Warsong (Chronicles of the Warlands, #6)(12)

“Would-be-Singer,” the one on the far right cackled, high-pitched and irritating.

“Just so,” Essa said. He glanced back. “Joden, these are the Ancients.”

Joden walked forward, but did not bow. “Ancients?”

“Joden is confused,” the one in the center spoke with a quaver. “Wondering what we are, perhaps? Or who we are?”

“Ancients,” came the cackle. “There are no ancients on the Plains.”

“How can this be,” continued the whispering one. “The elderly among us, no longer useful to the Tribe, they go to the snows.”

All three laughed, and the hairs on the back of Joden’s neck rose.

“There are songs that Singers do not sing,” Essa ground out the words, his arms folded across his chest. “Tales we do not tell. Songs and stories handed down from Eldest Elder to Eldest Elder.”

The Ancients chuckled. The one in the center grinned, bare gums were all that showed. “Stories not told to children.”

“If you don’t tell me,” Essa growled. “The tales will be lost. They will die with you.”

“Why should we tell you, child?” one asked in a mocking tone.

Joden was starting to sweat. The air in the tent was thick and oppressive, but this information made him ignore his discomfort. “You haven’t passed down your knowledge?” he blurted out.

Essa’s face reddened, whether with anger or the heat, Joden wasn’t sure.

All three sat wrapped in their blankets, the laughter gone from their suddenly bright eyes.

“You caused this, Joden of the Hawk,” came the whisper. “When you saved Simus and did not give him mercy. You started this—”

“—but will you finish it?” the quaver asked.

“How did you know—” Joden demanded.

“The winds bring word of your deeds,” said the cackle.

“Joden comes before you as a candidate,” Essa spat. “Give him your usual cryptic blessing, and we will be on our way.”

“Leave us,” came the whisper.

“Joden stays,” came the quaver.

Essa drew himself up, clearly angered. “I am the Eldest Elder of the Singers, not to be treated as a child or as an unworthy—”

Snorts, and more chuckles.

“If you don’t tell me,” Essa said making an obvious effort. “The songs will die with you. The truth will die with you.”

“You are so sure,” came the whisper.

“Maybe, maybe,” said the quaver.

“Maybe not,” said the cackle and they all laughed till they wheezed.

“Besides,” the cackle added. “Why should we tell you, child?”

“An insult, it’s not to be borne,” Essa snarled. “I—”

The three started to sing, a weird three-part harmony that sent chills up Joden’s spine.

“Fine,” Essa barked, turned on his heel, and headed for the tent flap.

Joden followed, but Essa shook his head. “Stay. Skies above, maybe they will share with you what they have denied me for years.” Essa grabbed Joden’s arm. “I want those songs,” he hissed, then stomped out of the tent.

Joden stared at the closing tent flap, and turned to face the Ancients.

“Sit,” the one in the center nodded its head. “Sit before us, Singer-to-be.”

Joden obeyed, sitting cross-legged before them. The heat grew even more intense.

“So, you think our ways are sacred,” the left one said, in a voice as clear as a bell. “Special, traditional, the Way of the Plains.”

“Yes,” Joden says.

“But in need of change,” the right one said, with a sweet innocent tone.

“Yes,” Joden said. “The power of the warrior-priests—”

“Has been broken,” said the one in the middle, with a deep timber.

“I—” Joden started.

“You honor the way of the Plains, with all its traditions.” The bell tone reminded him. “Yet you broke that tradition when you failed to grant Simus of the Hawk mercy on the field of battle.”

“I did,” Joden said. “But it brought a Warprize to the Plains, one skilled in the ways of healing.”

“Yet it was a Warprize that destroyed the Plains,” the bell said. “And destroyed that way of life. She and her Warlord, for their love.”

“What?’ Joden asked.

“For her Warlord was the Chaosreaver,” said the deep voice. “Who left only destruction in his path and the cold, and the silence…”

“Stripped us and stripped the land,” the innocent voice was sad in its sweetness. “Stripped us of all we were. Made us what we are.”

All three pairs of old eyes burned into his.

“You make it sound as if it was yesterday,” Joden said.

“It was-” one whispered.

“—but days ago,” whispered another.

“Perhaps we’d tell you…” came yet another whisper. “But only if you took the old paths to becoming a Singer.”

“Why won’t you tell Essa? Joden asked. “He is Eldest Elder, and honored within the Tribes.”