Both the Warprize and Warlord jerked in their seats. Keir leaned forward. “What do you mean, disappeared?”
“Simus said that the Eldest Elder Singer had demanded that Joden go with him to enter the Trials of a Singer,” Yers said. “I couldn’t find any who had seen him depart, and it felt wrong. Without farewells? Without good wishes?” Yers shook his head, then winced and put a hand to his head.
“You’re hurt,” Lara said.
“It’s nothing,” Yers said.
“Did Simus become Warlord?” Keir’s impatience was controlled, but it was clear.
“I do not know for certain,” Yers said. “On the last day of the Trials, at the last hour, I rescinded my oath and challenged Simus. And lost.”
Every Plains warrior in the room went still. Amyu saw Heath give his bonded Atira a glance, but she gave him a quick shake of her head.
“I feared that Simus had been corrupted. Influenced.” Yers said flatly. “I feared… I still fear that he will take those warriors loyal to you and turn on you under the influence of that warrior-priestess.”
“You lost?” Keir said.
“Yes,” Yers swayed slightly. “A head blow.”
“Simus pulled it,” Keir said and there was no question in his voice.
“I do not know.” Now Yers looked away. “As soon as I could stand, I took to horse to bring you word.”
“So, we do not know,” Keir said. “We do not know if Simus is Warlord. If Joden lives. If this Snowfall is Simus’s token-bearer.”
“No,” Yers said. “I left, and I rode… things get confused after that.” He frowned, blinking at both the Warlord and the Warprize. “I remember riding, and black birds flying over,” he said slowly. “Big, black birds…”
The Warprize stood and walked forward. “Yers, come. You’re exhausted. Let’s have Heath take you to the kitchens and get you kavage and food, and I will send for Master Eln.”
“But the Warlord needs—”
“Obey the Warprize,” Keir told him. “Not that she will give you any alternative.”
Lara threw him a smile, then reached out and lifted Yers’s chin. “You may think you have recovered, but your eyes are still not quite right.” She took him by the arm and headed toward the main doors, Heath following behind. “Are you seeing double by any chance?”
Their voices faded off as they left the room together.
Marcus appeared from the shadows behind the Warlord’s throne. “Yers is a good warrior. His truths have always been strong.”
“He is angry,” Atira pointed out. “And rage blinds one to truths.” She crossed her arms over her chest and glared at the doors. “To rescind on the last day? Challenge at the last hour?”
The doors opened, and Lara came back inside, a worried look on her face. Keir rose as she advanced.
“He clearly took a bad head blow,” Lara said. “It’s a wonder he could ride at all.”
“He is of the Plains,” Marcus snorted. “He could ride dead.”
“I do not know what to think,” Keir said. “Or what to believe. Simus loathes the warrior-priests as much as I do, but—”
“Keir,” Lara put a hand to his chest. “I was once told by someone I trusted that I was to be a slave to a vicious Warlord.” She looked up into her Warlord’s eyes. “Wait for Simus. Hear his truth.”
“The plan was that Simus would become Warlord. Guard Xy’s border with Liam’s help so that I could return next season to try to become WarKing.” Keir covered Lara’s hand with his own. “If only we knew what was really happening.”
“If Joden was here, you know what he would say,” Lara said.
“If you wish to hear the winds laugh, tell them your plans.” Marcus snorted.
“True enough,” Keir said. “I will wait for word. In the meantime, we need to keep working on those potential weapons to use against the wyverns when they return. I’ll not leave Water’s Fall helpless before them.”
Amyu followed behind as they all swept from the room, intent on their tasks. The Warprize was trained as a healer, and she cared deeply for the lives of her people. It was what made her a great Queen and Warprize, for she considered the people of the Plains her people as well.
But Amyu was a warrior of the Plains, and whatever else she might be, child or adult, she could make her own decisions and give her life to the Tribe—both of her tribes—on her terms.
She followed behind, silent and determined.
She was going to find the airions.
She was going to fly.
Chapter Three
Blue sky above. Crows calling in the distance. Flies buzzing nearby. Grass tickling his nose.
Pain.
Splayed out on his back, Cadr blinked through crusty eyes. His throat hurt, hurt bad. He gritted his teeth and managed to drag a hand over to find his neck covered in dried blood and grass. He pulled his hand back and blinked at the pale-yellow leaves of bloodmoss in his hand.
He let them fall from his fingers, and tried to roll over, to shade his eyes from the sun. His head throbbed.
He took a deep breath, and coughed.
Then he couldn’t stop coughing, deep, hard hacks, bringing up blood and spit. His vision greyed, then went black as the agony washed over him.
When he came back, he was lying in his own filth, face down in the grass. His ribs ached. Someone was nearby, trying to rouse him. He couldn’t see, couldn’t really hear, but he felt like it was someone he could trust.
“Did I oversleep?” he asked, groggy and confused. But the words didn’t come, only rough, guttural noises.
There was no tent, no bedroll… just the grass and the sun and the stink of clotted blood.
He risked a shallow breath. And then a deeper one. His lungs hurt, his throat hurt, but he could breathe. He rolled over and then paused, breathing through the hurt. He let the pain wash over him.
Someone moved in the distance, near the horses.
He curled in, forced himself to sit, wrapped his arms around his chest and tried to focus.
He was wearing leathers… no weapons, his belt gone, knives gone, boots gone. He frowned as he stared at his feet, toes pale against the green grasses. He closed his eyes, trying to remember. He’d been riding. He saw a sword come at his throat, and then—
His head jerked up, eyes open, muscles screaming in protest. He’d been escorting the Xyian healer Hanstau with Wild Winds, to join the other warrior-priests in hiding with Lightning Strike, one of Wild Winds’s apprentices. They’d been attacked—
He staggered to his feet, breathing through the aches and pains, looking around for—
Bodies.
He staggered over to Wild Winds, and dropped to his knees next to the man, struggling to roll him over. But the cold tattooed flesh under his fingers told him the truth before he saw the wounds.
Wild Winds was dead.
Cadr forced himself to his feet. He stumbled around, searching. There’d been others with them, two warriors…
Their bodies were close by, also stripped of weapons and what could be taken fast.
Of Hanstau, there was no sign. Antas and his warriors must have taken him with them, dead or alive.
Alive, Cadr hoped.
He returned to Wild Wind’s body and collapsed, uncertain what to do next. His energy was waning, and exhaustion was close. He’d no idea where or…
Someone was standing next to him, oddly colorless boots, blades of grass sticking through them.
He stared at them, then scraped at his eyes, trying to clear his vision.
There was a horse close, nosing him with stiff whiskers and warm breath against his cheek.
Cadr blinked, looked up. “Gils?” he croaked.
His tall, thin, colorless friend stood there, his curls dancing in a breeze that Cadr couldn’t feel. His usual bright grin was gone, only worry in his eyes. Gils reached out and put a hand on the horse’s shoulder.
The horse snuffled, and slowly went to its knees, easing down next to Cadr, a clear invitation to mount.
Except Gils was dead, wasn’t he? Of the sickness that had killed so many… Cadr shook his head, hurting and confused. Gils was dead. He blinked up at his friend, his dead friend, washed of color, cold and—