It didn’t take long to break camp, but they weren’t fast enough for Essa. Joden watched the man pace impatiently around the carcass of the wyvern, studying the animal as if he hadn’t seen one before.

“Careful,” came a quiet voice. Quartis was standing next to him, offering a full waterskin. “This part of the ritual always irritates him.”

“My thanks,” Joden wondered and would have asked questions, but Quartis just strode off.

Joden secured the waterskin to his saddle. Well, at least there was some support there. The other Singers seemed to avoid him as they worked around him. He focused on tightening his saddle girth.

It felt like they knew something that he didn’t.

And they were all Singers. Joden tried to look around casually, double-checking his first impression. Everyone, Quartis, the others, the warriors that Essa had arrived with, all bore the bird-wing tattoo around their eyes. His heart started beating just a bit faster. The Trials. His Singer Trials.

He looked back at Essa, to find the man staring at him.

Joden dropped his eyes and concentrated on his task.

“Gather,” Essa barked the command at everyone.

Joden looked up to find Essa striding toward him, to find all the Singers moving into a circle around him, leading their mounts. He drew a breath, let it out slow, trying to be calm.

Essa stood next to him, impressive despite the bruising. “Joden of the Hawk, Warrior of the Plains,” he intoned. “You have served the Tribes in battle and are free to take any path you choose. There are many paths that such of your standing may take. You can continue to serve in the Armies of the Plains. You can return to the thea camps and guard and teach the heart-blood of the Tribes, our children. Or you can enter the Trials to become a Singer, one who keeps the knowledge of the Plains. What is your wish?”

Joden’s mouth went dry, for here it was, his goal, his dream. “I wish to become a Singer, Eldest Elder.”

Quartis stepped forward. “Eldest Elder, Joden of the Hawk has met the initial requirements of the Singer Trials with his knowledge of the teaching chants and songs. I, Quartis, Singer of the Plains, declare the proof of this.”

Essa nodded. “Joden of the Hawk, if you had failed those initial tests, you would have been sent back to the Tribes, to try again another season.” Essa drew a deeper breath. “But now you would enter into the true Trials of a Singer. In these Trials you learn truths only held by the Singers. Fail in these Trials, and we will send you to the snows to preserve our secrets.”

It was a shock, but the grim faces of those that surrounded him told Joden the truth of those words.

“So.” Essa paused before continuing. “I would ask you once more, do you truly wish to enter the Trials of a Singer? Or do you wish to return to the Hear—” Essa caught himself as the others stirred around them. “Return to your fellow warriors, to serve the Plains in other ways? There is no shame in refusing.” Essa paused again, staring at Joden. “None can force your decision. Speak, and it will be as you wish.”

And the group was silent, except for the jingle of harness and the wind in the grass.

Joden looked down at his feet, thinking. Here it was, his chance, his dream. It came with a price, though. As all dreams do, he thought ruefully.

Essa stood, and the impatience he had displayed before was gone, as if he were willing to wait as long as it took.

Joden raised his eyes then, looking up and out at the wide grass of the Plains, looking north and beyond, to where Xy lay. He took a deep breath, and knew that he would answer this challenge, take this chance, for his people, all the people both of the Plains and of Xy.

But there was something more as well, something he also knew deep in his bones. He wasn’t just doing it for those reasons. He wanted this, wanted the bird wing tattoo, wanted the stature and respect it brought with it.

More than his life.

“I wish to enter the Singer Trials,” he said.

“HEYLA,” the Singers around him exploded in a cry that shook Joden’s bones, lifting their arms in celebration. There was only joy in their faces and hope for him that he could see, and he returned their smiles with a grin of his own as the tightness flowed out of his bones.

They moved in, clapping his back, shaking his hands, some dancing a sudden pattern around him, chanting his name.

Essa stood apart and did not smile. He waited for the exuberance to fade, then spoke. “So be it,” Essa said. “We ride,” he commanded, and everyone turned toward their horses.

“Where are we going?” Joden dared ask.

“We don’t know,” Essa said. “They will reveal themselves in their own sweet time.” He mounted, looking like he had eaten a bad piece of meat. “We will head south, and ride until we see a camp that consists of a single tent. There is no telling how far we will have to ride, or in which direction. They will appear when they see fit, and not before.” Essa grimaced, glancing at Joden. “The last time this took weeks.”

Essa started off, everyone else falling in behind, Quartis and Joden in the center.

“My thanks for your truths,” Joden said softly to Quartis.

“Do not thank me until you have your tattoo,” Quartis said, just as softly. “And heed this, The Eldest Elder hates this part of the ritual. His temper will be foul until we find their camp. And worse after.”

Joden looked ahead, but Essa was topping the nearest rise, far enough ahead not to hear their words. “Who do we seek?” Joden asked quietly.

Essa yanked on his reins, stopping his horse so hard the riders behind his had to pull to the side. They all sat, looking down the other side of the hill.

Joden and Quartis, exchanged a glance and then urged their horses, until they too could see a small camp with a single tent at the base of the hill.

“Bragnects,” Essa swore with venom in his tone. He leaned forward, stroking his horse’s neck as if asking forgiveness. “Joden,” he growled. “Prepare yourself to meet the Ancients.”

 

 

There was no one outside the tent as they rode in.

Essa dismounted. “Take the others off, and make another camp,” Essa told Quartis. “Back at the top of the rise.”

Quartis bowed.

“Come,” Essa said, and went into the tent.

Joden followed behind to be met with a wave of heat reeking of old kavage and fermented mare’s milk. Braziers burned brightly in each corner. The heat dried his nose and eyes, making him blink.

“Shut the flap, shut the flap,” came a quavering voice. “You are letting out the heat.”

At the far end of the tent, on the traditional wooden platform, were three bundles of blankets. In each, sat a… Joden had never seen anyone like them.

They were old, ancient, with wrinkled spotty skin and very few wisps of hair on their heads. Their eyes were milky white and rheumy with age. Joden couldn’t tell their sex, and their skin seemed so faded it was hard to tell what color it had originally been.

The three of them sat facing them, waiting.

“Ancient Ones,” Essa walked forward and bowed as low as Joden had ever seen him bow to anyone. “Greetings. I have brought—”

“Joden of the Hawk,” the one on the far left spoke with a soft whisper. “So wise, so knowledgeable, so smart. In his own mind, at least.”

“Would-be-Singer,” the one on the far right cackled, high-pitched and irritating.

“Just so,” Essa said. He glanced back. “Joden, these are the Ancients.”

Joden walked forward, but did not bow. “Ancients?”

“Joden is confused,” the one in the center spoke with a quaver. “Wondering what we are, perhaps? Or who we are?”

“Ancients,” came the cackle. “There are no ancients on the Plains.”

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

All three laughed, and the hairs on the back of Joden’s neck rose.

“There are songs that Singers do not sing,” Essa ground out the words, his arms folded across his chest. “Tales we do not tell. Songs and stories handed down from Eldest Elder to Eldest Elder.”

The Ancients chuckled. The one in the center grinned, bare gums were all that showed. “Stories not told to children.”

“If you don’t tell me,” Essa growled. “The tales will be lost. They will die with you.”

“Why should we tell you, child?” one asked in a mocking tone.

Joden was starting to sweat. The air in the tent was thick and oppressive, but this information made him ignore his discomfort. “You haven’t passed down your knowledge?” he blurted out.

Essa’s face reddened, whether with anger or the heat, Joden wasn’t sure.

All three sat wrapped in their blankets, the laughter gone from their suddenly bright eyes.

“You caused this, Joden of the Hawk,” came the whisper. “When you saved Simus and did not give him mercy. You started this—”

“—but will you finish it?” the quaver asked.

“How did you know—” Joden demanded.

“The winds bring word of your deeds,” said the cackle.

“Joden comes before you as a candidate,” Essa spat. “Give him your usual cryptic blessing, and we will be on our way.”

“Leave us,” came the whisper.

“Joden stays,” came the quaver.

Essa drew himself up, clearly angered. “I am the Eldest Elder of the Singers, not to be treated as a child or as an unworthy—”

Snorts, and more chuckles.

“If you don’t tell me,” Essa said making an obvious effort. “The songs will die with you. The truth will die with you.”

“You are so sure,” came the whisper.

“Maybe, maybe,” said the quaver.

“Maybe not,” said the cackle and they all laughed till they wheezed.

“Besides,” the cackle added. “Why should we tell you, child?”

“An insult, it’s not to be borne,” Essa snarled. “I—”

The three started to sing, a weird three-part harmony that sent chills up Joden’s spine.

“Fine,” Essa barked, turned on his heel, and headed for the tent flap.

Joden followed, but Essa shook his head. “Stay. Skies above, maybe they will share with you what they have denied me for years.” Essa grabbed Joden’s arm. “I want those songs,” he hissed, then stomped out of the tent.

Joden stared at the closing tent flap, and turned to face the Ancients.

“Sit,” the one in the center nodded its head. “Sit before us, Singer-to-be.”

Joden obeyed, sitting cross-legged before them. The heat grew even more intense.

“So, you think our ways are sacred,” the left one said, in a voice as clear as a bell. “Special, traditional, the Way of the Plains.”

“Yes,” Joden says.

“But in need of change,” the right one said, with a sweet innocent tone.

“Yes,” Joden said. “The power of the warrior-priests—”

“Has been broken,” said the one in the middle, with a deep timber.

“I—” Joden started.

“You honor the way of the Plains, with all its traditions.” The bell tone reminded him. “Yet you broke that tradition when you failed to grant Simus of the Hawk mercy on the field of battle.”

“I did,” Joden said. “But it brought a Warprize to the Plains, one skilled in the ways of healing.”

“Yet it was a Warprize that destroyed the Plains,” the bell said. “And destroyed that way of life. She and her Warlord, for their love.”

“What?’ Joden asked.

“For her Warlord was the Chaosreaver,” said the deep voice. “Who left only destruction in his path and the cold, and the silence…”

“Stripped us and stripped the land,” the innocent voice was sad in its sweetness. “Stripped us of all we were. Made us what we are.”

All three pairs of old eyes burned into his.

“You make it sound as if it was yesterday,” Joden said.

“It was-” one whispered.

“—but days ago,” whispered another.

“Perhaps we’d tell you…” came yet another whisper. “But only if you took the old paths to becoming a Singer.”

“Why won’t you tell Essa? Joden asked. “He is Eldest Elder, and honored within the Tribes.”

“Essa, like the Eldest Elder before him-”

“—and before him—”

“—and before her,” and now the cackle was back. “Would not take the old paths. A child, afraid of shadows and death.”

“But there are shadows on the old paths,” and now the whisper was back.

“And there is death,” came the quaver.

“There is always death,” Joden said. “It comes in an instant, all know that. Why won’t you tell Essa—”

“He will not pay the price,” the center one growled. “Will you, Joden of the Hawk?”

“There is always a price-” Joden started, but they cut him off.

“You do not fully understand the cost,” the whisper was full of regret.

“And you won’t, until you pay it,” the cackle was harsher.

“What will you sacrifice, Joden of the Hawk? What price will you pay?” asked the quaver, as if in hope.

“Tell me,” Joden demanded. “Tell me the old paths.”

From the folds of the center blanket emerged two hands, almost skeletal, reaching out to the right and left. They too raised their hands, and once joined began to chant together.

 

The fire warmed you; we thank the elements

Offer your mind; sing to the flames

 

The earth supported you; we thank the elements

Offer your body; be buried in earth

 

The waters sustained you; we thank the elements

Offer your soul; wander the snows

 

The air filled you; we thank the elements

Offer your heart; be reborn in the winds

 

The power surrounds you; we thank the elements

Offer your dreams; seek to prove your worth

 

Joden sat, spellbound, as they went silent, and their hands pulled back within the blankets. Eyes that had been bright turned back to milky white.

“I’m cold,” came the quaver.

“I want kavage,” the whisper came.

“What does that mean?” Joden demanded. “That chant?”

“Seek out Essa,” came the cackle. “His feathers will be well and truly ruffled by now.”

 

 

Indeed, Essa was pacing when Joden walked up the rise toward him. He’d worn a path in the grasses.

“What did they say to you?” he demanded. “They have never done this before, never spoken with a candidate without me, never did more than offer a blessing. What did they say?”

Joden drew a deep breath. “Tell me, Eldest Elder. Tell me of the old paths.”