“What do you call me?” Joden demanded.
“You are with us, but not of us,” the man continued.
“The dead,” Joden said.
“The dead.” The eyes closed for a moment, then re-opened. “The dead, unseen and unknown, yet knowing and seeing.”
“Those are ritual words of the Plains,” Joden said. The cold stale air filled his nose and throat.
“Are they? Are you certain?”
“Who are you?” Joden demanded.
“Xyson.”
Joden frowned. “Lara, she read to us from a book. The Epic of Xyson, she called it.”
“The same.” the stone corners of the man’s mouth quirked. “That Warprize of yours, she has quite the temper. Gets it from me, I suspect.”
“So all these,” Joden gestured back behind him. “They will all—”
“No,” Xyson said. “The dead of Xy that lie within have gone beyond the snows, leaving only echoes. Only I remain.”
“You are of Xy,” Joden said. “How do you know the way of the Plains?”
“You walk in two worlds now, Joden of the Hawk. You speak with the dead, but the dead do not always speak the truth. You should always wonder about the dead’s reasons.”
Joden narrowed his eyes. “What are your reasons?”
The specter laughed but then grew solemn. “To put right a wrong I created.” Xyson glanced up, as if looking through stone. “We have little time,” he said. “Even now, the stones suck the heat from your flesh and life from your heart. Even now, the guardian seeks the snows, one who has not kept to their oaths.”
“There is time,” Joden said trying to ignore the cold creeping into his feet and legs.
“Two things I will tell you, Seer. Long ago there were two sisters, who loved as all women do, with their hearts and not their minds. They fell in love with two brothers, both powerful warriors within their tribes. But for the complications of their people, all would have been well. But conflicts arose and one of the brothers died and the other… broke two kingdoms for his love.”
“Two kingdoms?” Joden asked.
“Xy, and what you now call the Plains,” Xyson answered. “Tore the fabric of the world. Tore the power from its roots.”
Joden wrapped his arms around his chest for warmth, tucking his hands within. “The Ancients said something about the Chaosreaver—”
“Who left only destruction in his path and the cold and the silence,” Xyson nodded as he recited the words. “Those dried up turds still live?” he shook his head. “I am not surprised. Hate, like love, lingers.” He paused. “You have awakened old powers, Joden. Set in motion a chain of events you do not control. You bring change.”
“Keir started it,” Joden protested.
“One man with an idea makes no difference,” Xyson trailed his fingers over the flat of the blade in his lap. “But when another agrees with him? That shakes the world, for good or ill. Like water cascading down on rocks. The rocks will surrender to the water eventually.” Xyson sighed. “People can be perfectly rational, but then love turns to madness and hate.”
“How do you know this?” Joden asked. “About the sisters? About the Plains?”
“I was part of the… complications.” Xyson shifted in his chair. “Question the motives of those around you, Seer.”
“That is vague enough to be a Singer’s answer.”
“My father always said that the young never listen. How right he was,” Xyson chuckled. “For if they did, mistakes would never be repeated, hate would never build, and no one would risk the pain of loss for the joy of love.” He glanced over Joden’s shoulder, then spoke hurriedly. “When the destruction came down upon us, a guardian was established within Xy, the burden laid on her long ago. Her oaths have become distorted, for the guardian has turned bitter with age and pain. The loss of her powers, the loss of her lover.” Xyson dropped his gaze to the sword. “For the second thing—”
“We haven’t finished the first,” Joden protested. “What does this mean, that you—”
“Silence,” Xyson rose, an imposing figure, with sword in hand. The blue flamed and the crystal glowed clear. “If your watcher wishes to fly, tell her to re-forge the sword.”
“But—” Joden protested.
Xyson lunged.
Before he could react, the point of the sword touched Joden’s chest. He was thrown back, against the flat stone coffin. His head hit cold stone and he knew nothing more.
Amyu never knew what prompted her to check on Joden between feedings, but she roused the entire castle in her terror. Heart racing, she had every castle guard, every warrior searching every inch.
Until someone shouted, and she ran into the chapel. The alert guard pointed at the open gate.
“The crypts?” She grabbed up one of the torches from the wall and lit it from the candles.
“It’s kept locked.” The guard was young, his face pale and frightened. “It’s a maze down there. Wait and I’ll get—”
Amyu plunged down the steps, torch high. She paused, listening.
Nothing. No sound, no light, just cold harsh air that stole her breath.
“Joden!” she called, and waited.
Nothing. Then she heard a faint noise, like crystal ringing on stone.
“Get aid,” she shouted over her shoulder and ran toward the sound, then skidded to a stop. She forced herself to think, to use her wits. No use for two of them to be lost. She closed her eyes, remembering Othur’s burial here in the—
There were lanterns at each crossing of paths, high, on chains.
She dashed back, lit the lantern at the base of the steps, and then ran toward the sound. Each crossing, she lit the lantern, reaching high with the flaring torch. Leaving a path behind her of light and warmth, a path back to the living. Praying to every element that Joden lived.
“Joden,” she called again, but there was no response.
Another lantern and then another. Amyu cursed, fearing she had lost—
That sound again, a faint ringing. She flew down the last dark passage to stumble down a small set of stairs and into a round room.
Joden lay on the stone coffin before her, wearing nothing but trous, sprawled and unconscious.
She darted to him, torch high, reached for—
She stopped, her fingers hovering over his neck. No, no, for a moment she stood frozen, afraid he was dead and as cold as the stone.
A statue of a man sat opposite on a throne, silent and dispassionate, a stone sword on his lap. Its gaze was cold, and her fear rose.
Amyu prayed, and let her fingers rest on Joden’s pulse point.
He lived.
All her breath rushed out, and her shoulders sagged with relief, but it was short lived. His heart might beat, but he was cold, so cold to the touch. She cupped his face, his brown skin a contrast to her cold, pale fingers.
Noise behind her, and voices. “Here,” she called out. “He’s here.”
Heath burst into the room, his men behind him. Heath froze at the sight, and cast his eyes around the room. “Xyson’s tomb?” he sounded astonished. “How did he—”
“We need to get him to the Warprize,” Amyu snapped out an order. The guards came forward and gathered Joden up, careful to support his head. Six of them carried him out, Heath leading the way.
Amyu followed.
Joden’s senses were filled with Amyu even before he woke.
He was cradled in her arms, in blankets, in warmth with her scent in his lungs. Her heart raced under his cheek, thumping wildly, and her scolding voice filled his ear.
“… idiot, but I am sure you are aware of that. So stupid to wander in and sleep on a tomb, but you know that as well. What you don’t know is that I need you to wake up now, wake up and tell me that you are—”
Joden turned his head, still half-asleep and nuzzled her neck.
Amyu gasped. Much to Joden’s dismay, she pushed back out of his arms and started to climb out of the bed. “Warprize, he’s awake.”
“Excellent. We just finished feedings the twins, so—” both women stood glaring at him.
Joden threw the blankets back and stood, wobbling slightly. “M-m-m,” he gave up. “G-g-go.”
“You are not going anywhere,” Amyu scowled. “I am not done yelling at you.”