Warsong (Chronicles of the Warlands, #6)(94)

She’d haunted his dreams. Her scent, her hair, her face as she’s taken pleasure in both their bodies. But even more, her wry wit and sparkling eyes. She was so very special, so very precious to him. Yet as a Singer, a would-be Singer, he should not feel this way. He should be the first to urge her to the snows as one who would never become a warrior and a drain on the Tribe’s resources.

He stilled himself, reminded himself that she was safe in Xy, worthy in Xy, and she would be well. He kept that thought clear, and tried to fill the emptiness with other things.

Thankfully, preparedness had a call of its own, and he’d kept his mind on the sharpening of weapons, checking over his armor, and standing at Keir and Lara’s side.

But now, on the march? He had time, and then some. Time to think on things he did not wish to think on.

Like everything that had happened so quickly since he’d entered the Singer Trials.

And what he had lost taking the old paths.

He kept trying as he rode, to break the pattern of speech, to go over and over what he intended to say, only to have the words catch when he spoke. The singing worked, although he hated it. It sounded false to his ear, and felt false on his tongue. Chanting worked as well. He could sometimes trick his tongue, substituting another word for the one he’d intended, but not before he had tripped over the first sound.

As the days passed, he found himself angrier and angrier. This was what the Ancients intended? The loss of his voice? This was the gift of the old paths to being a Singer? How could that possibly be true? Joden scowled at the horizon. One thing was certain, he’d not go to the snows until he got some answers from the dried little turds.

He tried to let the anger go, but it sat deep in his belly. Sparring helped when they camped for the night. So did listening to the woes of others as they marched.

It was known among the Plains warriors that he was a Singer-to-be, and so held words in confidence. And while the tales of his affliction had certainly spread, it had an odd effect, one that Joden had not anticipated.

Apparently, when you can’t talk, people trust you with their most private truths.

“It didn’t matter how often I went up there,” Prest said. The bells in his horse’s mane chimed as they rode off to the side, far enough away from the other warriors to be seen but not heard. “Every single time, my head would spin, my knees would knock, and I would have to crawl over to the trap door and slide down a few steps before I could stand.” Prest shook his head. “To think that Amyu is braver than I am. Even Enright, old and fat and crippled, is braver than I,” Prest brooded.

Joden frowned and opened his mouth but Prest continued on. “Ever have I faced my fear in the past, but this has defeated me. A horse is as high off the ground as I ever want to be.” He drew a deep breath. “But I have been thinking, Joden—”

Joden didn’t even try to speak. He just raised an eyebrow.

“Maybe that is the way of things,” Prest said. “Maybe not all fear can be controlled or permanently conquered,” the younger man mused, as if trying to convince himself. “Maybe they can only be faced, over and over and each time, conquered anew.”

Joden grunted, and for long moments they rode in silence.

Prest looked over at Joden. “Maybe that is a new kind of courage. A new kind of strength.”

A hail came from the road. One of Prest’s scouts had returned.

Prest leaned forward to remove the bells. “My thanks, Joden. Your truths are always welcome.” He tucked the bells in the saddle bags, and urged his horse toward the road.

Joden quirked his lips into a smile and followed. It seemed the less he talked, the more they seemed to solve their own problems.




Between listening to the talk among Xyians and Plains warriors, and dealing with his own inner turmoil, it took Joden a while to notice. But after a few weeks, it occurred to him that Rafe and the women of his tent were always nearby. As if they were taking turns.

Rafe grinned, no apology in his face or his voice when confronted. “It’s the Warlord’s command,” he said, guiding his horse next to Joden’s. He gave a sharp whistle, and the other warriors of his tent appeared, surrounding Joden.

“You noticed?” Fylin said.

“Took you long enough,” Soar added, frowning.

“We had a bet going,” Rafe said. “She lost.” He appeared quite pleased.

“The Warprize told us that you were our special charge,” Lasa said with a gentle smile.

“The Warlord’s and the Warprize’s command,” Rafe said.

Lasa continued, “She wanted our eyes on you at all times, in case you had—” she caught herself.

“In case you had the falling sickness,” Ksand finished, rather cheerfully. “She told me what to watch for. Master Eln told us how to make sure you didn’t swallow your tongue. But you haven’t fallen once,” she added, and her disappointment was clear.

Joden looked at Rafe, who nodded. “Yes, the Warlord, the Warprize, and Master Eln all took us aside and told us to watch over you.”

“There was one other,” Lasa said slyly.

“True,” Rafe laughed as Joden’s eyebrows went up. “Amyu threatened us if we let anything happen to you on the march.”

Joden blinked. ‘Amyu?’ he mouthed.

Rafe laughed. “Sure enough.”