His heart caught in his throat. What was happening, back at the Heart? How was Simus faring, against—
From behind, Quartis cleared his throat.
Joden resumed chanting.
He’d obeyed Essa, gathering his gear, and following Quartis out into the rain. There he’d found saddled horses waiting, with two other Singers, Para and Thron. He’d been told to mount and ride, and so he had. For two full days they’d ridden with only short stops before making this temporary camp, a small fire and one-man tents, hidden in the grass.
And now here he was, midmorning of the third day, isolated from friends and tent-mates, collecting dried dung and chanting teaching songs so basic he could do it in his sleep.
He looked at the dried patties in his hands, not quite so brown as his own callused skin, and sighed as he put them in the basket.
Two days ago, he’d been in the thick of things, roaming the camp, talking in support of Simus’s goal of being Warlord, and Keir’s goals of uniting the Tribes.
He glanced north. What was happening at the Heart? Had the trials begun? Had Simus become Warlord? And what of his warrior-priestess Token-bearer? Had she won her position? And how was Keir going to react when he learned of Simus and Snowfall?
Joden bent back to his task, gritting his teeth at the frustration of it all.
For that matter, what was happening in Xy? Lara had given birth, and he felt a smile creep over his face as he thought of that. Twins at that, and blessed by the elements for certain. Joden had no fears for her health or safety, not with Keir to watch over her. But there would be Xyians unhappy with the news that might prove a threat and—
He’d the barest of warnings, the merest whisper of a step behind him. Joden spun, throwing the basket at Quartis’s face, drawing his own sword, lunging—
Quartis danced back, laughing and sheathing his blade.
Joden stood amid the pile of spilled dung chips, breathing hard, his sword ready. “Why?” he demanded.
“Who is more likely to offend than a Singer telling truths?” Quartis said, brushing bits of dung from his leather armor. “A Singer must be prepared for defense, even in the midst of a song.” Quartis’s grin was bright against his tanned face. “You stopped singing, looking north as if it holds all the answers.”
“It does,” Joden growled, sheathing his blade.
Quartis reached for the basket at his feet. “We will have answers when Essa joins us, not before.”
“And when will that be?” Joden asked.
“When it is,” Quartis shrugged. “Focus on the task at hand. Sing the berry song. Gather dung.” He offered the basket to Joden. “Not the fresh ones, mind you.”
Joden puffed out a breath, and took the basket. “Yes, yes, something so obvious that there is not even a song about it.”
“Maybe you’ll write one,” Quartis chuckled, looking up at the sky. “I’m off to fill the waterskins. You might as well start a fire with your dung, the others should be returning soon. Hopefully with fresh meat, or it’s gurt and dried meat for the nooning.”
Joden grunted, spun and returned to where he and the other Singers had set their tents, hidden in the grass. Their saddles sat in a circle, quivers of lances resting against them. Their horses grazed close by.
Joden cut away the turf, clearing a spot for their fire, and started to work.
Quartis returned, dropping full waterskins at his side. “I think I hear—”
Joden stood. The sound of hoofbeats came over the grasses. “Riding hard,” he said.
“Too hard,” Quartis drew his sword. “What—”
Two horses burst over a nearby rise, Para and Thron in the saddles. Both riders were bent forward, the horses covered in sweat, foaming at the mouth. “Down, down,” the words screamed from Thron’s throat.
“What—” Quartis started.
From behind the riders rose a nightmare on the wind.
Winged, black, and huge, it blotted the sky, gaining height and soaring after the riders.
“Arrows are useless,” Para cried as they pounded past.
