“They spoke to you of the old paths?” Eldest Essa looked at Joden in shock, then his face twisted into anger. “It’s madness, is what it is,” he growled, staring down the rise behind Joden at the Ancient’s tent. “Madness.”

“Who are they?” Joden asked, looking over his shoulder at the large tent, standing alone against the Plains.

“Idiots,” Essa growled. He spun on his heel, and stomped up the rise.

Joden followed

“That ritual kills,” Essa continued. “And now? Wyverns fill the skies, the Council is sundered, and magic has returned to the Plains. They want what they have always demanded. Why not just take a torch to the withered grass in the dry season to see what happens? Pah,” Essa stopped at the top of the rise to take a breath.

Joden stopped beside him. In the valley below them were gathered the other warrior-priests, all turning to look, questions in their eyes.

“Those bracnects would lure you to your death,” Essa said.

Joden glanced back and then sucked in a breath. “The tent. It’s gone.”

He blinked again, and stared to be sure, but the tent was gone, with nary a trace to show it had ever existed.

“Every time,” Essa didn’t turn, didn’t even seem surprised. “Every stinking time.” He took a deep, slow breath. “I need kavage.” He strode off, calling to the Singers. “Kavage,” he commanded and kept walking, leaving Joden to follow behind.

Quartis appeared by his side. “He’s always in a foul temper after he speaks with them,” he said softly. “It doesn’t help that when he was attacked he lost his tent and gear as well.”

“Ah,” Joden remembered the Eldest Elder’s large tent, overflowing with trunks, clothes and weapons. “All of that lost?”

“He was lucky to escape with his life,” Quartis said. “Come. We’ve work to do. We will put that dung you gathered to good use, yes?”

 

 

“I call this Council of Singers to senel. Let our truths be known. Let our songs be shared.” Essa sat on a gurtle pad, surrounded by sixteen other Singers that fanned out around him.

Joden stood, facing them all. He tried for calm, tried to remain standing straight and confident before them.

His stomach fluttered.

“This is the time when Singers gather,” Essa continued. He looked calmer, stronger, every inch the Eldest Elder. “The Trials for Warlord are complete. The various armies move to war. This is our time to exchange news and truths. To sing old songs and new. And to consider new candidates before we too scatter on our chosen paths.” Essa’s face was unreadable. “As is our tradition, the candidates are presented to the Ancients, who offer blessing and then disappear into the grasses after dispensing their wisdom.”

Joden blinked. Essa’s face might be blank, but his tone was withering.

“But here, in this Season, with this candidate, the only candidate,” Essa’s voice grew dryer. “They decided to speak to him. Alone.”

Eyes widened, heads turned, but there was only the crackle of the fires to be heard.

“They spoke to him?” Quartis broke the silence.

“Alone,” Essa repeated.

Now all eyes were focused on Joden.

“They placed no restrictions on me,” Joden offered.

“Tell us, then,” Essa commanded. “Tell us what passed between you and the Ancients.”

Joden did. He started from the moment Essa left the tent, and didn’t soften the words the Ancients had spoken about the Eldest Elder.

He ended with the chant and the reference to Essa’s ruffled feathers. His last words floated out into the evening air and were met only with silence.

“That’s more than they have ever told me,” Essa’s voice was rough.

The deeper silence that followed let Joden work up his courage to ask, “Who are they?”

Head shakes all around.

“We do not know,” Essa said. “Those old bracnect have tortured three Eldest Elders with their silence and killed more than that with their talk of ‘old paths’. Denying us the songs only they know, and their knowledge of the past. Perhaps they were Eldest Elders in their time.”

“They didn’t have…” Joden stopped himself, thinking back. “They didn’t have the Singer tattoos. But now that I think on it—”

Quartis nodded. “The tent is shadowed and dark, their skin wrinkled and mottled with age spots.”

“Sexless, but not ageless, no, not them.” Essa shuddered. “I would fall on my sword before I would let that happen to me.”

“What is the ‘old path’?” Joden asked.

“None have attempted the old path since I became Eldest Elder,” Essa said. “The price is too high. Who can say if their songs are worth the price?”

“Has anyone ever heard the tales of the Chaosreaver and his Warprize?” Joden asked. “Or that they stripped away the magic from the Plains?”

More silence. Essa rubbed his hand over his face.

Para spoke from the back, “Usually when a Singer candidate is presented to them, they mumble something, bless you in the name of the elements, and then they seem to fade off to sleep.” She seemed angry. “Why did they speak to you?’

“Why do they do anything,” Essa growled. “It matters not. The ritual they speak of kills. And now? With wyverns flying, this odd power returned to the Plains, what will happen to any that walk that path? No one knows.” He took a deep breath. “So, Joden of the Hawk. You will begin the Trials of a Singer tomorrow at dawn. You will be tested for four days, one for each of the elements. You will be tested as a warrior, as a judge, and as a Singer.

“You will stand before us all, and show us your skills in combat,” Quartis flashed Joden a grin.

“We will present conflicts, and you will show us how you would resolve them in accordance with our ways.” Thron spoke up.

“You will dance,” Para spoke as well.

“Most of all, you will sing, old songs and songs of your own creation. For four days and four nights.” Essa said. “After which, if you are worthy, we will tattoo your eye and you will be a Singer of the Plains.”

“But if I fail these Trials—” Joden began.

“You have been told our secrets,” Essa said. “And if you were to fail, we would slay you to keep those truths safe.”

“Few fail,” Quartis said quietly. “We do not share our truths with those that are unworthy.”

Essa gave him a glare.

“It is no less than a truth,” Quartis shrugged. “We have observed Joden, and know that he has it within him. The debate that rages about him is—”

“Enough,” Essa barked.

“And the ‘old path’?” Joden asked. “The chant they—”

Essa stood, drew himself up, strong and dignified. “Joden, before those gathered here, I would offer you this truth. I may not agree with what you and Simus and Keir would do, or how you would bring changes to our ways. But for all that, I would not have you go to your death.”

Essa turned then, to face the gathered Singers. “For that would silence his truth and that is not the way of the Plains, nor the way of the Singers of the Plains. If he is worthy, he is entitled to stand in our midst and have his truths considered with ours.”

A murmur arose from the group, some in agreement, some clearly not.

Essa turned back and faced Joden. “The Trials of a Singer are exhausting, invigorating and challenging. But the warriors who emerge as Singers serve the Plains with their hearts and souls. As will you.”

“And the ‘old path’,” Joden pressed for an answer one more time.

Essa’s eyes narrowed and his mouth grew grim.

Quartis glanced at Essa, then spoke. “The challenges are the same. Except we clear a challenge circle and—”

“You are tethered within,” Essa interrupted, clearly furious. “Naked, but for your weapons. Tied by the ankle with a thin strip of leather to a stake in the middle of the circle. The leather is decorated along its length with beads so that we will know it, and know if it is broken. You are tested for four days and four nights, but there is no food, no water, and as little sleep as possible.

“And when you collapse and cannot be roused,” Essa spat. “When you do not answer to the death ritual that we conduct, you are wrapped in a cloth shroud and the leather of your tent, and buried within the earth. Buried deep, as the dead are, and left there until the dawn.”

“‘Offer your body; be buried in earth’,” Joden murmured.

Essa glared at Joden. “Do you understand, Joden? We are told that when you emerge from the earth, when we pull you free from the grave, you will emerge as a full Singer, with the beaded leather cord around your ankle and the tattoo of a bird’s wing around your eye.

“Except you won’t,” Essa continued. “We will dig you up, and find you dead. The ritual kills.”

“Even now,” Joden asked. “With magic returned to the land?”

“I do not know,” Essa said simply.

“But the choice is mine,” Joden said.

Essa crossed his arms over his chest, and looked out over the Plains. “Yes,” he finally said. “The choice is yours.”

Joden nodded, crossed his arms over his chest, and rocked on his heels, considering the grass under his feet. To fail was a swift journey to the snows. But to succeed? What songs would he learn, that no other knew? How much stronger would his voice be in the Councils of the Elders? It would benefit all, Singers, the Plains. Simus. Keir. But the risk—

“This choice does not have to be made today,” Essa started, but a few others shook their heads.

“The Trials for Warlord started late, thanks to the warrior-priests,” Quartis said.

“Even now, the armies move,” Thron reminded them. “And there is Antas as well to consider. Sooner is better than later.”

Essa sat back down. “They are right, of course. Speak, Joden.”

Joden looked at his hands, then raised his head. “Many of you know that I chose to deny mercy to Simus of the Hawk when he lay injured on the field before Xy. I tried to staunch his wound, and as a result we were taken captive by the enemy.”

“This is known,” Essa acknowledged with a nod of his head.

“Mercy is the way of the Plains, when a warrior falls and cannot rise,” Joden said. “But when my friend and tentmate lay bleeding at my feet, I could not bring my knife to bear.” He took a breath. “That is not our way, not the way of the Plains, and yet, I could not do it.”

“That is known,” Para said. “And counted against you.”

“As it should,” Joden nodded to Para. “Here I am, asking to be admitted to the ranks of those that hold us to our ways, and yet I broke those ways.

“Because of our capture, Keir of the Cat and his Warprize met.” Joden spread his hands. “But the Warprize thought herself a slave, a thing to be owned and controlled. Because of her lack of knowledge of our ways, and of our past, she didn’t see the honor Keir offered.”

“Until you told her,” Essa said.

“The Ancients have knowledge of what has been. And that knowledge might aid us to determine what will be,” Joden said. “What our future, what the future of the Plains will be.

“How better to silence those that would oppose me as Singer,” Joden said. “Then to take the old paths? How better to show my love of our people then to risk death to learn what the Ancients have withheld?”

“How better to show me up as lacking before our people,” Essa snarled.

There was pain in Essa’s eyes, an old pain borne of rejection. Joden bowed his head in respect. “That would not be my purpose, Eldest Elder.”

Quartis spoke up. “Eldest Elder, I know this touches a nerve for you. But I have often heard you say that you wished to know what the Ancients have withheld. It is no reflection on you. How many Eldest Elders have they withheld the information from?”

“And now they offer it to Joden,” Essa said, his eyes hooded and dark. “If he takes the old paths.”

“Yet why do they speak to him?” Para complained. “I intend no offense, Joden, when I say there have been better candidates.”

“To our eyes,” Thron noted. “But not, apparently, to theirs.”

Quartis shrugged. “Who can say? But they have offered. It’s a chance.”

Joden went to one knee before Essa, and bowed his head. “Eldest Elder, I ask to take the old path to Singer. I do this in full knowledge of the risks involved.” He lifted his head, and met Essa’s gaze. I do this for the Singers, and for the people of the Plains.

For a long moment there was no sound, no breath. Essa just stared into Joden’s eyes. The Eldest Elder’s face was a mask of stone. But Essa’s eyes dropped, and he bowed his head.

“So be it,” Essa’s voice floated over the entire group. “We will begin at dawn.”

 

 

Eldest Elder Essa watched as the challenge circle was prepared, cleared of the sod, the dirt packed under the feet of his Singers.

He watched as the stake was planted in the center; as the Singers gathered to add trinkets and beads to the leather thong.

He watched as Joden emerged from the grasses, freshly bathed and naked, to stand in the center of the circle.

He watched as Joden gave away his gear and saddle, all of his possessions. Joden pressed the wyvern horn into Quartis’s hands.

He himself knelt to bind Joden’s ankle. He would allow no other the honor.

A stool was brought, and Essa sat and watched as Joden faced his challenges, strong and proud, fighting his opponents, resolving mock conflicts, and singing.

He fought to concentrate on Joden’s performance. Not on Keir and Simus’s reaction when informed of their friend’s death. Not on the possible repercussions of the events of this day. He cleared his mind, and focused on the songs.

He fought his own battle as well, with hateful, jealous thoughts. Joden was strong and in his prime. The ache in Essa’s chest had nothing to do with the loss of such a warrior and everything to do with his own loss. The pain grew stronger at the idea of Joden gaining the songs he had so long been denied.

Joden sang as he did everything, with an underlying joy. Essa had known from the beginning, from the first time he’d heard the man’s voice, that he was a Singer.

And a crafter of songs. Joden sang of the Warprize and her Warlord, and the love between them. He sang of the successful four-ehat hunt, with the disgusting scent of the musk, and the glory of the kill and the celebration after.

And he sang of the ache in his heart over his conflict between the old and the new ways. Of ending traditions. Of seeking new ones.

Essa watched as Joden fought and sang and judged. And when the young man fell asleep on his feet, Essa watched as he was prodded awake and they demanded more songs.

And on the third day Essa watched as Joden staggered, deprived of water, deprived of food, shuffling his feet in a mockery of a dance as he croaked a last song. As dulled eyes and stumbling words spoke of hopes turned to exhaustion.

Watched as Joden collapsed, face down in the earth at last, at dusk on the last day.

Watched as Quartis entered the circle, and grasped Joden’s lax right hand. “Joden,” he called loudly. “Joden of the Hawk.”

The other Singers were gathered at the circle’s edge. Essa rose from his chair, and they respectfully cleared a path for him.

“Joden,” Quartis held Joden’s left hand in his own. Essa saw his knuckles whiten as he squeezed it.

There was silence as all watched and waited.

“Joden of the Hawk,” Quartis called as he moved down to his left foot.

There was no response.

Finally, Quartis took Joden’s right foot, putting his hand over where the tether was tied. “Joden of the Hawk,” he called out again.

Nothing. Joden’s face was lax, his body limp. If he breathed, Essa couldn’t see it.

“We will see you again, Warrior,” Quartis rose. “Beyond the snows.”

Essa stepped forward then, pulling the leather thong from the stake, and wrapping it around Joden’s ankle. As he gripped the man’s ankle, he felt the barest pulse of life. “Bear this as witness,” he said. “As you walk the old path.” He rose then, gesturing. “Bring him,” he said. “We will give him to the earth.”

Many hands lifted Joden’s body, and they carried him to the grave already waiting.

There were gasps as they drew close. There beside the grave was a folded bundle of light, white cloth, lengths and lengths, enough to wrap a body many times over.

The Ancients. It had to have been. Essa glanced around, but there was no sign of their be-damned-to-the-snows tent.

Essa gestured, and the others spread the cloth and used it to wrap the body over and over. They put the shrouded corpse within one of the small collapsed leather tents. Once done, they lowered the tent and the body it contained into the grave, and gathered at the edges.

Essa drew a breath. “Death of fire, birth of earth,” he started.

Four Singers started to fill in the grave.

“The fire warmed you,” the Singers chanted, their voices muted in the night air. “We thank the elements.”

“Death of earth, birth of water,” he chanted.

More earth, pushed in, covering the leather shroud.

“The earth supported you,” the Singers chanted. “We thank the elements.

“Death of water, birth of air,” Essa poured his grief into his voice, letting it soar out above them.

Still the Singers worked, on their knees. The level of earth rose almost level to the grass. Essa could almost feel the weight of the dirt on his own skin.

“The waters sustained you,” the Singers chanted, their voices muted in the night air. “We thank the elements.”

“Death of air, birth of fire,” he chanted the final verse.

“The air filled you,” came the final response. “We thank the elements.”

The grave was filled.

They stood silent for long moments.

“Dawn is not far off,” Quartis looked up at the stars.

“Far enough,” Essa said bitterly. “Bring drums,” he told the others. “He may hear, and know that we keep watch.”

“He has a chance,” Quartis reminded him as the others drifted off.

Essa shrugged, and settled down to keep watch over the mound as the stars danced above. Not-thinking on what would be. Not thinking on what the dawn would bring.

Around him others gathered, drumming a slow and steady beat.

And when the first faint hint of light broke on the horizon, his hands joined the others as they frantically dug into the earth. No chanting now. Just hard breathing as they all worked.

The dirt was cold and heavy. “His head,” Essa commanded, and they centered their focus there.

The earth moved slowly, mounding to the side as they finally reached the leather cover. Quartis tugged it back against the heavy, moist dirt.

No white shroud. No Joden.

“He curled up,” Essa gasped, and they dug again, clearing and tugging until the entire leather cover was pulled back.

Essa sat back on his heels, and rubbed his eyes.

The grave was empty.

Joden’s body was not there.