Warsong (Chronicles of the Warlands, #6)(36)

Even if she started down now, she’d be another night on the mountain. A cold, hungry night, but she’d at least be headed down, and back in the city before—

A snatch of song drifted through the air.

Amyu jerked her head up. That sound had stopped during the climb, but there it was again. Faint, irritatingly familiar, and yet she couldn’t name it.

It didn’t matter. She had to know. She secured her waterskin, and headed up.

Nothing worked with her, not rock, not branch, not root. She lost the sound of the music in her own rough breathing. Muscles straining, she blinked against the sweat in her eyes.

The bit of white was still there.

Amyu reached up again, and tested another hand hold, and then another until finally, finally, she reached and felt an edge with her fingers.

She heaved herself up and over, on her belly on the cold worked stone, breathing hard.

The white was… cloth.

Amyu stared, disappointment washing over her. She scrambled to her feet, cursing her stupidity. It was the corner of a piece of cloth that had somehow gotten twisted into a thick cord, leading to a bigger bundle of cloth in the depths of the cave.

She blinked against the darkness. Cloth, stupid cloth that—

—was pure white.

Amyu stilled. Any cloth left for any time wasn’t going to stay that clean. That white.

And this was no cave. As her eyes adjusted, Amyu saw that the opening looked more like a hall of the castle, only wider and taller. More of a passage, not a cave. She took a step further in, but the deep shadows didn’t let her see more.

The bundle in the cave shifted.

Amyu jumped, her dagger out in an instant. A creature had gotten tangled and twisted in the cloth.

She took a few steps closer.

A moan, and more movement made it clear it wasn’t a creature. It was a human, a man. The cloth was twisted around him, holding his arms close to his body. The man struggled weakly against the restraint.

“Wait, wait, don’t move.” Amyu said as she knelt next to him. “I’ll help.”

A faint moan was the only response.

She hesitated, unsure as to what to do. Cut the cloth? Try to unwind him?

But the man was tightly wrapped, and heavy enough she’d never be able to untwist the cloth without his aid.

Amyu grasped the cloth at the top of his head, pulling it up and away. She carefully inserted the tip of her dagger, and slit the cloth down slowly.

Black hair, brown skin was revealed as the cloth parted.

The man tossed his head. Fearing to hurt him, Amyu dropped the dagger and tore the cloth to free his face. Her heart froze in her chest.

She knew this man.

Joden?

Joden of the Hawk?

Amyu rocked back on her heels, jerking her hands away.

Joden of the Hawk.

It wasn’t possible, and yet here he was. He was thin, his lips cracked and dry. It was Joden, but his face… he was clearly exhausted, starved, and unaware.

Amyu sucked in a hard breath in amazement and wonder.

She’d met Joden for the first time when he’d stood before the Council of Elders. He’d been so brave, so strong, defying Antas of the Boar and explaining his truths to the Council. For the first time, she had seen a new kind of courage, one that had nothing to do with the weapon in a warrior’s hands. Joden had radiated power through his words and his truth.

Seeing that in him had given her the courage to defy her Elders and their command to kill the Warprize. Amyu had faked the attack and protected the Warprize with her own body as the tent around them erupted in chaos and violence.

But how had Joden come here? Last she’d known he was on the Plains, with Simus of the Hawk, about to undergo Singer Trials.

Joden’s mouth moved, bringing Amyu back to the moment. The sound was faint, and there were no words. He was singing.

“Joden?” Amyu reached out to cup his cheek.

Cold. Stone-cold. Thin, and his normally rich brown skin was pale. His lips were parched and dry, his eyes closed.

Water. He needed water and warmth.

Amyu tore the cloth the rest of the way down his naked body. How had he gotten so twisted and trapped in the cloth? She would need to—

Joden took a sharp quick breath, and stiffened. The next instant, he started to thrash about, his arms and legs flailing wildly, his head tossing back and forward.

“Joden,” Amyu cried, putting her hands on his shoulders, trying to hold him still. She watched in horror as the spasms continued, only to end as suddenly as they had begun.

Joden lay still now, as if dead. If he breathed, she couldn’t see it. She pressed her hand to his chest, but it was cold to her touch.

“Elements, no,” she whispered, more plea than prayer. “Not this warrior. Please, please don’t let him be dead.” Amyu swallowed hard, biting back fear and horror. Child of the Plains she maybe, but there was no one else here. If he was not dead, Joden could not be allowed to suffer. Mercy. She had to grant mercy.

She picked her dagger back up, gripped it tight to still her trembling hand.

She’d never done this before. She’d been trained, but she’d never killed anyone.

With her free hand, she reached for his right hand. His fingers were curled and cold in hers.

“Joden,” she called out. “Joden of the Hawk.”

There was no response, no change. She forced herself to reach over, to take his left hand.