I was trying to remember what Keir had told me, about balancing the elements in the body using touch, the night he’d comforted me after Xymund had burned my books. Keir’s skin still felt cool to me, but perhaps it was more my fear than truth. I cradled his right hand in both of mine and started caressing it, tracing each finger slowly, and moving my fingertips over his palm. I tried to remember what Keir had said when he had done this to me. “The breath is made of air, and sits within the right hand.” I whispered, continuing my movements until the warmth returned to his hand.
I reached over, to take his left hand, and did the same thing until the flesh was warm and pink. “The soul is made of fire, and sits within the left hand.”
Keir seemed to be breathing easier. I tucked his hands back under the bedding, and then went to the foot of the bed, reaching under to feel his toes. “The flesh is made of earth and sits within the left—”
“No . . . wrong.”
The sound was faint but I looked at Keir to see blue eyes looking back at me.
“Keir?” I scrambled up onto the bed to lean over him, and cup his face in my hand. My hair fell around us. His cheeks were bristly under my fingers, but there was no trace of excess heat. I smiled at him, calling. “Keir?”
His lips moved, forming a faint smile.
“Keir.” I whispered softly, my heart full of joy. The worst had passed. My warlord would survive.
Keir smiled softly, and turned his head just enough to brush his lips over my palm. With a soft sigh, he fell back to sleep.
If there is a universal truth, among both our cultures, it is that men of the sword have no patience with their healing bodies. They always seem to think that the body’s humors should balance quickly. But a body heals in its own time, and there is no rushing it.
Keir’s chest was big and muscular. It took more force and longer periods of drumming to clear his lungs of the water within. So the warriors were the ones that had to drum for him as he hung over the side of the bed, coughing. I didn’t have the strength to be effective, but I was the only one that could bully him into cooperating. At one point in the process, Keir had swivelled around and glared at Gils. “You’re enjoying this too much.”
“Keir,” I admonished, and he turned back around to let Gils continue.
“Me? Enjoy beating on my Warlord and helping him?” Gils asked cheerfully as he thumped on Keir’s back. “Not I, Warlord.”
Keir coughed, then spat to clear his throat. “Say that to the naked sky?”
“Well, looks like we are done for now.” Gils backed off, smiling and moving toward the exit. “I’s chores and patients to see, yes I’s have.” He bolted out of the tent, grabbing his satchel by the strap.
I snorted back a laugh.
Keir pulled himself up, and gave me his best glare, but I shook my head. “Oh no, my Warlord. I seem to remember someone insisting that I do this. Fair is fair.”
Keir was a horrible patient. Whiny as a babe, cranky as a grandfather—he wanted this and needed that and why couldn’t he get up out of that bed? We tried letting him care for Meara, or giving him small tasks, like sharpening blades, but his strength just wasn’t up to it. Keir’s mind was racing, but his body could not follow.
When Marcus threatened to smother Keir in his sleep, and stomped out of the tent, I knew it was time to resort to desperate measures. I started reading long passages to him from the Epic of Xyson.
The Epic had been written about the battles of the second King of Xy, and it was one of the dullest pieces of history that had ever been written. But Keir lay curled under the covers, listening with rapt attention as I droned on and on about military matters, army maneuvers and planning. “ ‘Upon the dawn, King Xyson mounted his warhorse, Greatheart and . . .’ ” I paused, remembering. That was the horse’s name. Greatheart.
“You name your horses?” Keir asked, looking puzzled.
I rolled my eyes and continued, but other than that the tale bored me to tears. There was only so much I could take, reading it aloud.
There had to be another way to keep a Warlord busy.
“This is a playing board.”
“The squares?”
“Yes.” I set the board by his side and sat on the edge of the bed. Keir curled onto his side, studying the board. I held out a piece in my hand. “This is the King. He is the tallest piece on the board. He moves one square in any direction.”
Keir studied the piece of wood. “There are two kings.”
“Yes. Yours and mine.” I positioned the kings on the board. “They start here.”
“Always?”
“Yes.”
Keir grunted. “So. A war.”
I nodded as I reached for the next piece. “The smallest pieces are the pawns. They go here, forming a line.” Keir reached out to help me place the small black and white river stones that I’d gathered. Black for him and white for me.
Slowly, I took him through each piece, their names, how they moved, what power they had. I explained the board and the colors. The problem occurred when we reached the bishop. I tried to explain their role in the church, but all I got for my trouble was a grim look of doubt. “So. They are warrior-priests.”
A brief vision of the florid face of Archbishop Drizen covered in tattoos had me speechless for a moment. “No, not exactly.”
“But these bishops, they act to protect their king? Their people?”
“Yes, of course.” I bit my lip, re-thinking my words. “Well, some care more for their status than their people, but the good ones—”
“Ah.” Keir nodded. “Warrior-priests.” His tone was one of disdain as he clutched the stone tight in his hand.
I reached over, and touched his fist, gently pulling the piece from his fingers. “You hate them, don’t you? Because of Marcus?”
His jaw clenched, and there was a pause before he answered. “It goes beyond Marcus, though that alone was enough. I will see them broken and destroyed.”
“Keir,” There was so much I didn’t understand. “If they are as powerful as you say they are—”
He gave me a tight smile, and shook his head. “That is for another day, Lara. This piece here, this ‘castle’. Castles do not move.” Keir frowned at the piece on the board. “Why do they move?”
“They just do.” I sighed, resigned to the change of subject.
“It should be called something else.” Keir looked at me intently.
“Whose game is this, anyway?” I asked. “Let’s go over the moves one more time.” With his memory, it took no time at all. Once he had them down, he looked at me expectantly.
“The best way to learn is to play.” I moved one of my center pawns out.
Keir gave the board a close look, and then lifted an eyebrow at me, his eyes sparkling for the first time since he’d gotten sick. Father had taught me chess long ago, and we’d played many games during his illness. I knew myself to be a fair player. Father usually won, since he’d had an uncanny knack of holding all the possible moves in his head well in advance of the actual turns. I knew that once Keir learned the strategies behind the moves, I’d never be able to beat him. Best to take full advantage while I could.
Keir made his first move carefully. I reached out and advanced another piece, and then watched as he committed a classic beginner’s mistake.
A few more moves and I had him. “Checkmate.”
“What?” Keir frowned, glaring at the pieces. “What did I do wrong?”
I stood up. “When you figure it out, call me, and we’ll play another game.”
He was muttering under his breath as I left the tent.
I was doomed.
It had taken most of a day for Keir to pick up the basics. I’d gone about my business at the stilltent, returning when Keir would bellow, make my move, smile and then leave to let him contemplate the possibilities. This frustrated him to no end. But once he learned to avoid the basic mistakes, he started to take great childish glee in seizing my pieces and hidi
ng them in the rumpled bedding, chuckling over my pending defeat. I spent the next morning barely avoiding the capture of my king. I hadn’t lost to him yet, but it was only a matter of time.
Keir was gaining strength, but he was still weak. He’d manage a trip to the privy area, and then I’d insist that he return to the bed. He made a token protest, but he leaned heavily on Marcus for the few steps back to the bed.
But he felt and I agreed that he was strong enough to receive the reports of his warleaders. So there was a great deal of coming and going as the warleaders prepared to make their reports to their Warlord. For Keir needed to see and hear as much if not more than to be seen and heard. The warleaders needed the reassurance that he had survived the illness.
I could feel the burden of command lift from my shoulders as we crammed into the sleeping area, even Sal, looking thinner and weaker, but determined to participate. Iften stood by Keir’s bed, shooting fairly nervous glances in my direction.
No one had the strength to talk long, so all kept their words short. Keir listened intently, asking few questions, sometimes only grunting in satisfaction. Yers’s report took the longest, as Keir questioned him as to the minds of the warriors. Keir’s eyes flickered with surprise when Yers began to speak, and his gaze traveled over the room before settling back on Yers, concentrating on his words. I suspected that Joden’s absence had been noted.
My heart lifted as Gils stood confidently under the scrutiny of his superiors and reported that the number of the newly ill had fallen off dramatically. As proud as I was of Gils, I also felt a guilty sense of relief at his words. Relief, that it was almost over. Guilt, because so very many were dead, and I still had my Warlord.
Gils’s report put new strength into everyone. Keir gave Sal permission to range the hunting parties further afield, and resolved a few other issues before his strength started to wane. And not just his—the others were tired as well. The warleaders departed quickly, with Iften in the lead.
Keir reached for the chess board, but I beat him to it, removing it from his grasp. “Sleep, Keir.”
He sighed dramatically, but the effect was spoiled when it changed to a yawn.
Marcus had put together a meal of fry bread, kavage, and gurt. As tired as I had grown of those foods while on the march, they were a welcome change from the soups and stews that we had been eating. Isdra and Gils joined us in the stilltent, and we all dug in, eating in silence.
It was only after we were full to bursting that Gils spoke up. “Warprize, I’s thinking that Iften is saying that the illness was spread on purpose by the Xyians.”
Isdra muttered something under her breath, and Marcus gave her a sharp look. “Careful, warrior. Iften is Second, and earned that rank through challenge. Twice your size, and the better warrior.”
I stiffened, surprised to hear Marcus say something like that without a token, but Isdra merely shrugged. Marcus scowled, and opened his mouth for a blistering comment, but there was a noise outside the tent. Isdra took advantage of the interruption. “That’s Pisila, returning with Meara.” She left the tent.
I looked after her, but Marcus shook his head. “Young’un, you at least listen to me, yes?”
Gils nodded. “I’s staying out of his way.” Gils also stood, grabbing for his satchel. “There’s all that fever’s foe that we might not be needing. Maybe Sal will have wax for the sealing, Warprize.”
I nodded. “Keep track of the new cases, Gils. We have to stay isolated for forty days from the last case.”
He nodded, looking serious. “I’s remember, Warprize. Forty days.”
Voices rose outside, Isdra’s the loudest, with a sharp exclamation of anger. We all rose and went out to find Isdra yelling at Pisila, a younger girl, of fair skin and a serious look on her face. “Isdra, I did no wrong. She had to be marked!”
“You had no right to make the decision without the Warprize’s approval!” Isdra was outraged, her hands on her hips.
Between them lay Meara in her basket, her little arms waving about, playing with a wide strip of privacy bells. I took another step and bent down to look closer, and gasped.
A tattoo. Goddess above, a tattoo.
Marcus and Gils moved and we all stood there, looking down at the smiling babe, with two thin tattoos on her tiny upper arm. I confess, my voice was a shriek. “YOU TATTOOED A BABY?”
Everyone looked at me in horror, but it was Pisila that answered. “Earth, no! Warprize, I used.”
“A stain.” Marcus knelt down, holding out a finger, which Meara grabbed with glee. He stretched out her arm for me to see that it was a stain, two thin parallel lines on her pink skin. I remembered now, Isdra had mentioned that to me. As I looked closer, I could see that the lines were really thin willow leaves. “With a fair hand.” Marcus added, clear impressed by the work.
Pislia’s smile was smug. “My thanks.”
Isdra was not appeased. “You had no right, warrior. The Warprize has not chosen a design.”
Pislia looked confused at that. “She has not? But I thought—” she gestured to my upper arm and I realized she’d mistaken my scars as tribal marks. “I thought that was the mark of Xy.”
Isdra proceeded to tell her how stupid she was as I stood there, stunned. I couldn’t blame the young woman, I could understand her confusion. The scars on my arm were from when I’d been attacked by Xyians in the Firelander’s camp outside of Water’s Fall. How ironic that she would see it as my tribal marking, as was their tradition.
Meara waved the bells in the air, gurgling with laughter, as Isdra and Pislia argued.
I put my hand over my mouth, but I couldn’t keep my shoulders from heaving.
They all looked at me, worried, and Pislia spoke anxiously. “Warprize, forgive me. The stain will wear off.”
“Eventually,” voiced Gils.
That was it. I lost control, laughing so hard, I thought to wet my trous.
After they’d departed with the babe, a wave of weakness came over me. Marcus fixed me with a look. “Bed for you. Hisself sleeps, you sleep.” He gave me a long look. “You could sleep in the command tent, yes?”
“I don’t want Keir disturbed, Marcus.” I stared into my kavage. “I’ll sleep here.”
He frowned as he gather up the dishes. I shrugged, and played with the hem of my tunic.
“What is wrong, Warprize?”
It was my turn to sigh. “I feel guilty, Marcus. Why did it never occur to me that their lungs were filling? If I’d realized that in the village, maybe they would have lived and none of this would have happened.”
“Don’t you think that Isdra wonders why she failed to offer Epor comfort in that fashion? If she had, maybe he would have lived. No one knows the wind’s way, Lara. And you will make yourself mad trying to predict or say ‘what if’.”
I had to smile. “You sound like Eln.”
“A wise man.” Marcus chuckled, and picked up the pile of dirty dishes. I watched, but stopped him when he would have left. “Marcus? Would Isdra . . . ?”
He sighed and gave me a long look. “She made you a promise, Lara, and Isdra is not one to give her word lightly.” He looked off at the tent entrance. “But the breaking of a bond is a painful thing.”
“Like yours?”
He turned on me, the dishes in his arms rattling. “What do you know of that?”
I took a step back, surprised at his sudden anger. “Someone told—”
“No business of yours, or any other. Say no more of this to me.” Marcus spat out the words, and left.
I stared at him, bewildered at the sudden change. Suddenly, it all seemed too much, and I sagged, tired in body and spirit. We all were short of temper and energies.
A voice caught my attention, and I stumbled over to the entrance, to hear Keir calling my name. Goddess help me, that man was supposed to be sleeping.
I walked over to the command tent to find Rafe and Prest there, guarding the entrance. As Keir bellowed yet again, I looked at them and
smiled. “Anyone interested in learning a game?”
Of course, I’d forgotten about their memories.
Not their memories, exactly. It never occurred to me that they could hold the picture of the board in their minds, telling each other the movement of the pieces without having an actual board in front of them.
Rafe and Prest took to the game like ducks to water. They cheerfully learned the moves from Keir and then started playing. This had the added benefit of keeping Rafe from trying to do too much. I’d worried that he’d put our security before his well-being. Sitting and studying the chess board wasn’t as good as sleeping, but I would take what I could get.
Thankfully, Marcus had grown curious, and had started asking questions about the moves and the pieces. I made sure that they had the moves right, and left them to their own devices. I’d thought to kill two birds with one thrown stone, since Keir would have others to play with and I might be able to get him and Marcus to rest while playing. But Marcus grew adept at calling out his moves to Keir as he worked.
As the day wore on, they all kept themselves amused for the most part. I would go over to check on Keir regularly, but all was well, except for an odd feeling that I had. Both Keir and Rafe seemed worried about something, but what it was I couldn’t get them to tell me. Rafe in particular seemed always on the verge of asking me about something, only to change his mind at the last minute. Keir was just cranky about something.
Finally, when Rafe gave me that odd glance for about the tenth time, I confronted him. “Rafe, is there something you want to ask me?”
Rafe straightened, and gave Prest a beseeching look, as if asking him for help. Prest just shrugged.
“Warprize, some of the warriors, they are worried.”
“Worried?” I frowned, concerned. Perhaps there had been complications that hadn’t been reported.
“Worried.” Rafe nodded. “Especially the male warriors.”
Male? I thought about that for only a moment before the answer hit me. Of course. Male warriors not used to illness and its effects. I put a hand over mouth to cover my smile, thinking of Rafe and his four ‘nurses’. I only spoke when I could do so with a serious tone. “Rafe.”