“You will dance,” Para spoke as well.
“Most of all, you will sing, old songs and songs of your own creation. For four days and four nights.” Essa said. “After which, if you are worthy, we will tattoo your eye and you will be a Singer of the Plains.”
“But if I fail these Trials—” Joden began.
“You have been told our secrets,” Essa said. “And if you were to fail, we would slay you to keep those truths safe.”
“Few fail,” Quartis said quietly. “We do not share our truths with those that are unworthy.”
Essa gave him a glare.
“It is no less than a truth,” Quartis shrugged. “We have observed Joden, and know that he has it within him. The debate that rages about him is—”
“Enough,” Essa barked.
“And the ‘old path’?” Joden asked. “The chant they—”
Essa stood, drew himself up, strong and dignified. “Joden, before those gathered here, I would offer you this truth. I may not agree with what you and Simus and Keir would do, or how you would bring changes to our ways. But for all that, I would not have you go to your death.”
Essa turned then, to face the gathered Singers. “For that would silence his truth and that is not the way of the Plains, nor the way of the Singers of the Plains. If he is worthy, he is entitled to stand in our midst and have his truths considered with ours.”
A murmur arose from the group, some in agreement, some clearly not.
Essa turned back and faced Joden. “The Trials of a Singer are exhausting, invigorating and challenging. But the warriors who emerge as Singers serve the Plains with their hearts and souls. As will you.”
“And the ‘old path’,” Joden pressed for an answer one more time.
Essa’s eyes narrowed and his mouth grew grim.
Quartis glanced at Essa, then spoke. “The challenges are the same. Except we clear a challenge circle and—”
“You are tethered within,” Essa interrupted, clearly furious. “Naked, but for your weapons. Tied by the ankle with a thin strip of leather to a stake in the middle of the circle. The leather is decorated along its length with beads so that we will know it, and know if it is broken. You are tested for four days and four nights, but there is no food, no water, and as little sleep as possible.
“And when you collapse and cannot be roused,” Essa spat. “When you do not answer to the death ritual that we conduct, you are wrapped in a cloth shroud and the leather of your tent, and buried within the earth. Buried deep, as the dead are, and left there until the dawn.”
“‘Offer your body; be buried in earth’,” Joden murmured.
Essa glared at Joden. “Do you understand, Joden? We are told that when you emerge from the earth, when we pull you free from the grave, you will emerge as a full Singer, with the beaded leather cord around your ankle and the tattoo of a bird’s wing around your eye.
“Except you won’t,” Essa continued. “We will dig you up, and find you dead. The ritual kills.”
“Even now,” Joden asked. “With magic returned to the land?”
“I do not know,” Essa said simply.
“But the choice is mine,” Joden said.
Essa crossed his arms over his chest, and looked out over the Plains. “Yes,” he finally said. “The choice is yours.”
Joden nodded, crossed his arms over his chest, and rocked on his heels, considering the grass under his feet. To fail was a swift journey to the snows. But to succeed? What songs would he learn, that no other knew? How much stronger would his voice be in the Councils of the Elders? It would benefit all, Singers, the Plains. Simus. Keir. But the risk— “This choice does not have to be made today,” Essa started, but a few others shook their heads.
“The Trials for Warlord started late, thanks to the warrior-priests,” Quartis said.
“Even now, the armies move,” Thron reminded them. “And there is Antas as well to consider. Sooner is better than later.”
Essa sat back down. “They are right, of course. Speak, Joden.”
Joden looked at his hands, then raised his head. “Many of you know that I chose to deny mercy to Simus of the Hawk when he lay injured on the field before Xy. I tried to staunch his wound, and as a result we were taken captive by the enemy.”
“This is known,” Essa acknowledged with a nod of his head.
“Mercy is the way of the Plains, when a warrior falls and cannot rise,” Joden said. “But when my friend and tentmate lay bleeding at my feet, I could not bring my knife to bear.” He took a breath. “That is not our way, not the way of the Plains, and yet, I could not do it.”
“That is known,” Para said. “And counted against you.”
“As it should,” Joden nodded to Para. “Here I am, asking to be admitted to the ranks of those that hold us to our ways, and yet I broke those ways.
“Because of our capture, Keir of the Cat and his Warprize met.” Joden spread his hands. “But the Warprize thought herself a slave, a thing to be owned and controlled. Because of her lack of knowledge of our ways, and of our past, she didn’t see the honor Keir offered.”
“Until you told her,” Essa said.
“The Ancients have knowledge of what has been. And that knowledge might aid us to determine what will be,” Joden said. “What our future, what the future of the Plains will be.
“How better to silence those that would oppose me as Singer,” Joden said. “Then to take the old paths? How better to show my love of our people then to risk death to learn what the Ancients have withheld?”
“How better to show me up as lacking before our people,” Essa snarled.
There was pain in Essa’s eyes, an old pain borne of rejection. Joden bowed his head in respect. “That would not be my purpose, Eldest Elder.”
Quartis spoke up. “Eldest Elder, I know this touches a nerve for you. But I have often heard you say that you wished to know what the Ancients have withheld. It is no reflection on you. How many Eldest Elders have they withheld the information from?”
“And now they offer it to Joden,” Essa said, his eyes hooded and dark. “If he takes the old paths.”
“Yet why do they speak to him?” Para complained. “I intend no offense, Joden, when I say there have been better candidates.”
“To our eyes,” Thron noted. “But not, apparently, to theirs.”
Quartis shrugged. “Who can say? But they have offered. It’s a chance.”
Joden went to one knee before Essa, and bowed his head. “Eldest Elder, I ask to take the old path to Singer. I do this in full knowledge of the risks involved.” He lifted his head, and met Essa’s gaze. I do this for the Singers, and for the people of the Plains.
For a long moment there was no sound, no breath. Essa just stared into Joden’s eyes. The Eldest Elder’s face was a mask of stone. But Essa’s eyes dropped, and he bowed his head.
“So be it,” Essa’s voice floated over the entire group. “We will begin at dawn.”
Eldest Elder Essa watched as the challenge circle was prepared, cleared of the sod, the dirt packed under the feet of his Singers.
He watched as the stake was planted in the center; as the Singers gathered to add trinkets and beads to the leather thong.
He watched as Joden emerged from the grasses, freshly bathed and naked, to stand in the center of the circle.
He watched as Joden gave away his gear and saddle, all of his possessions. Joden pressed the wyvern horn into Quartis’s hands.
He himself knelt to bind Joden’s ankle. He would allow no other the honor.
A stool was brought, and Essa sat and watched as Joden faced his challenges, strong and proud, fighting his opponents, resolving mock conflicts, and singing.
He fought to concentrate on Joden’s performance. Not on Keir and Simus’s reaction when informed of their friend’s death. Not on the possible repercussions of the events of this day. He cleared his mind, and focused on the songs.