But his galloping thoughts circled round, and round.
Why couldn’t he remember?
The fog around his thoughts continued as he trudged, slow and careful down the path.
“Watch this part,” Amyu said. “The way here is washed out and old—”
-the old paths—
Memory returned, and with it a cold wind that blew through his body, freezing his heart.
Was this the price? The cost the Ancients had warned of? What use was a Singer that could not sing of truths?
Blinded by pain, betrayed and angry, Joden took a step and his foot found emptiness. He lurched, swayed and… fell.
Amyu braced herself to stop Joden’s fall, and instantly knew it was a mistake. But it happened so fast; one moment he was above her, the next knocking her feet out from under her. She was down and tumbling after Joden in a breath.
She’d fallen before on the Plains, tripped, stumbled, fallen from horses, tumbled to the grass but on firm, flat earth.
The mountainside was relentless and unforgiving. It knew only down.
She flailed as she fell, trying to catch herself against the rocks and brush as the mountain threw her with no regard to paths or obstacles.
She tried to curb her fall, to slide as much as she could, grateful for her leathers. But she’d hit something hard and gone sideways, and there was no thought of control. All she could do was desperately reach out to try to grab something to stop her fall.
Until an eternity passed and she found herself face down in leaves and branches, up against a tree.
Bruised, battered and breathless, she lay there, struggling to gather her wits. A deep breath made her sob. It hurt to breathe, to think—
A moan came to her ears, and it wasn’t hers.
Forgetting her pain, Amyu scrambled to her feet. “Joden,” she called out, looking down the slope, hugging her ribs.
A crumbled pile of white lay further down the mountain, sprawled below the path
Amyu lunged forward, then stopped herself. He was directly below her, but she’d need to go slow or she’d cause more harm than good.
Her pack was still on her back, but empty. The waterskin was gone. The bedroll was half unrolled and flopping behind her. She dropped it on the path to deal with later.
She moved down the mountain, discovering new aches and pains as she limped. But nothing was broken that she could tell and she ignored her pain as she reached him.
“Joden,” she knelt at his side, pulling away branches and leaves. He was curled up on himself, but to her joy he was breathing. “Joden,” she said. He was wedged at the base of two trees. She wasn’t sure she could lift him. If she could find those cloth strips she could—
Joden moaned again, and turned his head slightly to stare at her.
“Joden?”
His face screwed up. “S-s-snows t-t-take t-t-t-his m-m-mountain.” He spat and coughed then started to curse again, a low steady stream, haltingly naming every element and then some.
Amyu sat back on her heels, staring and then covered her mouth. The combination of his faltering words and the cursing was too much. Relief made her giddy and she started to laugh.
Joden gave her an offended look, but then he coughed and choked on his own laughter. They both sat there, covered in leaves and sticks and bruises and laughed themselves speechless.
“Enough, enough,” Amyu coughed and groaned. “Need to breathe.” She shifted back slightly. “Can you stand?”
Joden shifted, and groaned and rose to his knees. He used the trees to pull himself up and held out a hand to aid her. She took it, and accepted his help, groaning and clutching her ribs as she did.
“B-b-b,” Joden gave up, and made a gesture as if breaking something.
“No,” she straightened slowly and took a deep, cautious breath. “Not broken. Nothing grates. You?”
Joden twisted at the waist, breathing deeply, then shook his head.
“Praise the elements,” Amyu said. “Let’s get back on the path, and see what we see.”
They helped each other up the sharp incline littered with leaves and rocks, and then stood panting together. They were both filthy. Joden’s tunic was still suspiciously white to Amyu’s eyes, but the foot coverings they had rigged for him were tatters. She was in better shape, although the slash in her leathers had grown.
Amyu caught her breath first. “I think,” she said slowly, dragging leaves and sticks out of her hair. “I think that there is a cave just down a bit, where I rested on the way up.” She hesitated.
Joden raised an eyebrow.
“I drove off a predator in the night,” she admitted. “It was a good cave, though, and with the two of us—”
Joden nodded, and then gestured up the path.
“I’ll see what I can recover,” Amyu said. “But let’s get you to the cave first. You can get a fire going. We will be warm, at the very least.”
The cave was where she remembered it and thankfully empty with no signs that any animal was living there.
The scorch marks were still there, though.
She left Joden with a pile of tinder and kindling and a few long, dry sticks. It would take a long time to build a fire that way, but if she didn’t find the pack…
Amyu didn’t want to think about that.
Sometime later, she wasn’t really any happier. She’d found the blankets, her pack, and the waterskin. The stopper had come lose, the water was gone. But it was whole; she could find more water in the morning.
The pack was torn, its contents scattered beyond finding. Only a glint of metal in the setting sun had given away the old battered metal lantern.
With the last rays of the sun, she headed back to the cave, to find light and warmth spilling out the entrance.
Joden sat by the fire, a smug look on his face and a pile of wood he had gathered by his side. She showed him her finds, and he reached for the blankets, spreading them out by the fire.
“We’ll be hungry,” she sighed. “But we will sleep warm.” She grimaced. “Sore and stiff come the morning, though.”
He nodded and shrugged. “B-b-b—” he struggled. “B-b-b-”
She waited.
He grimaced, sucked in air, and tried again. “B-b-better t-t-than d-d-dead.”
“Truth,” Amyu said. She went back outside and set up the driest sticks at the mouth of the cave, to give warning. She placed her sword on her side of the bedding and made Joden take the dagger. Better they each have a weapon.
They both stripped, checking their scraped raw skin and bruises. Nothing openly bleeding, for which Amyu was grateful. They did not need the scent of blood in the air.
Joden fed the fire, and they settled in together under the blanket, close for warmth. They both lay on their sides, facing one another.
Joden pointed at the scorch marks on the ceiling. “S-s-story?”
“Are you sure?” Amyu asked. “I am no Singer.”
“B-b-b,” he took a breath. “B-b-better than wo-wo-worrying.”
“Well, then,” Amyu said. “I had scattered sticks—”
She told him everything, her fear, the terror, the golden light and how it exploded in fury. Joden listened, his eyes half-closed as she went through the tale, his head pillowed on his arm. When she reached the end, she smiled, and in jest gave the ritual ending. “May the people remember.”
“We will remember,” Joden whispered back without effort, and then his eyes widened.
Amyu held her breath.
“R-r-r,” Joden scowled at the stutter’s return, slapping his thigh in frustration.
“Relaxed,” Amyu whispered, sharing his disappointment. “It’s when you are relaxed that the words come, or so it seems.”
Joden shook his head, his sorrow clear to her.
“Give it time,” she whispered, then hesitated again. Did she dare? She took a breath.
“The theas’s old pain remedy,” she offered tentatively. “If you would share?”
Joden looked at her, really looked at her. He was older, wiser, a warrior of many campaigns. He wouldn’t want—
“Please,” Joden whispered back
Heat coiled within her. Still, she felt awkward and foolish. But for the first time in a long time she wanted this, wanted to share bodies with another.
With Joden.