Haya just huffed a breath. Simus looked at the young warrior, just starting his second season in the army.
“You will,” Simus said. “You will.”
When Simus foundhim, Essa was sitting alone, looking out over the Plains, his back to the Heart. Simus approached slowly, crunching the grass beneath his feet and clearing his throat to announce his presence.
Essa looked back over his shoulder. The side of his face was purple and bruised. He looked away pointedly.
Simus stood, waiting.
“Sit,” Essa said finally, with a grudging tone, resignation in his shoulders.
“My thanks, Eldest Elder.” Simus circled around the man, and sat facing him.
Now Simus could see that Essa’s entire face was bruised and swollen, his eyes mere slits. Simus could barely make out Essa’s Singer tattoo around his eye. Essa wore the tatters of fine colorful silks, clothing he would have donned for the ceremony.
“Today was to have been a day of celebration.” Essa’s voice had an odd lisp to it, as he spoke slowly through swollen lips. “Solemn ritual, with singing and drumming, and offerings to the elements. We’d have raised the Council tent, the wisdom and strength of the Plains gathered within. We’d have chosen our best to enter the season of war and secure the needs of the people of the Plains.”
Simus nodded, but didn’t speak.
“I’d thought there would be debate,” Essa continued. “Hours of it, perhaps even days. Bitter words spoken, insights revealed. Then, as it has always been, the chosen Warlords would have been honored and their oaths taken. A full day of celebration afterward, before they and their armies departed.” He drew in a deep, clearly pained breath. “Now all that is left is to sing for the dead.”
“Wild Winds said that we are diminished, not defeated,” Simus said.
“I am not so sure,” Essa murmured.
“He also said that there is nothing like these monsters in his memory, or in the memories passed down to him.”
Essa stiffened, a flash of pure anger in his eyes.
Simus paused, taken aback. But when Essa said nothing, he cautiously continued. “What of the Singers?” he asked. “Do you—”
“Nothing,” Essa spat. “There is nothing in my memory, or in the memories or songs passed down to me, about these creatures.”
Simus raised an eyebrow. “I should ask for your token, Eldest Elder.”
“No, no,” Essa said, deflating. His rage faded as quickly as it had come. “My anger is not aimed at you.” Essa raised his eyes to Simus. “And yet what have you unleashed upon us, Simus of the Hawk?”
“Eldest Elder Singer Essa,” Simus said carefully. “Is that your truth? That I somehow called down all of this upon us?”
“There are those that will blame you, and Keir,” Essa said.
“I will face their truths with my own,” Simus said.
“You think that will be enough?” Essa asked wearily.
“Yes,” Simus said simply, and then focused on Essa. “You do not support Keir, then.”
He didn’t make it a question.
“The role of the Singer is to hold to our ways and to pass on the knowledge of the Plains,” Essa said. “I don’t know what I support, what I think, what to sing, or even if I should sing of this.”
“You are the Eldest Elder of the Singers,” Simus said. “Your duty is to summon—”
“And if I don’t?” Essa lashed out, his words cutting and cruel.
“We will have lost more than we did to the wyverns,” Simus said.
Essa sat silent, his head bowed. Simus waited, as the wind rustled the longer grasses, as horns blew in the distance.
