Warprize (27 page)

Keir poured kavage, handing a mug to Simus. “I had good reason—”

“To gut one of them? In their own throne room?” Simus rolled his eyes. “Let me guess, you insulted their poor excuse of a king as well?” When I frowned, Simus glared at me. “I’m voicing truths here, Warprize, and you’ll pardon me if I don’t fear your blade.”

“How’s your leg, Simus?” Keir asked pointedly, as he handed me a full mug.

Simus ignored him. “And your reasons, oh great Warlord of the Plains? For throwing rocks at rutting ehats?”

I frowned. What was an ‘ehat’?

“The man gave insult to the warprize,” Keir responded. “He called her a whore.” He used the Xyian word.

“Eh?” Marcus was bringing in food. “What’s that?”

I took a long drink of kavage as Keir explained. How did they not have a word for that? What did that mean about these people? That any were free to lay with all? That seemed so barbaric.

“They sell it?” Marcus looked slightly ill, then moved away, muttering something about water for bathing.

Simus said nothing, merely drinking from his kavage.

Keir sighed, and sat down on the corner of the bed nearest Simus. “I knew I’d made a mistake even as he slid off my blade.”

Simus remained quiet.

“How can I ask my warriors to change their ways when I couldn’t change mine in that instant?” Keir ran a hand through his hair.

“Change is easy to talk of, hard to do.” Simus’s voice dropped, his eyes serious. “You tell them the truth, of course.”

Marcus came in with two buckets, and disappeared into the privy area.

“You tell them that you regret his death, but that all must take heed from this incident.”

“He’s not dead,” I spoke up. “The last we heard, he still lived.”

“He did?” Simus asked, then let his eyes slide over to Keir. “Losing your touch?”

A cry of outrage filled the tent. I grabbed at the blanket, as Keir stood, sword in hand. Simus had two daggers that appeared from nowhere. I looked at the privy entrance, to see Marcus standing there, waving my underthings in his fist and shaking them in the air. “Where did the likes of these come from?”

I jumped up and grabbed for them, but that scarred little man dodged me. “Those are mine!” I made another attempt, darting around the bed. Simus roared out his laughter and Keir got out of the way.

Marcus danced away again. “The Warprize accepts nothing, except at the hand of the Warlord!” His face was bright red, the scarring a dull white against it.

“Give me those!” I went after him again and this time managed to wrestle the cloth from his hand. Flushed and breathless, I shoved them behind my back and faced down Marcus, toe to toe. “You have no business—”

“Nothing, except at the hand of the Warlord!” Marcus roared out, spittle flying from his mouth.

“You bragnect! I bought them with his coin!”

Marcus blinked. Apparently it was an effective curse in their language, since it seemed to leave him speechless. His recovery was quick. “Could have asked Hisself or I.”

I rolled my eyes, just imagining that conversation.

“No more than she could tell us about the dress, apparently.”

My turn to lose my tongue. Keir’s tone was mild, but his look sharp. Simus was watchful, his two daggers gone, and the kavage back in his hand. “Tell us, Warprize. Tell us what you did not tell us yesterday.”

Marcus scowled, eye darting between the two of us. “Dress? What was wrong with the dress?”

“We don’t have cloth like yours, with the colors so strong, so bright.” I ran my free hand through my hair, pulling it back.

Marcus snorted. “City folk all dress like drab, dull geese, waddling about, squawking at—”

Keir had seated himself at the table and was filling his plate. “They acted as if I had branded you, marked you somehow.” He tilted his head. “Did I?”

Marcus snorted, turning to Keir. I took the opportunity to tuck my underthings under one of the pillows on the bed. “It’s a fine dress, the color of flame, it honored her. How is that a problem?”

“For us, it is an honor.” He pinned me with his eyes. “For you?”

I sighed. “In Water’s Fall, only a whore wears red.”

Marcus’s eyebrow shot up, and he glanced at Keir before he looked at me. “A whore? That insult?” I nodded. Marcus turned to face Keir, placing both hands on his hips. “Do you hear this? We do not have such a word, thanks to the skies.” He threw his hands up in the air. “This will never work. Bringing together their ways and ours, it cannot hope to—”

Keir slapped the table with his open palm, rattling the dishes. Marcus and I both jumped. “It will work.” Keir stood there, grim and determined. “I will weave a new pattern between these ways.” He glanced at Simus. “I will use my mistake as an example for my people.” His eyes flashed at Marcus, who stood, radiating disapproval. “We will learn of our differences, ask questions when needed.” His glare centered on me now. “Offer information freely, with no fear.” I flushed and looked away. “Am I understood?”

Simus and Marcus both bowed their heads. “Yes, Warlord.”

I did the same, biting my lip.

Keir settled at the table and reached for bread. “Simus, have your men return you to your tent. Marcus, the kavage needs warming.” Marcus retreated. Keir didn’t look at me. “If you wish to bathe before eating, you may.”

I fled to the privy.

Keir and Simus were gone when I emerged. Marcus wasn’t there either, but I could hear him rattling dishes beyond the tent walls. I rummaged in the saddlebags, and put a touch of vanilla oil on the back of my neck. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath of the warm fragrance. Just for a moment, I was back in Anna’s kitchen as a child, hearing her laughter and the jingle of her keys, surrounded by those I loved. The tightness in my shoulders eased. I took a few deep breaths before sitting at the table.

Marcus entered, placing a heaping plate down before me. “Warlord’s gone to send a messenger to the castle.” He poured kavage in my mug, hesitating before setting it down. “I meant no offense, Warprize.” I looked at him, puzzled. “The dress. I meant no insult.”

I stared at my plate. “I should have said something, Marcus. You were just so proud for having found it, I just couldn’t—”

He shook his head and grimaced. “Not the first time my pride got in the way, won’t be the last.”

“Marcus—” I pushed the food around on my plate. “Marcus, do you support Keir in this peace? Does the army?”

“We’re a people who’ve known nothing but battle and raiding. Conquering and holding land, the blending of our ways with yours is a new idea. And one Hisself is bent on.” Marcus’s eye was lost in the distance, and his fingers drummed on the pitcher. “All knew of his plans for this place, and followed in that understanding, but there’s miles between knowing and doing.” He wrinkled his nose as he focused on me. “Hisself holds the reins, but there’s always someone that frets at the traces. Iften would gladly see Hisself fall off this horse.”

Marcus sat on one of the stumps, slumping. “Then there’s you.”

“Me?”

“Aye. A warprize must be taken to the Heart of the Plains. That’s a month of travel at the start of the snows. You, who’s never lived beyond stone walls for all her days.” Marcus shook his head. “Hisself is a good man to follow, to trust with your life, but the risks on this path are far greater than the one’s he’s taken in battle. As I’ve followed him in war, who am I to refuse to follow him in this?”

“But you don’t think it will work.” I breathed, my heart sinking.

He stood quickly, scowling at me. “You should see to Atira. Eat now, Rafe and Prest will be here soon, and the food does no good to the plate.”

Try as I might, I could get no more from him.

With Gils’s help, the morning flew swiftly, what with washing, bandaging and the like. I was amazed how quickly Gils learned. He would recite things back that I had told him, word for word, but even with his memory, hands on learning was necessary. It’s one thing to be able to recite how to clean a wound. It’s another to have a living patient who wiggles and complains as you do it. Halfway through the process, I heard noises coming from outside the tent, as of men working. I looked over but Rafe and Prest showed no signs of concern, so I ignored it.

My patients were progressing well, and there were only two left, including Atira. She was also coming along nicely, although she was uncomfortable when I adjusted the tension on her leg. The ache seemed to ease once she was settled again, with her weapons arranged in proper order. Privately, I conceded that having one’s patients naked under the blankets was a time-saver, but not one that I’d be able to introduce to my Xyian patients.

That thought brought me up short. I’d lost myself in the comforting routine of caring for people, forgetting that I’d never have Xyian patients again. A wave of homesickness came over me, and I had to bite my lip to prevent tears. I felt lost and alone and—

I wrenched my thoughts back to the moment, and concentrated on the tasks at hand.

I desperately wanted to ask Atira questions, about the Heart of the Plains and her life there, and what she thought of the Warlord’s plans, but she had her planning board out, and was moving stones around. Besides, there were listening ears all about us. I was afraid that Marcus was right, that Keir’s plans to unite our peoples and learn each others ways was doomed from the start. What would happen to Keir if he failed? What would happen to me? I flushed, feeling sheepish. Later, I’d ask, when Gils was gone and everyone was drowsy. I’d ask for Atira’s token.

Once all were settled, I pulled out The Epic of Xyson. I’d managed to hide it from Marcus and smuggle it down to the healing tent with no one the wiser. “I have a surprise for you all.” I smiled as I opened the book. “I thought I would read this to you. It’s a story of one of my ancestors—”

There was a crash. Startled, I looked up. Gils had dropped the pitcher. Everyone was staring at me. Atira, propped up on her elbows, was pale and wide-eyed. “Warprize, you keep your songs on paper?”

I nodded and turned the book so they could see the writing.

Gils looked at it carefully. The other patient came over, straining to see. Even Rafe and Prest left their positions by the door for a closer look.

“I have heard of this, but the sky as my witness, I thought it a fable told to children.” Rafe frowned. “How can the marks hold your songs?”

“Listen.” Returning the book to my lap, I read out loud, “Hear now the tale of Xyson, Warrior King, and his defeat of the barbarians of the southern lands. Xyson, tall and strong as the mountain had led his people well for ten years before the barbarians fell upon the villages and raided his people.” I paused, suddenly unsure. It occurred to me that the barbarians the book talked about were Keir’s own people.

Prest snorted. “How old?” he asked, nodding at the book.

“The story is almost four hundred years old. Xyson is my father’s father’s father back some nine generations.”

Prest looked impressed. Atira lay back against her blankets. “A song so old. You do us honor, Warprize.”

“Don’t be so quick to say that.” I smiled at her and the others settling around us. “You haven’t heard it yet.”

I read for about a half hour. My audience hung on every word, even though the tale talked about numbers of troops, supplies, and the appointing of a Warden for the kingdom.

Dull as the story was, it forced me to learn new words as I translated. Rafe and Prest took their positions back at the entrance, but when I saw them straining to hear, I raised my voice slightly. There was silence when I finally stopped and closed the book. Atira cleared her throat. “I’m not sure what your custom is, Warprize. Normally we would give thanks to the singer.”

“Thanks is good.” I stood and stretched. “I’m glad to share it with you. But now I am hungry. Is the nooning close?”

Gils jumped up. “I’s be checking.” He darted out the door and ran into someone coming in. “Sorry, Warlord!”

“Watch where you’re going, boy,” came the gruff response. Rafe and Prest stood as Keir entered the tent. His face was clear of the anger he had shown this morning. “How goes it with—” He stopped abruptly when he saw the book in my hands.

It was time to confess. “I bought this with your coin yesterday.” I smoothed one hand over its cover nervously. “It’s an old story called The Epic of Xyson. I thought it would distract—”

“You’re reading to my people?” The surprise in his voice was clear.

I nodded. “I also bought a primer. A teaching tool. So that I could teach Gils to read my book on herbs.” I chanced a glance at his face.

Keir looked very satisfied. “You would teach him?” He moved over to gaze down at Atira. “Could she learn as well?”

“Yes.” I nodded. “If she is willing.”

Atira’s eyes got even bigger. “Warlord, at your command, I’ll try.”

Keir narrowed his eyes, nodding. “That is all I ask, Warrior. This is no easy horse to master, but it would please me for you to learn.”

She nodded her acceptance of the charge.

Keir arched an eyebrow. “I’ve announced a pattern dance for tomorrow night.”

Atira brightened, but her face fell quickly. “I’ll miss the dancing, but it’s my pattern they’ll be weaving.” There was pride mixed with the disappointment.

Keir smiled. “If Simus can be carried to the senel, why not you?”

I frowned, considering. Keir watched me, focused on my face. “Explain to her, Warrior. Tell her why it is important to you.”

“Warprize, it’s an honor to be asked to design the pattern.” Atira pleaded with voice and eyes. “To not see my first pattern woven, it’s like a dagger thrust here.” She put her hand over her heart.

“The leather has dried and hardened. If we are careful, and if you swear that you will not move, and let yourself be carried…”

“All that, all that, I swear, Warprize.”

Atira was so serious, so earnest, that I had to smile.

“Well then, if all is well here, I have something to show you.” Keir tugged on my sleeve and pulled me toward the entrance. Prest and Rafe were also standing there, grinning like fools.

I gave them a narrow look. “What’s going on?”