Warsong (Chronicles of the Warlands, #6)(69)

Joden rolled on his side, facing the fire.

Keir had listened, but he wasn’t sure Keir had believed. He could see the doubt in those eyes, and the flicker of hate at the mention of warrior-priests. He’d tried making it clear to him, that Simus was loyal, and that he supported Keir, but the words, the words would just not come.

Joden rubbed his face, feeling his frustration like a lump at the back of his throat. He owed it to Keir to stand with him. He needed to return to the Plains to find Essa. Even if his path to Singer was denied, even if he’d lost that chance, Essa needed to know what had happened.

Joden closed his eyes, and felt sick at the idea of trying to tell the Eldest Elder Singer his tale, stuttering and struggling for words that didn’t come.

Amyu was right. The snows could wait. He’d struggle through this, and then… well, he’d leave that to the elements.

But he hoped she’d find her airions. He hoped she’d fly.

Joden turned, and closed his eyes. He listened to the beat of his heart, the crackle of the fire, the sound of his breath. In and out and in… sleep finally came.

At least, until the dead called.

“Joden of the Hawk,” whispered an ancient voice. “Come to me.”





Chapter Twenty-Four


Joden threw back the blankets, pausing only long enough to pull on the sleeping trous.

“Come,” the ancient voice called again.

He knew the halls from that tour long ago but even if he hadn’t the call made his path clear. The corridors were dim and silent. No torches burned, no guards barred his way.

The doors to the chapel were open, candles flickering at the base of the statue of the Xyian Goddess. The stone floor was cool beneath his feet, the room empty. Joden still thought it odd that they worshiped people in this way. The eyes of the stone woman seemed to follow him as he circled around it.

“Come.”

Past the statue was a flat surface for worship, and behind that a passage barred by an iron gate. It pushed open easily at Joden’s touch. White stone steps disappeared down into the darkness.

Joden started down.

It was colder here. He could see his breath. His skin prickled with a chill as he descended. There were no torches, no lanterns, but the stone itself glowed with a dim light.

Deeper he went, and the corridor branched off to his left and right. But the call was straight ahead and he continued, past stones engraved with writing he could not read. Another odd custom, not to return the flesh to the elements, but encase them in hard rock. He paused at one, running his fingers over letters seemingly freshly cut. Was this—?”

“Come.”

Joden dropped his hand and obeyed, going deeper within the mountain, following an urge he could not deny. Here the stone felt older, the carved letters worn, more symbols than words. Crowns, swords, horses, and airions that reared up, their wings spread wide.

The corridor narrowed, the walls rougher, the graves more frequent and the steps more worn in the center. Joden walked on until he reached a doorway, and stepped down into a round room with a domed ceiling. There was an elaborately carved stone box in the center, its side covered with robed figures, clearly weeping. On the ceiling, circling airions were carved.

Beyond the stone box, a man sat on a throne, formed from the very rock.

“Welcome, Joden of the Hawk.”

The voice had an empty, echoing quality to it. The man wore a kind of armor Joden had never seen. Pure metal that encased his entire body, with a helm that framed his face. On his lap, over his knees, was a sword of crystal glimmering blue.

“Do not think to disturb the others that sleep here, wise one. They will not rouse to your call.” The man had the same grayish light to him as did the surrounding stone.

“I do not seek to disturb them.” Joden stepped forward. “I do not seek—”

The warrior chuckled. “Such as you always seek.” His voice was a dark rumble against the stone. “It is your nature, your very breath.”

“Maybe,” Joden admitted, feeling his questions all start to pile up behind his tongue.

“A Seer, newly come into your power.” The man regarded him with flat eyes. “No control, no understanding. Who says the powers have no sense of humor?”

“What do you call me?” Joden demanded.

“You are with us, but not of us,” the man continued.

“The dead,” Joden said.

“The dead.” The eyes closed for a moment, then re-opened. “The dead, unseen and unknown, yet knowing and seeing.”

“Those are ritual words of the Plains,” Joden said. The cold stale air filled his nose and throat.

“Are they? Are you certain?”

“Who are you?” Joden demanded.

“Xyson.”

Joden frowned. “Lara, she read to us from a book. The Epic of Xyson, she called it.”

“The same.” the stone corners of the man’s mouth quirked. “That Warprize of yours, she has quite the temper. Gets it from me, I suspect.”

“So all these,” Joden gestured back behind him. “They will all—”

“No,” Xyson said. “The dead of Xy that lie within have gone beyond the snows, leaving only echoes. Only I remain.”

“You are of Xy,” Joden said. “How do you know the way of the Plains?”