Warsong (Chronicles of the Warlands, #6)(99)

They sat facing him, waiting.

Hail Storm gathered himself, and stepped closer. He too could play the waiting game of silence.

Three sets of eyes glittered at him, and the silence stretched on.

Hail Storm gave up. “And who might you be?” he demanded.

No answer.

Hail Storm frowned. “I am—”

“Hail Storm,” the one on the far left spoke with a soft whisper. “Eldest Elder Warrior-priest.”

“Hail Storm, stripped of power by the Sacrifice,” the one on the far right cackled, high-pitched and irritating.

“Hail Storm,” the one in the center spoke with a quaver. “Wielder of blood magic.”

Hail Storm narrowed his eyes, his rage just below the surface. But he kept it there, simmering. There was a pallet centered before them. He swept forward and knelt there, not waiting for an invitation.

He placed his hands on his knees and waited.

“We are the Ancients of the Singers,” they said in unison.

“Impressive,” Hail Storm said.

“Hail Storm is confused,” the one in the center spoke with a quaver. “What is this, perhaps?”

“Ancients,” came the cackle. “This is not the way of the Plains.”

“How can this be?” continued the whispering one in mocking tones. “The elderly among us, no longer useful to the Tribe, they go to the snows.”

“It would seem that the Singers have secrets,” Hail Storm said.

“There are songs that Singers do not sing,” The Ancients chuckled. The one in the center grinned, bare gums all that showed. “Tales we do not tell. Songs and stories handed down from Eldest Elder to Eldest Elder. Stories not told to children.”

Hail Storm cocked his head to one side and considered. “Tales you have not shared with Essa, perhaps.”

Three pairs of eyes suddenly sharpened, focused on him.

“You haven’t passed down your knowledge, have you?” It was Hail Storm’s turn to chuckle. “No wonder Essa was always in such a sour mood.” He considered them for a long moment. “I assume you want something,” he said.

Their glares grew fiercer.

“The Council restored,” the left one said, in a voice as clear as a bell.

“Xy destroyed,” the right one said, with a sweet innocent tone.

“Our knowledge preserved,” said the one in the middle, with a deep timber.

“Do you always change tone like that?” Hail Storm asked. “I admire the technique.”

…The stony silence after his words was ice cold.

“Let me guess,” Hail Storm continued. “You did something that didn’t turn out the way you had planned. The skies know I am well aware that can happen.” Hail Storm glanced around the tent. “Essa and his ilk not obeying your commands?”

“We are the Ancients,” all three said together. “We are to be obeyed.”

Hail Storm nodded. “Odd, isn’t it, that we think that change will bring more of the same? Or keep things the way they are?” He shook his head. “Change is hard, and painful and unpredictable. It tears at patterns we thought fixed and unmovable, in ways we can never foresee.” Hail Storm gave them his sweetest smile. “But change does bring new ways. New patterns. New opportunities.”

“We are the Ancients,” all three said together. “We control knowledge. We hold the power.”

“Well, as to that,” Hail Storm rose to his feet and pulled his knife. “Let us see who has the greater power, shall we?”




Joden blinked at the suddenness as the vision cut off.

“So he has gained in strength, using blood magic long lost on the Plains,” Uppor said.

Joden sat in silence, listening to the words, considering all the things that Uppor was not saying. The lodge was quiet, the coals in the braziers hissing softly. “So we have lost their songs,” he said.

“I am not sure it’s a loss,” Uppor replied. “You are not bound by the hatred they may have contained.”

“They wanted a pawn,” Joden said, and then seeing Uppor’s confusion explained. “A piece in a game played by Xyians.”

“Ah,” Uppor said. “See, even the dead do not see all things.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Joden frowned, studying Uppor. “Why should I believe you? You are Uppor the Trickster who stole lightning from the sky—”

“Uppor the trickster, Uppor the thief.” Uppor flashed a grin but it faded quickly. “Because you are the only one who can stop him. No obstacles lie in his path, and the deaths he has planned will only fuel his fire.” Uppor glanced around, then leaned closer. “Joden, a Seer’s gifts differ. Some see the future, see a path to what must be. Some see only the past, weaving through memories imprinted in soil and stone. Some walk in both worlds, the living and the dead. You seem to have some of each, and little or no control.”

“Can it be controlled?” Joden asked.

Uppor nodded. “Over time, but you do not have time.” Uppor looked at the painting on the wall. Joden followed his gaze.

It was a map, of the northern part of the Plains and the valley of Xy. Bright sparks appeared in Xy and on the Plains, all heading to one spot on the border. A tiny Liam stood at the top of a tower, his long hair blowing in the wind, his arms folded over his chest.