Warsong (Chronicles of the Warlands, #6)(2)

“The elements named him Keir.”





Chapter One


Joden of the Hawk, Warrior of the Plains, knew that to become a Singer he would have to undergo Trials. He’d assumed that he’d be challenged physically and mentally to prove his worth. He’d have to prove his knowledge of the songs and chants of the Plains, prove his ability to create songs. Prove as well his understanding of the way of the Plains, and his ability to act as a neutral judge in conflicts. That was his goal, to be a Singer, to join with those who held the knowledge of the Plains in their hearts.

He just hadn’t thought there would be so much dried dung involved.

He must have spoken out loud, for a voice came from behind him. “What? You thought the fires of a Singer’s camp burned on their own accord?”

Joden straightened from his task, and looked over his shoulder. Quartis sat on a gurtle pad, repairing some armor. The young man looked at Joden through the curtain of his long brown hair, decorated with beads and feathers. His bright eyes were piercing, and around his right eye was tattooed the black wing of a bird. The tattoo of a Singer.

All around them spread the Plains, wide, green with the early grasses, and empty of all but horses and themselves.

Joden looked down at the basket of dried dung in his hands. “No, I didn’t think they burned of their own accord, but—”

“Dung must be gathered if we’re to have a fire this noon,” Quartis said, as if talking to a child. “Para and Thron hunt our dinner. I am repairing my leathers. You, the youngest and newest candidate for Singer, are gathering dung. All is as it should be, yes?”

No, Joden thought but didn’t say the word aloud.

“Unless you think you are somehow special.” Quartis’s voice was silky now, raising the hairs on the back of Joden’s neck. “That you are above doing this task?”

“No,” Joden replied firmly.

“Well, then.” Quartis gestured toward the basket. “And while you are working, continue to recite the teaching chants,” the Singer ordered.

Joden sucked in a deep breath, let it out slow. Patience, he reminded himself as he bent to his task. “Fear. Fear holds you still when…”

The words came easily as he recited from memory, striving to appear calm and focused without.

Within was a different tale. In truth, his stomach was knotted, and his shoulders tight.

Two days ago, he’d been aiding Simus in his quest to become Warlord, delaying his own Trials to help his friend. That is until Essa, Eldest Elder of the Singers of the Plains had come to Simus’s tent and confronted Joden.

Joden paused in his chanting, swallowing hard against the memory of his shame. He’d avoided Essa, avoided making the request to enter the Trials. Essa had rightfully called him to account for his actions. Once Joden confirmed that he did indeed wish to become a Singer, Essa had commanded him to go with Quartis, without so much as a farewell to Simus or any other.

His heart caught in his throat. What was happening, back at the Heart? How was Simus faring, against—

From behind, Quartis cleared his throat.

Joden resumed chanting.

He’d obeyed Essa, gathering his gear, and following Quartis out into the rain. There he’d found saddled horses waiting, with two other Singers, Para and Thron. He’d been told to mount and ride, and so he had. For two full days they’d ridden with only short stops before making this temporary camp, a small fire and one-man tents, hidden in the grass.

And now here he was, midmorning of the third day, isolated from friends and tent-mates, collecting dried dung and chanting teaching songs so basic he could do it in his sleep.

He looked at the dried patties in his hands, not quite so brown as his own callused skin, and sighed as he put them in the basket.

Two days ago, he’d been in the thick of things, roaming the camp, talking in support of Simus’s goal of being Warlord, and Keir’s goals of uniting the Tribes.

He glanced north. What was happening at the Heart? Had the trials begun? Had Simus become Warlord? And what of his warrior-priestess Token-bearer? Had she won her position? And how was Keir going to react when he learned of Simus and Snowfall?

Joden bent back to his task, gritting his teeth at the frustration of it all.

For that matter, what was happening in Xy? Lara had given birth, and he felt a smile creep over his face as he thought of that. Twins at that, and blessed by the elements for certain. Joden had no fears for her health or safety, not with Keir to watch over her. But there would be Xyians unhappy with the news that might prove a threat and—

He’d the barest of warnings, the merest whisper of a step behind him. Joden spun, throwing the basket at Quartis’s face, drawing his own sword, lunging—

Quartis danced back, laughing and sheathing his blade.

Joden stood amid the pile of spilled dung chips, breathing hard, his sword ready. “Why?” he demanded.

“Who is more likely to offend than a Singer telling truths?” Quartis said, brushing bits of dung from his leather armor. “A Singer must be prepared for defense, even in the midst of a song.” Quartis’s grin was bright against his tanned face. “You stopped singing, looking north as if it holds all the answers.”

“It does,” Joden growled, sheathing his blade.

Quartis reached for the basket at his feet. “We will have answers when Essa joins us, not before.”