brought back and controls.”

“Undead warrior-priests,” Lightning Strike said grimly. “See? They are shorn of their tattoos.”

“Skies above,” Amyu swore. “That man is an idiot.”

“We cannot reach him,” Snowfall said. “The distance is too far. He goes to his death.”

“No, he doesn’t,” Amyu strapped on her weapons belt. “Night Clouds, pull the image back. Rhys, open a portal.”

“Portal?” Snowfall demanded.

“We will all go,” Lightning Strike stood.

“No,” Amyu turned grim. “We cannot risk all of us. I will go, get him out of there, and we will flee. We cannot leave Xy undefended.”

Lightning Strike stopped, the conflict clear on his face. But he gave her a nod. “I will get you extra lances,” he said and ran off.

“Keir agrees,” Snowfall said. “But how will you—”

Amyu whistled.

Golden lifted his head, and rose up, stretching his wings in the sun.

Snowfall gasped. Other heads were trying to peer from behind her, and voices were raised.

“Lightning Strike will explain,” Amyu said over her shoulder s she grabbed up her saddle. “I need to go.”

“Will Golden fly through a portal?” Rhys asked.

“We’ll find out.” Amyu called as she raced to her airion. Heart pounding, she threw on the saddle and forced herself to slow her shaking hands.

“I’m coming, beloved,” she whispered. “And if it’s to both our deaths, at least I will be at your side.”





Chapter Thirty-Nine


Wild Winds never approached Joden as they traveled toward the Heart.

Each night Joden would make camp, and each night Wild Winds stood guard at distance on the southernmost rise. Leaving Joden to his thoughts.

Which left Joden to his thoughts. To his grief, over the loss of his voice. Those thoughts were confusing, for he had a voice, but it wasn’t what it had been. Still, he had it, but it wasn’t perfect, wasn’t what it was.

It left him to thoughts of what was happening to him, or what had happened. Seeing the dead, the visions… Xyson and Uppor had both implied that he could learn control. So far Joden hadn’t figured out how to do it, but there was an itch of curiosity deep within. What could he do? What could he learn? What could he see, if he was in fact a Seer?

But worse than the loss, worse than the itch, was his pain at leaving Amyu. She was right; if he would be a Singer with any honor she could not stand at his side. And yet, she was there, in his thoughts and dreams and sweet memories.

But in the nights, in the flames of his fire, he could see her lovely face and hear her laugh.

When he woke in the mornings to face the day, he wanted to gallop his horse past the ghostly figure and get this over with as quickly as possible.

Yet… the days and nights of steady travel, over the wide expanse of the Plains steadied Joden. The sun rose and set, the winds blew, and late at night the stars glittered in the sky.

Until finally, as they drew close to the Heart, Wild Winds stopped, looked back, and gestured Joden forward.

Joden rode up the rise and stopped his horse next to him. They were looking down at the Heart and the lake beyond.

“Learn, Seer,” Wild Winds’s voice echoed. “The path between life and death is forbidden,” his eyes were bright. “Except to you. Walk it at your peril.”

“W-w-w—” Joden started, wanting to ask all of his questions. But before he could get the words out, Wild Winds faded and was gone.

Helpful, Joden thought wryly. He took a deep breath, then studied the scene below him.

The lakeshore beyond the Heart was covered with wyverns, feeding their young. There were none in the air, thank all the elements. Two of the adults had their heads up, staring at the Heart, as if keeping watch. But they did not take flight. Elements keep it that way.

The Heart was still there, the dead body of a wyvern draped over it as Simus and Snowfall had described. The flesh was torn and rotted. White bone shone through places where the leather skin had burst. The wind was from the north for now, and Joden was grateful for that.

The mounds of the burial pits were obvious, not yet flat to the land. The grass there was green where Simus and his warriors had placed the sod. At first glance, all appeared as it had been left.

Except for the dead.

The hairs on the back of Joden’s neck rose as the ghostly spirits of the dead warrior-priests turned and stared at him with a burning rage he could feel on his skin. Yet the anger was not for him.

“Joden,” Hail Storm emerged from behind the dead wyvern to stand on the edge of the circular stone. He wore the trous of the warrior-priests, but his tattoos were gone, stripped from his body. One arm was but a stump, but with the other Hail Storm gestured. “Come and join me,” he called, his voice echoing over the distance.