Warsong (Chronicles of the Warlands, #6)(97)

“I will see to it,” Joden promised.

The village faded away from around them. Meara looked over her shoulder again, then scooped up her apron to dry her eyes. “My family, my loved ones, they call me. They have been waiting so long.” She smoothed her apron down, and smiled at him through watery eyes. “Thank you, Seer. I am grateful.”

She turned away, took a few steps and then stopped.

“They tell me, Seer, to tell you,” Meara turned back, her eyes distant as if seeing something beyond him. “The Sweat waits. It will return. Warn the House of Xy.”

Joden went cold. “When?”

“I do not know,” she said with a shake of her head. “But it will come. Blessings on thee, Seer.”

Before he could say a word, she took another step, and was gone.

“Joden?” a worried voice this time. He turned to find Ksand staring at him. “Joden, are you well?” She gave him a squinty look. “Are you going to fall down?”

“N-n-no,” Joden said, then smiled at her disappointment.

“Come then,” Ksand said. “The army moves on without us.”




Lara stared at him, white-faced. “She did not tell you when?”

Joden shook his head. “S-s-she d-d-didn’t kn-kn-know.”

Lara pressed her lips together, then shook her head. “There’s not much we can do,” she said. “We will spread the word, and make sure that everyone knows the signs. If any sicken we will know. There are healers in with the Xyian forces, and there’s fever’s foe aplenty in the wagons.” She gave Joden a weak smile. “At least we are warned.”

Joden nodded, and went to step from the tent, but she stopped him with a gesture. “Joden, about tonight—” she hesitated, and he could see the blush rising on her cheeks. “I remember the ceremony from before, but we have Xyian warriors with us. I think it would be best if—”

“N-n-no s-s-sharing,” Joden said solemnly.

Lara relaxed with a nervous laugh. “No sharing.”




The stars were out when Joden took his place before Keir and Lara, and faced the crowd. It was all Plains warriors. Warren had come to Keir with an offer from his men to take the watches so that all could mourn. Which was a kindness, but additional pressure Joden didn’t really want or need.

Voices had been lowered as they went about the business of setting out tents and building cookfires. All were affected by the memories of this place and the losses they had suffered.

The torches and fires were lit, and a dancing area cleared before the platform. The drummers were ready. The dancers were ready. That left only the signal to begin.

Joden raised his face to the stars, and lifted his right palm to the sky. “May the skies hear my voice,” he chanted, a wave of relief washing over him as the words came out strong and clear. “May the people remember.”

The response rose, “We will remember.”

Joden lowered his arm and spoke again, “Birth of fire, death of air.”

One of the dancers knelt, and blew on the coals within a brazier, feeding fuel that caused flames to leap up and dance.

“Birth of water, death of earth,” Joden chanted.

A second dancer knelt, dipping her hands in the brazier at her feet and letting the water trickle back down.

“Birth of earth, death of fire.” Joden filled his lungs and chanted the next part, letting his voice rise to the skies.

The third dancer knelt, raised a lump of dirt, breaking it up to let the clods fall back into the brazier.

“Birth of air, death of water,” Joden sang the words, letting them ring out.

The fourth dancer knelt. He too blew on coals, but the fuel he added caused a thin trail of smoke to rise up.

The four dancers stood, bowed to their elements, and waited.

“We gather tonight in remembrance of the dead,” Joden spoke-sang, keeping his voice deep and projecting as far as he could. “All life perishes. This we know. Our bodies arise from the elements, and return to them when we fall.”

There was a deathly silence as he paused. All eyes turned to him, and Joden felt the power he wielded over them, felt the impact his words were having. He gestured, and the drummer started a beat then, a slow but steady pulse.

“But we are also more than our bodies,” Joden reminded them. “This we know. That which is within each of us, lives on. Our dead travel with us until the snows, when they rise to the stars. They do not—”

He cut himself off from the traditional words, but then continued, “They do not linger here.”

No one seemed to notice. He took a deep breath, seeing some of the faces around him relaxing in the firelight. He nodded, to reassure one and all, then took up the ritual words, “How can we mourn then? How can we sorrow for what must be? If our dead are with us, and we will join with them when our bodies fail, how then do we weep?”

The drummer’s beat continued, slow and steady.

“We grieve for what we lost. For the hollow place within our hearts. For the loss that is felt each time we turn to confide a secret, to share a joke, or to reach for a familiar touch.” Joden kept his voice steady, but his anger grew. Anger for the loss of so many lives to something that could not be fought. Anger at old hatreds that had shaped the Plains in ways that no one knew. Anger at his own loss. “This is our pain, the pain of those left behind. This is our rage, that death must exist at all. Let us share it.”