Warsong (Chronicles of the Warlands, #6)(51)

“Yes,” Amyu said. “Repeatedly.” And then cursed herself for saying so as the others exchanged glances.

“This is not the way of the Plains,” one whispered.

“True, Soar.” Rafe said. “But it is the way of the Warprize. Fylin, remember when you all tended me during the plague?”

They nodded.

“That was not the way of the Plains either, yet the Warprize saved many of us.” Rafe straightened, his face set. “Unless Joden chooses or asks for mercy, we will aid him and Amyu.” he said.

Fylin shrugged sullenly, and pulled her hand back, sheathing her dagger.

“Let’s get him to the fire,” Amyu said. “Do you have gurt? We’ve had little food.”

Rafe and two of the women helped carry Joden to the fire, while others went to get food from packs. Amyu wasn’t sure she trusted their intentions, but her bigger concern was to get Joden conscious and get something in his belly.

Not to mention hers.

The first sip of kavage was wonderful, warm and bitter on her tongue. Joden roused after a bit, and sat beside her, blanket over his shoulders. He didn’t try to talk, didn’t meet her or anyone’s eyes. He shook his head at the food, but took a mug of kavage.

Amyu’s worry grew.

She stepped away from the fire and nodded to Rafe, who followed her. “We need to get Joden to Master Eln,” she said quietly. “And get word to the Warprize.”

Rafe nodded. “Easy enough. That’s where she is most days, tending to the old lady, the cheesemaker.”

Amyu swallowed hard, remembering Kalisa collapsing as she’d fled. Well, she’d face that when she had Joden safe.

Rafe looked over at Joden. “Can he ride?”

Amyu nodded, then thought better of it. “Not alone, in case he has a fit.”

“That frequent?” Rafe asked.

“No,” Amyu said. “That unpredictable.” Although that wasn’t quite true. She could tell when they were about to happen. “Why not get the horses ready. He can ride behind me.”

“As you say,” Rafe nodded.

Amyu cast a worried glance at Joden, staring into the fire, but nature called. She gestured to the Xyian small house set on the other side of the cave. “I will just be a minute.”

Rafe nodded, and walked off, calling to the horses.

But it was more than a moment. Between her nerves and the journey, she needed that time to gather her wits about her.

When she emerged, Joden was gone. The others were gathered at the fire, and would not meet her gaze.

“Where is he?” she demanded.

“He made his choice,” Rafe answered her glancing toward the path. “He has chosen the snows.”

Amyu started to run.




Joden waited until Amyu had slipped away, and then rose, shedding the blanket. He took the dagger out of his belt, and faced Rafe.

“I-I-I choose s-s-snows,” he said simply.

Rafe rose as well, his face a mixture of grief and understanding. “Safe journey to the snows, Warrior, and beyond.” he said in the traditional response.

Fylin nodded her approval.

One did not argue with a warrior’s choice, and for that Joden was grateful. He turned, and went up the path to that large boulder that marked the path. It was a good place, quiet, private and filled with sun. Another moment and his pain would be ended.

Why had he even come down the mountain?

It was time. Past time. He was nothing now, a burden, a Singer without words. It was a short walk to the boulder. The rock was warm as he put his back against it. He took a breath, allowing himself to grieve for what had passed. For his failures. Whatever the Ancients had intended, he was well and truly punished for his pride.

He could not even speak the ritual words. His thoughts would have to serve. Joden lifted his face to the sun, put the dagger point to his throat, and closed his eyes. ‘The fire warmed me. I thank the elements.’

Running footsteps, headed toward him.

Joden sighed, and opened his eyes.

Amyu stood there, breathing hard, staring at him. The sun brought out the highlights in her hair, the tan of her skin, and the anguish in her eyes.

“Don’t,” she said, her voice shaking and out of breath. “Please don’t.”

He’d put that pain there, in the eyes of a warrior who had only offered kindness and aid.

He couldn’t look at her, so let his gaze drop away. But she deserved to know the truth. His truth. He brought the dagger to his lap, opened his mouth and tried, one last time.

She stood there, so patient, as he struggled for words, for sounds that made sense.

It was torturous, but he got it out, finally. ‘I am worthless. Nothing without my voice, my words, my songs. I will gladly go, to end this….’

When the last of his stuttered, stammered words fell from his lips, Amyu nodded.

“We of the Plains say that only the sky is perfect.” Her voice wasn’t quite steady, and he noticed her hands were shaking. “But that isn’t really true. The Tribes expect perfection from each member of the Tribe. The broken or flawed are seen as a burden, to be shed as a snake sheds its skin.”

She looked up at the sky, and Joden took the moment to watch her, standing in the sun, her long hair hanging down her back, her face so solemn.