“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 noone 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.
