Warcry

  “We did, Rish.” Atira gave him a fond smile.

  “Our thanks,” Parshmat said. “Better than stone skies over our heads.”

  “It takes some getting used to, that is certain,” Atira said as Heath guided them toward the garden path. The night grew darker as they walked deeper into the gardens.

  “How can he be so stubborn?” Liam asked, apparently to the night sky. “He is my bonded, my heart’s flame, and for him to stand there and deny me . . . deny us . . .”

  The pain in his voice seemed amplified by the darkness around them. Atira looked up at Liam and the pain etched into his face. “He is in pain as well,” she blurted out.

  Liam frowned. “How do you—?”

  Heath turned slightly, and she knew full well he was listening. “He told me bonding was precious.”

  Liam stopped dead. “He spoke to you about me?”

  They all stopped on the path, the sounds of the courtyard faint on the breeze. Atira hesitated, uncomfortably aware of Heath’s scrutiny. “We were speaking of bonding. I said that bonding was a form of control, and he said I was wrong. That bonding is a precious thing. It was not said under the bells,” she continued. “It was a moment of . . . confiding.” Atira winced at the weakness of her own words.

  Heath’s face was concealed in the shadows. She couldn’t see his eyes. But his jaw was squared and stiff.

  Liam took a deep breath and released it slowly. “Marcus is not one for confiding,” he said wryly. “But I thank you. This is the first time I thought I had a chance to convince the old ehat.” Liam nodded to himself. “If I have to, I will return to the old ways.”

  “Old ways?” Heath asked.

  The warriors all looked at one another, clearly as uncomfortable as Atira with those words.

  “The old ways are the ways practiced long ago, when we warred tribe to tribe,” Atira said. “In those days, there were raids between the tribes. Raids for breeding purposes.”

  “Kidnapping?” Heath asked.

  Atira shrugged and nodded.

  “What else would you have me do?” Liam asked. “Stubborn old ehat.”

  Heath gave Atira a glance and then started back down the path.

  Liam and his warriors followed, Liam still muttering under his breath. Atira held back, bringing up the rear.

  The path wound through hedges and wide swaths of rose briars until emerging on to an open, grassy area where warriors were setting up camp. A warrior came trotting up—a thin woman with dark skin. “Warlord.”

  Liam looked around and nodded with satisfaction. “Asandi, are we secure here?”

  “Yes, Warlord.” The woman grinned, white teeth flashing in the light. “Although they wish us to piss in small buildings.”

  “Xyian ways,” Liam said. “Which we will follow while within their tents, Asandi.”

  She laughed. “Your orders are obeyed, Warlord, but I would not ask for any truths on the matter until we are returned to the Plains.”

  Liam snorted.

  “If you have a need, send word through any guard,” Heath repeated. “They will get word to me.”

  “My thanks,” Liam said. “My only need is an escort to Keir in the morning. I have news for his ears.” Liam held up a hand, forestalling Heath. “Nothing urgent, but he will wish to consider it before he shares it with others.”

  Heath nodded. “Good night, Warlord.”

  “WHAT NEWS, I WONDER,” HEATH MUSED AS HE headed back down the path, taking the one that led to the kitchens.

  “Probably of the spring combats,” Atira replied from behind him. “They should have started by now. Perhaps Simus has qualified already.”

  Heath paused, raising an arm to hold back one of the branches of the rose briar that had arched over the path. “Already? But I thought the combats took weeks?”

  Atira walked under his arm. He felt the heat of her body as she passed close and caught the faint scent of her skin. His body’s response caught him off guard, but then she usually did that to him. He almost missed her response.

  “It depends,” she said, seemingly unaware of his reactions. “A warrior of Simus’s ability may not receive many challenges. If there are no or few challenges, Simus will be the Warlord and will gather warriors to serve him.”

  She continued down the path, her hips swaying slightly more than necessary. Oh, she was aware. Very aware. Suddenly, Heath’s entire body felt more alive, his senses more acute.

  “So, Xyians decide where plants will grow, and where they will not?” Atira looked around, shaking her head.

  “Yes.” Heath couldn’t care less about the garden, but felt oddly compelled to defend it. “We grow them for food, and beauty.”

  “Forcing the land to conform to your rules,” Atira said.

  “And providing a place to play.” Heath smiled. “Lara and I spent hours in the gardens, running free.”

  “I suppose it would be safe,” Atira said.

  “Not really.” Heath chuckled at the memory. “I once ran into a porcupine—a needle-rat,” he explained when Atira looked over her shoulder. “I ran into it on one of the paths. Ended up covered in quills and screamed my head off. Eln spent hours removing them. Lara watched and cried the entire time.”

  “She cares very much,” Atira said.

  “She does. She loves these gardens and the roses. It will be a while before they bloom, though.”

  “Ah.” Atira kept walking. “I will not be here to see that.”

  Heath felt like he’d taken a blow to the chest. “What?” He stopped in the path, watching Atira walk away.

  She looked back, then stopped and turned to face him. “What?”

  “You . . .” Heath’s mouth was dry as he looked into her eyes. “I thought—”

  “Captain?” A voice came through the night, high-pitched, calling his name. “Captain Heath?”

  “Here,” Heath called out, still staring at his lady.

  “Captain,” one of the runner lads ran up. “A message from Othur, sir.”

  “Catch your breath, boy,” Heath snapped.

  The lad gulped in air. “He said to say that the Queen is fine, but that she ain’t bearing yet. He said to tell you it was false pain. That he’d be needin’ ya tomorrow mornin’ for the Justice.”

  “Thanks, lad,” Heath said. “Who’s the watch commander this night?”

  “Detros took it.” The boy grinned. “Said he didn’t trust any other.”

  “Fair enough,” Heath said. “Get back to your duties.”

  The boy tore off into the night.

  “So,” Atira said. “Should we return to the hall?”

  Heath stared at her. They weren’t going to talk about this. She was going to avoid the subject; dance around one another, putting off any confrontation until it was too late for talk. Too late for anything.

  “The hall?” She tilted her head, staring at him. “Heath?”

  He swallowed hard, wanting to confront her. But she was here, now. If he pushed, she might leave. “No,” he said instead. “The men can deal with the nobility. Lara and Keir are secure in their chambers, with guards all around.”

  Atira’s eyes softened, and there was a teasing hint to her smile. “How are your bruises?”

  She moved closer.

  Heath drew a deep breath. “Sparring helped,” he admitted. “But I am still a little stiff.”

  Atira’s smile was warm and slow. “Well, the theas say that the best thing for sore muscles is more of the same.”

  “So I’ve heard,” Heath said. “You want to spar some more?”

  Atira chuckled, and the lilting sound made his knees weak. “No,” she murmured. “I was thinking we could take up where we were interrupted.”

  “Ah,” Heath managed. He’d been a fool to think he could deny his love for her, or to think he could use sex to sway her. He’d have to find another way to convince her to stay, to marry him. In the meantime . . .

  “I have some sweetfat in my packs,” Ati
ra continued. “I could use some to anoint your . . . stiffness.” She moved in even closer, pressing her hand to the center of his chest. The scent of her hair filled his senses. “Why don’t we go to your room?”

  He should reject her. A simple step back and the word no. But she smelled so good. His heart . . . and other body parts . . . would not let him take that step.

  “Why don’t we,” Heath said.

  ATIRA SMILED TO HERSELF AS THEY WALKED through the castle. There’d be no worries of up this time.

  Heath paused to talk to some of the guards at the end of the corridor. Atira continued on, opening the door of Heath’s room to find it dark, with the faint scent of those spices lingering in the air. She paused, then went to open the shutters over the window, letting in the cool night air and the faint starlight beyond.

  She stretched, feeling the ache in her muscles, then started to unbuckle her armor as the door eased open.

  “Let me help with that,” Heath said from the doorway. He was outlined by the torchlight in the hall, a black figure against the golden glow. Then he shut the door, and the room was dark once again.

  Atira paused and listened as he padded across the room. His hand touched her shoulder, and her heart jumped.

  “We should light a candle,” she whispered.

  “No,” Heath whispered back. “Starlight’s more than enough.”

  His clever fingers went to the buckles of her armor, even as she reached for his. His breath quickening, and she felt her own heat start to rise.

  She left his armor, moved her hand slowly up over his shoulder, behind his neck, and pulled him down into a kiss.

  His mouth opened to her, and ever so slowly they explored one another. Heath’s hands stilled as they kissed—gently, softly, standing close.

  Atira pulled back just a bit and put her hands on his chest. “Do you want a fire?”

  Heath chuckled, shaking his head. “We already have one.”

  Atira hummed in appreciation and started to work on his clasps and buckles. Heath got hers free first. Atira shivered as he eased off her leathers. Her nipples tightened in the cool air.

  “Cold?” he murmured.

  “Warm me,” she said as she took his hands and pressed them to her breasts. His hands were warm, but the touch of his skin tightened the buds even more. He fondled them, rolling them with his fingers, and Atira melted inside.

  She fumbled with his straps and pulled away his chest piece to reveal the warm skin beneath. His own nipples reacted to the air, and she ran her hands over his belly, feeling the play of muscles under the skin.

  Heath kissed her then, pulling her close, and she wrapped her arms around him, grateful for his willingness to just share this night. No talk of bonding or commitments, no conflict between them. Just two warriors taking pleasure in each other’s bodies.

  Yet, if she were honest, there was so much more with Heath. She was experienced in the ways of sharing, had shared many times with many lovers. But there was something in this man, something different, that made the experience so much more than just bodies in the night.

  Heath was serious about their armor now, and he moved with determination, still slow and caring, but with a goal in mind. She aided him in his efforts, and they were naked soon enough, with naught between but starlight.

  “I should get the sweetfat,” she whispered.

  “No,” Heath shook his head. “Crawl beneath the covers. I’ll check the door.”

  Atira felt him move away, taking the warmth of his body from her skin. She shivered, more with wanting than anything else. She went to the bed and pulled back the covers.

  She wasn’t sure why or what that was. Heath would have her believe that it was the emotion between them that made the difference, but that was hard to believe. Bonding happened between special people. Atira couldn’t see how that could happen to her. And with a city-dweller?

  But as she waited on the bed, she acknowledged a truth. There was something special about Heath of Xy. From the moment he’d flashed that smile and offered sympathy for her broken leg, she’d wanted nothing more than . . .

  “You should cover up,” Heath said softly as he crawled into the bed next to her, and drew the covers over them. “I’d not have you take a chill.”

  “Warm me,” she whispered, and gasped as Heath moved over her, covering her with his warm, solid body. “No talk, Heath. Just . . . this.”

  “As you command,” Heath said, and claimed her mouth.

  CHAPTER 22

  OTHUR PAUSED TO CATCH HIS BREATH AT THE top of the stairs before heading to the Queen’s chambers. He was certainly feeling the stairs this morning, but then it had been a rough time of late. He leaned against the rough stone of the wall and huffed. It didn’t help that he was carrying the Crystal Sword of Xy. He shifted the sash where it rubbed into his neck and ran his hand through his hair.

  It also didn’t help matters that he’d been up half the night with Anna planning a wedding. Flowers, dresses, food. The ladies of the court were all trying on gowns and demanding help from the staff even into the wee hours.

  Ah, it would be worth it. Lara wed under the laws of both lands, an heir in the nursery, and new hope for the kingdom. Xy had been isolated too long; it might hurt to stretch old muscles, but there was no alternative.

  Then there was Heath. Othur smiled with satisfaction. He was so proud of his boy.

  Heath had slipped into the role of Seneschal as easy as a duck slips into water. Heath had kept control of the Guard without a protest. Even if he didn’t know it, Othur knew that Heath had the skills to step into his shoes someday. His son was loyal to the House of Xy; to have him leave and live on the Plains would be a waste of his talents.

  Atira was a warrior of the Plains. A fine woman, Othur could see that. Strong and sensible, but he doubted that she would ever be content in Xy. Most of the Plains warriors had trouble adjusting to walls and restraints. She’d be no different. Othur sighed and shook his head.

  Well, they’d just see. One way or another, things had a way of working out for the best, given time.

  “Lord Othur?” One of the kitchen pages came running up the stairs and slid to a stop beside him, not even breathing hard. “Cook says she wants ya.”

  Othur put his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Tell Cook you found me with the Queen, and that I’ll be down after the Justice. If it can’t wait, she should send someone to me with her questions.”

  “Aye, lord.” And the boy was off like the wind.

  Othur straightened his doublet and headed toward the Queen’s chambers. After this Justice and the wedding, once things had settled down after the birth, he’d promised himself a rest. Some long afternoons playing chess with friends, draining a few casks of ale, and long walks in the garden with Anna.

  He gave a nod to Ander and Yveni, standing guard at the doors, and walked into the chamber to find Lara seated by the fire, looking tired, disgruntled, and all together unhappy.

  “Walk,” Eln said to her, standing at her side. “It will help—”

  “I know that,” Lara snapped, then heaved a sigh. “But knowing and doing are two very different things. I guess I am paying the price for all the banalities I said to patients as a healer.”

  “Banality makes them no less true,” Eln said.

  “Walk, beloved,” Keir said as he helped Lara to stand. “Later, after this senel, we will rest and balance the elements within you.”

  Lara snorted as she leaned on his arm, one hand pressed to her belly. “I’m fairly sure that is how we got into this in the first place.”

  “It’s a Justice,” Othur reminded him. “Not a senel.”

  “Justice,” Keir corrected himself as he walked Lara around the room.

  The door opened, and Heath and Atira walked in. Heath took one look at Lara and frowned. “Is the baby—”

  “No,” Lara snapped. “It’s not. It’s fussing and cramping and kicking, but it’s not coming. It’s going to stay within unti
l it’s a year old, from the feel of things.”

  Heath blinked and took a step back, bumping into Atira.

  “We were up most of the night,” Keir explained with a shrug.

  “Perhaps we should consider delaying the Justice,” Othur suggested.

  “No.” Lara shook her head. “No, that needs doing, and soon. Bad enough I’ve put it off this long.”

  “I’d ask you to remember our traditions then,” Othur said. “Monarchs are not supposed to actually use the Sword of Xy to lop off heads during the Justice. That is for your designated executioner.”

  Lara laughed in spite of herself. “I’ll try to remember that, Othur.”

  Keir glanced at the sword. “Could I see the blade? Is there a tradition against that?”

  “Please, my lord,” Othur said, holding out the sheath with a smile. He’d been looking forward to showing off the blade.

  Atira took Keir’s place, assisting Lara as the Warlord took the sword. The tall man drew the weapon, and his head jerked in surprise. “It is stone?”

  “Aye, it’s crystal,” Othur said. “The only one of its kind.”

  Everyone craned their necks to look as Keir pulled the sword free of its sheath. The blade was as a traditional one, but as clear as water. It had a thin furrow down the center and it glittered in the light. The hilt was bronze and wire-wrapped.

  Keir held it up, admiring it. “It’s no heavier than a regular sword. And well balanced.”

  “Still sharp,” Heath said. “Or at least it was the last time I drew it.” Heath glanced at Othur and grinned. “Got punished for it, too, as I remember.”

  Othur smiled, shaking his head at the memory. “Not sure how either of us survived your childhood, my boy.”

  Keir sheathed the sword and handed it back to Othur. “I’d fear to hit anything with it. That blade would surely shatter.”

  “It dates back to the reign of Xyson,” Othur said. “Legend has it that it was wielded by that ancient king, but that after a particularly fierce battle, he announced that he would never draw the blade again. It has served as the ceremonial blade since that time.”