Amyu took a step back. “Look me in the eye, and deny this truth,” she challenged.
Joden lowered his own gaze and his arms, and could not speak. His throat closed with pain, his stomach knotted. As a Singer, he should be the first to urge her to the snows. But she stood before him, lovely, vibrant, her pained brown eyes wet with tears.
“The Warlord departs in two days,” she said. “You will ride with him, in all honor. I will remain in Xy. A child. An outcast.”
Joden shook his head. “W-w-we w-w-would p-p-protect—”
“And lose honor in so doing,” Amyu said. “The Warlord can’t risk losing all he has worked for in defense of one barren warrior,” she continued. “I have a worth here.” She looked down at the basket of shards. “I just haven’t found it yet.”
“W-w-worth t-t-to m-m-me,” Joden said. He couldn’t bear her pain any longer and opened his arms again.
Her face crumpled and she walked into his arms, crushing the basket and tunics between them. Her voice was muffled in his chest as he put his chin on the top of her head. “You have seen me as I am, not as child or as failure. I thank you for that truth. I will carry it with me as long as I live.”
Joden hugged her tight, taking in the scent of the Plains in her hair.
But then Amyu stepped back, and he let his arms drop, letting her go. She gave him a watery smile. “But here is another truth. I am too much the coward. I need to stop here. I will not come to you again, and I beg you not to come to me.”
She pushed past him to the door, and he turned to watch it close behind her. He sank down on the bed, his legs losing all their strength.
He had found his voice. He could still achieve his dream, at a price.
He’d lost his heart’s flame.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
The power of death was everywhere.
How had he never seen this before? Hail Storm mused on the nature of this new gift of the Plains as he trotted his dead steed over the wide grasses.
Perhaps it was because he’d been trained only to use the golden light that had been so rare and growing scarcer before the Sacrifice. He’d learned blood magic only by mistake, and had never shared his discovery of its use with the other warrior-priests. He had resorted to it when the elemental power of the Plains had gradually diminished. A shiver of delight went through him at the memory of killing Arched Colors. Her body had writhed under his in pleasure, pain, and her death throes.
He’d give much to be able to do that again.
And Mist, that old bitch. She’d supported him until the Sacrifice, and then tried to kill him. Instead, he’d killed her, absorbing her life essence in the process.
The stone-handled dagger at his side throbbed with his memory of that moment.
The darkness, the power of death, was there under the grass, deep in the earth. Like a hidden treasure he’d passed over many times. What was around him wasn’t as strong as a true death at his hands, but it was plentiful. He wasn’t going to have to kill small animals or birds for power. The source was wide and vast and untouched.
The elements could rage at him all they wanted. He had what he needed.
Access to power gave him choices.
Hail Storm frowned down at his empty hand. There was no need for reins. The dead horse went exactly where he sent it. But it only moved when he willed it.
He could turn back. Cache the supplies and the saddle and let the horse drop where it stood. Return to Antas’s tent, worm his way back into favor. Build a network of support from within and betray him at the first chance. Hail Storm smiled at the idea of killing Antas and draining him dry. Fitting revenge for the loss of his arm.
But in truth, that would take time and the outcome was uncertain. Too many people to try to control, too many doubts as to everyone’s loyalties.
Besides, Wild Winds was dead, which meant that somewhere there was a group of young warrior-priests-in-training. Young. Malleable. He just had to find them, and court them with fine words, gestures of support, and promises of power. Some, not all maybe, but some would be lured to him and the knowledge he could teach.
A thump brought him out of his musings. The horse had stumbled ever so slightly. He looked down to see that the sinews of the leg were wearing at the hoof. He cursed, and eased the creature to a walk.
A dead horse was obedient, but not truly sustainable. The flesh had worn away under the saddle, and the smell left much to be desired. Hail Storm didn’t let the reek trouble him, but it had drawn scavengers when he’d camped for the evenings. And the dead horse never moved without a command, never grazed, only stared at him over the fire, light glittering in its clouded, rotting eyes.
Still, it was better than walking and carrying his packs. He’d have trouble replacing this mount when it fell apart. Living horses sensed his presence from afar and would not come close. He’d not be able to lure one to its death at his hands.
But maybe he didn’t need to. His eyes narrowed as he considered the possibilities.
