Warsong (Chronicles of the Warlands, #6)(22)

“This is known,” Essa acknowledged with a nod of his head.

“Mercy is the way of the Plains, when a warrior falls and cannot rise,” Joden said. “But when my friend and tentmate lay bleeding at my feet, I could not bring my knife to bear.” He took a breath. “That is not our way, not the way of the Plains, and yet, I could not do it.”

“That is known,” Para said. “And counted against you.”

“As it should,” Joden nodded to Para. “Here I am, asking to be admitted to the ranks of those that hold us to our ways, and yet I broke those ways.

“Because of our capture, Keir of the Cat and his Warprize met.” Joden spread his hands. “But the Warprize thought herself a slave, a thing to be owned and controlled. Because of her lack of knowledge of our ways, and of our past, she didn’t see the honor Keir offered.”

“Until you told her,” Essa said.

“The Ancients have knowledge of what has been. And that knowledge might aid us to determine what will be,” Joden said. “What our future, what the future of the Plains will be.

“How better to silence those that would oppose me as Singer,” Joden said. “Then to take the old paths? How better to show my love of our people then to risk death to learn what the Ancients have withheld?”

“How better to show me up as lacking before our people,” Essa snarled.

There was pain in Essa’s eyes, an old pain borne of rejection. Joden bowed his head in respect. “That would not be my purpose, Eldest Elder.”

Quartis spoke up. “Eldest Elder, I know this touches a nerve for you. But I have often heard you say that you wished to know what the Ancients have withheld. It is no reflection on you. How many Eldest Elders have they withheld the information from?”

“And now they offer it to Joden,” Essa said, his eyes hooded and dark. “If he takes the old paths.”

“Yet why do they speak to him?” Para complained. “I intend no offense, Joden, when I say there have been better candidates.”

“To our eyes,” Thron noted. “But not, apparently, to theirs.”

Quartis shrugged. “Who can say? But they have offered. It’s a chance.”

Joden went to one knee before Essa, and bowed his head. “Eldest Elder, I ask to take the old path to Singer. I do this in full knowledge of the risks involved.” He lifted his head, and met Essa’s gaze. I do this for the Singers, and for the people of the Plains.

For a long moment there was no sound, no breath. Essa just stared into Joden’s eyes. The Eldest Elder’s face was a mask of stone. But Essa’s eyes dropped, and he bowed his head.

“So be it,” Essa’s voice floated over the entire group. “We will begin at dawn.”




Eldest Elder Essa watched as the challenge circle was prepared, cleared of the sod, the dirt packed under the feet of his Singers.

He watched as the stake was planted in the center; as the Singers gathered to add trinkets and beads to the leather thong.

He watched as Joden emerged from the grasses, freshly bathed and naked, to stand in the center of the circle.

He watched as Joden gave away his gear and saddle, all of his possessions. Joden pressed the wyvern horn into Quartis’s hands.

He himself knelt to bind Joden’s ankle. He would allow no other the honor.

A stool was brought, and Essa sat and watched as Joden faced his challenges, strong and proud, fighting his opponents, resolving mock conflicts, and singing.

He fought to concentrate on Joden’s performance. Not on Keir and Simus’s reaction when informed of their friend’s death. Not on the possible repercussions of the events of this day. He cleared his mind, and focused on the songs.

He fought his own battle as well, with hateful, jealous thoughts. Joden was strong and in his prime. The ache in Essa’s chest had nothing to do with the loss of such a warrior and everything to do with his own loss. The pain grew stronger at the idea of Joden gaining the songs he had so long been denied.

Joden sang as he did everything, with an underlying joy. Essa had known from the beginning, from the first time he’d heard the man’s voice, that he was a Singer.

And a crafter of songs. Joden sang of the Warprize and her Warlord, and the love between them. He sang of the successful four-ehat hunt, with the disgusting scent of the musk, and the glory of the kill and the celebration after.

And he sang of the ache in his heart over his conflict between the old and the new ways. Of ending traditions. Of seeking new ones.

Essa watched as Joden fought and sang and judged. And when the young man fell asleep on his feet, Essa watched as he was prodded awake and they demanded more songs.

And on the third day Essa watched as Joden staggered, deprived of water, deprived of food, shuffling his feet in a mockery of a dance as he croaked a last song. As dulled eyes and stumbling words spoke of hopes turned to exhaustion.

Watched as Joden collapsed, face down in the earth at last, at dusk on the last day.

Watched as Quartis entered the circle, and grasped Joden’s lax right hand. “Joden,” he called loudly. “Joden of the Hawk.”

The other Singers were gathered at the circle’s edge. Essa rose from his chair, and they respectfully cleared a path for him.

“Joden,” Quartis held Joden’s left hand in his own. Essa saw his knuckles whiten as he squeezed it.