There was no one 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.
All three sat wrapped in their blankets, the laughter gone from their suddenly bright eyes.
“You caused this, Joden of the Hawk,” came the whisper. “When you saved Simus and did not give him mercy. You started this—”
“—but will you finish it?” the quaver asked.
“How did you know—” Joden demanded.
“The winds bring word of your deeds,” said the cackle.
“Joden comes before you as a candidate,” Essa spat. “Give him your usual cryptic blessing, and we will be on our way.”
“Leave us,” came the whisper.
“Joden stays,” came the quaver.
Essa drew himself up, clearly angered. “I am the Eldest Elder of the Singers, not to be treated as a child or as an unworthy—”
Snorts, and more chuckles.
“If you don’t tell me,” Essa said making an obvious effort. “The songs will die with you. The truth will die with you.”
“You are so sure,” came the whisper.
“Maybe, maybe,” said the quaver.
“Maybe not,” said the cackle and they all laughed till they wheezed.
“Besides,” the cackle added. “Why should we tell you, child?”
“An insult, it’s not to be borne,” Essa snarled. “I—”
The three started to sing, a weird three-part harmony that sent chills up Joden’s spine.
“Fine,” Essa barked, turned on his heel, and headed for the tent flap.
Joden followed, but Essa shook his head. “Stay. Skies above, maybe they will share with you what they have denied me for years.” Essa grabbed Joden’s arm. “I want those songs,” he hissed, then stomped out of the tent.
Joden stared at the closing tent flap, and turned to face the Ancients.
“Sit,” the one in the center nodded its head. “Sit before us, Singer-to-be.”
Joden obeyed, sitting cross-legged before them. The heat grew even more intense.
“So, you think our ways are sacred,” the left one said, in a voice as clear as a bell. “Special, traditional, the Way of the Plains.”
“Yes,” Joden says.
“But in need of change,” the right one said, with a sweet innocent tone.
“Yes,” Joden said. “The power of the warrior-priests—”
“Has been broken,” said the one in the middle, with a deep timber.
“I—” Joden started.
“You honor the way of the Plains, with all its traditions.” The bell tone reminded him. “Yet you broke that tradition when you failed to grant Simus of the Hawk mercy on the field of battle.”
“I did,” Joden said. “But it brought a Warprize to the Plains, one skilled in the ways of healing.”
“Yet it was a Warprize that destroyed the Plains,” the bell said. “And destroyed that way of life. She and her Warlord, for their love.”
“What?’ Joden asked.
“For her Warlord was the Chaosreaver,” said the deep voice. “Who left only destruction in his path and the cold, and the silence…”
“Stripped us and stripped the land,” the innocent voice was sad in its sweetness. “Stripped us of all we were. Made us what we are.”
All three pairs of old eyes burned into his.
“You make it sound as if it was yesterday,” Joden said.
“It was-” one whispered.
“—but days ago,” whispered another.
“Perhaps we’d tell you…” came yet another whisper. “But only if you took the old paths to becoming a Singer.”
“Why won’t you tell Essa? Joden asked. “He is Eldest Elder, and honored within the Tribes.”
“Essa, like the Eldest Elder before him-”
“—and before him—”
“—and before her,” and now the cackle was back. “Would not take the old paths. A child, afraid of shadows and death.”
“But there are shadows on the old paths,” and now the whisper was back.
“And there is death,” came the quaver.
“There is always death,” Joden said. “It comes in an instant, all know that. Why won’t you tell Essa—”
“He will not pay the price,” the center one growled. “Will you, Joden of the Hawk?”
“There is always a price-” Joden started, but they cut him off.
“You do not fully understand the cost,” the whisper was full of regret.
“And you won’t, until you pay it,” the cackle was harsher.
“What will you sacrifice, Joden of the Hawk? What price will you pay?” asked the quaver, as if in hope.
“Tell me,” Joden demanded. “Tell me the old paths.”
From the folds of the center blanket emerged two hands, almost skeletal, reaching out to the right and left. They too raised their hands, and once joined began to chant together.
The fire warmed you; we thank the elements
Offer your mind; sing to the flames
The earth supported you; we thank the elements
Offer your body; be buried in earth
The waters sustained you; we thank the elements
Offer your soul; wander the snows
The air filled you; we thank the elements
Offer your heart; be reborn in the winds
The power surrounds you; we thank the elements
Offer your dreams; seek to prove your worth
Joden sat, spellbound, as they went silent, and their hands pulled back within the blankets. Eyes that had been bright turned back to milky white.
“I’m cold,” came the quaver.
“I want kavage,” the whisper came.
“What does that mean?” Joden demanded. “That chant?”
“Seek out Essa,” came the cackle. “His feathers will be well and truly ruffled by now.”
Indeed, Essa was pacing when Joden walked up the rise toward him. He’d worn a path in the grasses.