“Ah,” said a male voice. “You are not yet with us.”
Joden looked over to his left, to see a thin man, with a thin, angled face. His black hair gleamed in the light, as did his dark eyes, one of which was surrounded by the tattoo of a bird’s wing. He was smiling at Joden with an open, yet curious look.
“Singer,” Joden said. “I do not understand.”
“Nor do I,” said the man with a laugh. “But understanding comes. We will talk, you and I. And we will see.”
The activity around them rose again, but muted by the hangings. The others seated with them returned to eating, sharing bread and kavage and roasting long skewers of meat over the brazier.
Joden looked at his hands. “I feel the heat,” he said. “Why can I not drink?”
“What is your name, warrior?” The man asked.
“Joden of the Hawk.”
“Be known to us, Joden of the Hawk. To your right is Twisting Winds. Next to him is Summer Sky. Beside me is Stalking Cat.” The man reached for his kavage.
“And you are?” Joden asked.
“Uppor of the Fox.” the man glanced at Joden.
“But you are—” Joden stuttered to a halt. “You are the Trickster. I have sung of you, how you stole from each of the elements to create the horses of the Plains. But you are a Singer? You—”
Uppor wrinkled his nose as Summer Sky laughed and pointed at him. “The stories, I fear, have grown in the telling.”
“Then I am dead,” Joden said. “And these are the snows.” He looked to where the mug should be, shattered in a pool of kavage. There was nothing there.
“No,” Uppor said. “You are not yet with us. You walk between. Unlike the sleeper there,” he nodded toward the pile of blankets. “For some, the way is harder than others. Especially when death is brutal, swift and unseen.”
Summer Sky’s joy faded from her face. She leaned over to adjust the blankets on the sleeping man. His hand slipped out from the covers, the fingers moving in a slow squeeze. Summer Sky smiled softly and then tucked it once more within the blankets.
“Wild Winds,” Joden breathed.
“Known to you?” Uppor asked. “A friend?”
Joden opened his mouth, but no words came.
“Ally, then, perhaps?” Uppor lifted an eyebrow.
“Perhaps,” Joden said.
All four of them turned to look at him, expectation in their eyes. “Tell us,” Uppor commanded. “Tell us your truths, Joden of the Hawk.”
Joden rubbed his face, feeling the roughness of his own palms against his skin. “I don’t know where to begin,” he admitted.
Uppor nodded. “Every beginning is an ending. And yet, every ending is the beginning of something new.” He paused, shaking his head, his smile wry. “Choosing? That is the hard part.”
“Have you heard of the coming of the Warprize?” Joden asked.
“Tell us,” Uppor said.
So Joden did, through what felt like a night and a day, although the heat never waned, and he felt neither tired nor hungry. His words flowed, and those around him stilled and listened until it was only his voice to be heard in every corner of the lodge.
As he spoke, he stared at the painting on the wall of the lodge opposite him, so bright and colorful. As he spoke, it seemed the picture changed to reflect his tale, as armies moved over the lands, as warriors struggled to survive. A woman in a red dress, a four-ehat hunt, and—
“A Warprize,” Uppor breathed the word with reverence.
The images moved on, of a woman and horse encased in metal, and a pillar of light that seared and burned.
