He’d been singing, or at least, he thought he’d been singing. He’d been struggling against the wind for so long he’d lost all track of time. There’d been people, and flames and bare earth. Now there was only the thick snow against his bare legs, the harsh blasts, and the cold.
It bit into him, and he felt every inch of his nakedness. He tried glancing around, looking for tents, for other warriors, for shelter.
So very cold.
Horses. If he could find a herd he could shelter in their midst, share the warmth of the herd. Where there were horses, there were camps. He drew a deep breath; the cold hurt his lungs. He threw back his head and warbled for a horse, and listened.
But all he heard was the howl of the winds, and his own harsh breathing. No hoofbeats, no neigh of acknowledgment. Nothing.
A cry echoed back to him. A human, the warble of a scout.
Joden peered through the blinding snow, blinking against the ice crystals forming on his lashes. “Here,” he bellowed. “Here, here!”
A man stumbled out of the snow, a warrior, his leathers tattered and shredded, hanging from his body. His head down, hair covered in ice, he ran right into Joden. Joden reached out, grabbing him by the shoulders to keep them both from tumbling down into the drifts.
The man lifted his head, blinking to see.
“Iften,” Joden gasped in horror.
The blond looked terrible, wasted and pale, ice encrusted on his eyebrows and beard. For a moment recognition flared in those eyes, then hope, then—
Hate.
Iften pushed him away, jerking back to stand there, his face twisted in a scowl. “You! Oath-breaker. Liar. Faithless one, you betrayed—
Joden stepped toward the man. “Iften, we need shelter,” Joden shouted to be heard over the storm. “Join with me and—”
“Never,” Iften screamed, and threw himself away from Joden, lost in the blinding snow. “Never, never, never,” his screams became one with the wind. Even his footprints disappeared.
Joden stood, dazed, trying to think. Iften was dead. Cursed by the Warprize, killed by the Warlord Keir.
Joden hunched down, wrapped his arms around himself and tried to shelter in place. The drifts grew around him as he stared at the melting snowflakes on his arms.
Was he dead?
But he was cold, so cold, and the winds weren’t stopping. He rose to his feet, struggled through the drifts that had mounded around him, and struggled on against the blasts. Dead or not, he needed to find…
A light flickered ahead.
Joden blinked, staring hard. It had to be an illusion.
No, it was there, one of the lights left outside a winter lodge in the worst of the storms. Joden started for it, struggling through drifts, the wind bringing tears to his eyes.
The winds faded, the snow eased. The doorway down into the lodge beckoned. Joden went down the stone steps, and pushed past the oiled leather that served as the first door. He stopped to shake the ice and snow from his hair and wipe as much damp from his skin as he could. Old courtesy, taught to every child. He shivered as the winds outside strengthened, and then pushed through the inner hanging door.
A wave of merriment, heat, and music swept over him, as good-natured laughter urged him in.
The lodge was crowded, filled with warriors of all ages. Wreathed in smiles, they pulled him in, laughing and welcoming. Sitting, standing, all were sharing in a meal, with smoke rising from cooking pots. Somewhere drummers beat a joyous pattern.
Joden was so tired, he couldn’t make out the words, didn’t understand what they were saying. He just basked in the joy they radiated and let them guide him deeper into the lodge. Food and sleep, and then he’d worry about the rest.
The crowd parted, forming a path, and gentle hands pulled him along, toward the place of honor. A wooden platform was there, as it was in every lodge, but the painting on the wall behind it was bright with color, and the hangings that surrounded the platform made it feel like a tent.
A brazier burned brightly in the center, and five people gathered around it, one sleeping by its side. Of the four seated there, three were clearly warrior-priests, and they were all Elders. Joden expected to make his bows and retreat back into the crowd.
One of the five was sleeping on a pallet, just below the painted wall, covered in blankets. But the other four all turned to greet him with smiles, and made a place for him close to the heat. Hands urged him onto the platform to sit, and the man to his right grinned and handed him a mug of steaming kavage.
Joden sat on the offered pallet and reached for the mug with a nod of thanks, only to find his hand close on nothing. The mug crashed to the ground.
Silence filled the lodge.
“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.