Simus finally gave up trying to locate Essa among the wounded and went to ask Hanstau and Cadr for help.

The truths he’d discovered searching for the Singer, however, were dark. He’d walked between the pallets, speaking to a few, observing others, taking a head count and wincing internally at the results. There was no saying this was all; there may be many others that were with their own people, not needing Hanstau’s care. But the living were few.

And the dead numbered far too many.

The wounded and the healthy were starting to stir in the camp. The shock of the recent events was wearing off. He could feel their eyes on him and the weight of their questions.

Pity he had no answers.

He found Hanstau at Haya’s side, cleaning a wound in her upper arm. “We will not use bloodmoss,” he was explaining through Cadr. “The claws of the beasts are filthy and I fear for infection.”

Haya glared at Simus. “Finally,” she said. “Seo? My camp?”

Simus knelt. “Minor injuries, no deaths,” he reported, and watched the tightness clear from her eyes. “Seo was taking the children to a winter lodge for safety.”

“Good,” Haya grunted. “Smart. But what of the future, Simus of the Hawk?”

“Wild Winds told me to seek out Essa,” Simus said.

Haya gestured outward with her good arm, toward a thick patch of the tallest grasses. “Behind there, off by himself,” she said, then sniffed. “Sulking, to my way of thinking.”

Hanstau paused in his work, looked at both of them, and spoke in rapidfire Xyian.

Simus nodded, and Cadr translated for the benefit of the others. “He says that as to Essa, he can heal wounds, not hearts. I don’t understand.”

Haya just huffed a breath. Simus looked at the young warrior, just starting his second season in the army.

“You will,” Simus said. “You will.”

 

 

When Simus found him, Essa was sitting alone, looking out over the Plains, his back to the Heart. Simus approached slowly, crunching the grass beneath his feet and clearing his throat to announce his presence.

Essa looked back over his shoulder. The side of his face was purple and bruised. He looked away pointedly.

Simus stood, waiting.

“Sit,” Essa said finally, with a grudging tone, resignation in his shoulders.

“My thanks, Eldest Elder.” Simus circled around the man, and sat facing him.

Now Simus could see that Essa’s entire face was bruised and swollen, his eyes mere slits. Simus could barely make out Essa’s Singer tattoo around his eye. Essa wore the tatters of fine colorful silks, clothing he would have donned for the ceremony.

“Today was to have been a day of celebration.” Essa’s voice had an odd lisp to it, as he spoke slowly through swollen lips. “Solemn ritual, with singing and drumming, and offerings to the elements. We’d have raised the Council tent, the wisdom and strength of the Plains gathered within. We’d have chosen our best to enter the season of war and secure the needs of the people of the Plains.”

Simus nodded, but didn’t speak.

“I’d thought there would be debate,” Essa continued. “Hours of it, perhaps even days. Bitter words spoken, insights revealed. Then, as it has always been, the chosen Warlords would have been honored and their oaths taken. A full day of celebration afterward, before they and their armies departed.” He drew in a deep, clearly pained breath. “Now all that is left is to sing for the dead.”

“Wild Winds said that we are diminished, not defeated,” Simus said.

“I am not so sure,” Essa murmured.

“He also said that there is nothing like these monsters in his memory, or in the memories passed down to him.”

Essa stiffened, a flash of pure anger in his eyes.

Simus paused, taken aback. But when Essa said nothing, he cautiously continued. “What of the Singers?” he asked. “Do you—”

“Nothing,” Essa spat. “There is nothing in my memory, or in the memories or songs passed down to me, about these creatures.”

Simus raised an eyebrow. “I should ask for your token, Eldest Elder.”

“No, no,” Essa said, deflating. His rage faded as quickly as it had come. “My anger is not aimed at you.” Essa raised his eyes to Simus. “And yet what have you unleashed upon us, Simus of the Hawk?”

“Eldest Elder Singer Essa,” Simus said carefully. “Is that your truth? That I somehow called down all of this upon us?”

“There are those that will blame you, and Keir,” Essa said.

“I will face their truths with my own,” Simus said.

“You think that will be enough?” Essa asked wearily.

“Yes,” Simus said simply, and then focused on Essa. “You do not support Keir, then.”

He didn’t make it a question.

“The role of the Singer is to hold to our ways and to pass on the knowledge of the Plains,” Essa said. “I don’t know what I support, what I think, what to sing, or even if I should sing of this.”

“You are the Eldest Elder of the Singers,” Simus said. “Your duty is to summon—”

“And if I don’t?” Essa lashed out, his words cutting and cruel.

“We will have lost more than we did to the wyverns,” Simus said.

Essa sat silent, his head bowed. Simus waited, as the wind rustled the longer grasses, as horns blew in the distance.

“The wind blows,” Essa whispered. “The grass bends.” He rose to his feet slowly, brushing off his tattered silken trous. Without looking at Simus, he limped off toward Hanstau’s tent, moving slowly and carefully.

Simus rose and followed.

The healing area held more people, standing and sitting around the wounded. Heads turned as Essa passed, and those that could struggled to their feet, to stand respectfully in the Eldest Elder’s presence.

Essa ignored them. He limped to where Wild Winds lay.

As if he’d sensed his presence, Wild Winds pulled away the cloth from his eyes, and blinked up at Essa. They looked at one another for a long time, and then Wild Winds spoke. “All endings are beginnings, old friend.” His words carried over the crowd. “And in turn, all beginnings mark the end of something.”

Essa closed his eyes. Simus couldn’t help but think that the man was trying to block out the truth for but one moment more. But then Essa opened his eyes, and straightened against his pain. “I summon the Council to meet.” He turned, raising his voice, so that the words carried. “I summon it to the nearest winter lodge we can find. Send word to all that we will gather at—” he glanced up at the sky, “—at the nooning.”

“Will there be enough room?” Wild Winds asked. “They’re not designed for large meetings.”

“I fear our numbers won’t be an issue,” Essa said drily. “Not anymore. But it will be safe. All the living will attend, even if they must be carried.”

“I will come,” Wind Winds said.

“Let the word be passed,” Essa commanded, and the warriors around them moved to obey. “The Council meets at the nooning. Let the candidates present themselves, with their Seconds and Token-bearers.” Essa’s gaze met Simus’s. “There let it be decided and done.”

 

 

Simus strode back toward his tent, excitement burning through him. Essa’s words had lit a fire within the warriors that had surrounded them, and they’d quickly moved into action. Many had run off, to spread the word to their own Warlords. Others had gathered around Essa, pointing to where the nearest winter lodge was located. Simus waited just long enough to learn its location, before heading back to his camp.

Elois stood naked before her tent, her tanned skin glistening in the sun. She’d clearly already heard the word. “Good,” she said. “This Council is sure to take all the hours left in the day. There’s time to eat more than just the few bites you got this morning, and clean up before we have to appear. Strip.”

“Not sure there’s time—” Simus started, but Elois cut him off with a scowl.

“There’s more than enough time if you don’t waste it,” she said firmly. “No need to make a sorry showing before the Elders and the Eldest Elders.” She raised her voice, looking behind her tent. “Destal, bring your warriors here and get the Warlord’s armor.” She turned back and glared at Simus. “They will clean and oil our leathers, and do what they can for the chain. Strip,” she demanded again, giving him the once over. “And where is your dagger?”

At the mention of Destal, Simus’s interest perked. Snowfall was assigned to her. But he still argued. “There are still things I need to do. They may need help carrying the wounded to the lodge.”

“I’ve seen to that,” Tsor said as he walked into camp. “Between all the warriors here, we will see it done.”

“Strip,” Eloise commanded. “Both of you.”

Tsor obeyed, his hands going to his belt. Simus followed suit. They each peeled out of the armor, handing off various parts to the young warriors who appeared. They took the gear, and then disappeared behind the tent. Simus heard Destal lecturing one on how to clean chain properly.

“Food next,” Elois commanded. Simus and Tsor sat on the gurtle pads she had set out. Simus raised his eyebrows at the meal, which included roasted tubers and boar.

Elois settled on the pad next to him, and a young warrior approached with water and towels for the washing ritual. Simus murmured his thanks to the elements, then dried his hands.

“My thanks for your efforts,” Simus said to Elois before helping himself. Tsor nodded enthusiastically around his mouthful.

Elois smiled, clearly pleased with the praise, but then she grew serious. “I am your Token-bearer, am I not?”

Simus paused in mid-bite. “I haven’t named either of you formally, have I?”

“No,” Elois said. “You have not.” Tsor nodded, but didn’t stop eating.

“I do so now,” Simus said. “Elois of the Horse, you are my choice for Token-bearer. Tsor of the Bear, you are my choice for my Second.”

“Our thanks, Warlord.” Elois looked off to the side, and gave a nod.

Snowfall came forward with kavage and cups.

Simus grinned up at her as he took the drink from her hands. Snowfall’s face was calm and serene, as usual. But her fingers brushed against his as he took the mug.

Tsor swallowed, and spoke. “Word on the wind is that there may not be enough Warlord candidates.”

Elois hissed in a breath. Simus stopped mid-bite. “Truth?” he asked.

Tsor shook his head. “No one claims such, but all repeat the words.”

Simus exchanged a long look with Snowfall. He chewed slowly, thinking. “This is not good news.”

“Isn’t it?” Tsor asked. “Won’t they have to make you Warlord?”

Simus shook his head. “Even if they do, that means the armies will be thinly spread. I suspect those Warlords named will try to go for richer targets, which means higher risk of the loss of warriors.”

“Or choose lower risk ones,” Elois said. “That yield less.”

Simus sighed. “I do not know.”

They finished the rest of the meal in silence.

When the food was gone, Elois stood, brushing crumbs from her thighs. “Tsor, you need to bathe. I will check on the cleaning process.”

“Destal knows the ways, she’ll not let the young ones slack,” Tsor rumbled. “Come and bathe with me.” He waggled his eyebrows. “You can make sure I get every spot.”

“None of that, now,” Elois growled, scowling and sounding so much like Marcus that Simus had to laugh. Tsor joined in, and Elois grinned.

Snowfall looked confused, but shrugged. “I can clean this,” she offered, gesturing to the bowls and cups.

“No.” Elois shook her head. “Take the Warlord off, and trim his hair for him, less he cut himself and shame us all.”

“There’s bloodmoss,” Simus reminded her, but looked at Snowfall. “But I would not decline the help.”

Tsor and Elois both snorted. “Off with you,” Elois said, and gestured them off.

Simus reached for Snowfall’s hand and pulled her away, out of sight of the young ones and anyone else who might be watching.

 

 

As soon as they were out of sight of the others, Snowfall threw down the gurtle pad she’d grabbed. “Kneel,” she commanded.

Simus knelt as she drew the dagger at her side. “Is that my dagger?” he asked as she ran her hand over his close-cropped hair.

“It was shockingly dull,” Snowfall said, scratching at his scalp gently with her nails. “You don’t need much of a trim, really.”

Simus hummed, leaning in close, and pressed his face to the bare skin between her trous and her corselet. “You smell so sweet,” he said as he rubbed his nose lightly against her.

“Do that again, and you might lose an ear,” Snowfall scolded. His touch warmed her, made her tingle, but she didn’t move away.

Simus just hummed again under his breath, then frowned. “Have you noticed,” he said, lowering his voice. “Have you noticed the despair of some of the warriors?” he asked. “It was only at Essa’s summons that they started to move. Started to think.”

Snowfall scraped at the hair around his ear. “I did,” she said. “Stay still.”

“But not so much my people,” Simus said. “I wonder if being exposed to Xy, to new ways of thinking, make them better able to cope with the new and different.”

“Not to add to your arrogance, my Warlord,” Snowfall said, “but I think it is you. Your people reflect your strength, your decisiveness, your courage.” She ran her hand over his scalp, brushing loose hairs away.

Simus brought his arms up to wrap around her hips, and looked up into her eyes. “I want nothing more than to peel these trous right off your long legs and—”

“Your unwavering attention to the duties and obligations of a Warlord are unparalleled,” Snowfall said drily. But then she smiled at him, letting her admiration shine. “They trust you to see them through. As do I.” She took a step back, eyeing him critically, and with satisfaction. “There,” she said. “As befits a Warlord.”

 

 

“Done?” Simus asked. At her nod he rose to his feet and put his hands on her hips with a sigh. “I wish you were going to be beside me in that tent,” Simus said. “Perhaps if you aided Wild Winds?”

Snowfall shook her head. “My oaths are to you now, and my absence at his side makes that clear. In truth, enough tradition has been broken today.” She sheathed the dagger at her belt. “But I would not deny you a kiss for luck, my Simus.”

“Your Simus?” he grinned.

That lovely red flared in her cheeks. But she didn’t contradict him. Joy flared in his heart, not appropriate for the day, but still there. Between them.

Simus pulled her in, and kissed her, relishing her taste, the softness of her lips, the way her strong body felt against his, her willing response. He pulled her close, wanting—

“Warlord,” Elois was calling, and sounded like she was not to be ignored.

Snowfall broke the kiss, and would have stepped back, but Simus held her a second longer. He hesitated, suddenly fearful. ‘My Snowfall’, he thought to say, but he changed his words.

“Your Simus,” he whispered, a promise in her ear.

His reward was her gentle smile in those warm grey eyes, and another kiss. Simus held her close, and tugged at her hips, wanting to draw her down, to lie in the grass and warm sun and—

“None of that, now.” Elois stalked up to them like an encroaching storm. “Time’s a’ wasting. Get back here and put on your armor.”