Snowfall shook her head. “Not hard. Remember that the power has been scarce, and we were trained to conserve. I have never used it with abandon. I would ask, however—” She hesitated, then plunged on. “I would ask that you lift the restriction upon me if needed for your protection.” Snowfall dropped her eyes. “We—I—have staked much on your success. If you should fall—”
Simus considered her suggestion, as he considered her.
How far could he trust her? Trust a warrior-priestess? No matter that she had sworn her oaths; oaths had been shattered before, with no formal recession and no warning.
Yet, there was something there. For all that Snowfall held her emotions inside, there was an honesty to her truth.
He’d trust, until his trust was betrayed.
Simus gave her a half-smile and shook his head. “In battle, I would never instruct a warrior not to use any weapon at hand. But this is not a normal battle. You mean well, Snowfall, but the risk is too great. We tread a new path here, and there are those that would use any excuse against you—against me—to deny the change we bring. My restrictions stand.” Simus hesitated. “Do you need to use your powers to receive a message from anyone?”
“No,” Snowfall shook her head. “Only to respond. And I will report to you any message I receive and I will not respond without your permission.”
Simus nodded. “I thank you for these truths, Snowfall.” He returned the piece of silk.
“And I thank you for yours, Warlord.” She rose and returned his token to its place on the tree-stump. She strapped on her knives as he reached for his own weapons.
“You’re in for more challenges,” Simus warned. “I will not reject good candidates.”
“I do not expect you to,” Snowfall said, her hands filled with piled dishes. “This will mean nothing if I do not earn my place. I will clear this, and raise my banner again.”
“And mine as well,” Simus said as he strode toward the tent flap, and began to untie the bells. “But Snowfall, prepare for a large meal tonight, and get extra servers.”
“Warlord?”
Simus grinned at her. “I am calling a senel this night, and I am certain there will be a crowd, for I intend to invite all who wish to hear. I am sure the debate will be hot and thirsty work.”
She nodded and turned away, taking the dishes with her. Simus paused, watching the sway of her hips.
He was glad he hadn’t stopped taking his foalsbane.
Chapter Twenty
Simus announced the senel for sunset and had Yers send messengers through the camp, so that all of his people knew of the meeting. From his Second through to all his Tenths, he made it known that they were invited. And he sent messengers running to Essa and every Warlord candidate that he knew, and even some who were only names to him. If Wild Winds thought that ‘truths told were better than secrets kept,’ he could only agree.
The afternoon hours passed slowly, for he isolated himself within his tent, re-wrapping the hilts of all of his weapons, listening to the sounds of battle outside the tent as Snowfall and Yers met their challengers and saw to their duties.
At one point, Elois entered his tent, looking rested and ready for combat. She knelt before him, offered her sword, and then surprised him with a question. “Warlord, I ask permission to contest for Token-bearer.”
“Granted,” Simus said, then grinned. “Snowfall seems to be in fine fettle today, though. So far she has taken down all comers.”
Elois didn’t return his smile. “She’s good,” she agreed. “But I am better. However, I will challenge in my own time.”
Simus shrugged as she slipped out of the tent. The timing was her choice, so long as it was before the Trials ended.
He’d half hoped for a challenge to himself, for nothing would break the boredom like a good fight, but none were forthcoming. Given that his last challenge had been to the death, it might have discouraged the faint of heart. So Simus sighed and sat within his tent, and brooded.
Majestically, of course.
At one point, he’d run out of weapons to re-wrap, and emerged to take a few swords off his weapons rack. Yers was nowhere to be seen, but Snowfall was seated under the challenge pole, twisting her silk between her fingers.
“It’s quiet,” he said to her.
There was an odd glint in her eye as she tilted her head toward the Heart.
Simus frowned, but didn’t react otherwise. He stepped to the weapons rack, picked up a sword, and pretended to test the blade as he looked out over the grasses.
A shiver of movement gave them away, the grass moving with no wind. Another shiver and he caught a glimpse of a rump held a bit too high and the sound of a frantic whisper. Children, it had to be, crawling and hiding to sneak a peek. Maybe to even get to see a challenge.
Simus dropped his gaze, and stifled a laugh. It wouldn’t do to mock them. Still, they were not supposed to be anywhere near the challenge circle.
Snowfall stood and stretched, yawning as she turned and faced the area where the watchers were hidden. She pulled her knives, glared at the area and said a sharp, “Hey.”
Shrieks erupted as six children leaped high and ran off with their wooden weapons, screeching in their excitement. Pive was one of them; Simus was glad to see that she had acquired a new wooden sword and dagger.
The children disappeared behind his tent, leaving silence in their wake. Snowfall turned back, her eyes sparkling, and the corner of her mouth slightly curved up.
“Is that a smile?” Simus asked.
The curve disappeared in an instant. “Warrior-priestesses do not smile.” Snowfall resumed her seat. “Everyone knows that.”
Simus disappeared back to his own tent, and focused on his work. But he couldn’t help but wonder what she’d look like if she smiled.
As the sun set Simus stepped outside to lower his banner. There stood a straight-faced, victorious Snowfall and a sullen Yers. Both had survived the challenges of that day. Simus made no comment as the banners were lowered.
Yers strode off toward his tent as soon as the banners were down for the night. Snowfall darted into the tent the instant her banner was down, to start issuing instructions and commands to her servers just like a Warlord. The sides of the tent were rolled up, and lamps and braziers lit and stoked, for company was sure to arrive.
Haya was the first. “She will murder you in your sleep,” she announced, her hands on her hips.
“If she does, I don’t deserve to be Warlord,” Simus said calmly.
Haya turned her glare on Snowfall, who waited with water for washing. “I know of you,” she growled.
“I stood at Wild Winds’s side. I stood hostage to the Guardians of the Sacrifice.”
“So they said,” Haya sniffed, refusing to give an inch. Simus gestured her and Seo to pads he had set off to the side. They were his guests, but not part of the senel, and Simus hoped Haya could keep her opinions to herself this night.
He spent some time welcoming his leaders and seeing them seated, as well as his guests. Yers returned and Simus gestured him to a place of honor on his right with his current Third, Tsor, on his left. He’d offered to seat Joden on the platform as well, but Joden had declined.
His people mixed in with the Warlord candidates, since by tradition they had no better rank than any other until they were confirmed by the Council. Essa, on the other hand, was Eldest Elder, and he was given pride of place in front. Simus was interested to note that Quartis sat with him as opposed to Haya, but thought no more of it.
Once the crowd was seated, fairly spilling out of the tent, those that would serve went through the ranks, offering water and cloths for hand-washing. The tent quieted as all gave thanks. Essa seemed to be scanning the crowd, as if searching for someone. Simus frowned, wondering, but he’d no time to consider further.
When the last had been seen to, Simus rose. “I welcome you all to my tent. My current Token-bearer, Snowfall, has prepared kavage and food for all this night. Let
us eat before we talk. Then I will open the senel to speak of events, hear your views, and announce my decisions.”
Snowfall emerged from the back, leading servers bearing wooden platters filled with roasted venison, flatbread, and ogdan roots. The smell of the meat set Simus’s mouth to watering as he waited for his share.
“I do not hold your token, Simus.” Reht, one of the Warlord candidates, rose from the back. “But as this meeting involves your Token-bearer’s presence in this camp, she should not be here.”
“I take no offense to your truths,” Simus said with a smile. “She has earned her place and I will hold her to her duties.” He took his platter from Snowfall’s hands. “If you fear the food, do not eat. More for us.”
Ultie scooped up his meat with a piece of bread and started eating.
Simus smiled widely and followed his lead. The meat was hot, and its juices ran into the bread as he ate, and drizzled on the roots.
Some paused for a moment, but most started eating. Hard to ignore roast venison; harder still to waste food. It was too difficult to get, and one never knew what the next day’s hunt would bring. Simus finished his platter and took more. Might as well have a full stomach before he took on the storm to follow.
The meal went quickly, and there was fresh kavage all around while Snowfall and those serving collected platters and bowls.
And as the last mug of kavage was re-filled, Zioa marched forward, grabbed Simus’s token, and shook it in his face. “So all your talk of hating the warrior-priests was a lie?”
“Well, I think that went well,” Simus announced, surveying the empty tent, littered with gurtle pads and mugs.
Snowfall and Joden stood and stared at him.
“As well as could be expected,” Simus amended.
“Except for the shouting,” Joden said.
“Well, there is that,” Simus agreed.
“Except for the fact that everyone seems to think that you have brought a viper into your tent,” Snowfall said. “Or that I have betrayed all that the Plains stands for by giving you my oaths.”
“Well, that is true,” Simus said cheerfully. “Did you see Wyrik of the Boar’s face? I thought he’d have a brain storm. Too bad he didn’t.” Simus frowned. “I wonder if that healer can treat those?”
“Simus.” Joden rubbed his face with one hand. “I don’t think you are taking this seriously.”
“You thought this would be easy?” Simus grew serious. “You thought everyone would smile and nod and welcome this?” He shook his head. “No. As Keir has said, we are weaving new patterns.” Simus flashed them a grin. “Patterns he doesn’t even know of yet. This will not be easy. My token will most likely wear out before I am even recognized as Warlord.” He looked at the poor, bedraggled thing, its feathers slightly worse for wear.
“I need more kavage,” Joden said, taking up his mug.
Snowfall nodded, and slipped from the area.
“What other choice is there?” Simus lowered his voice. “Keir’s plan was to break their hold on our people, and then unite the Plains under a WarKing to find a better way.” He gestured toward where they could hear the clatter of kavage pots. “They have broken themselves. So now it seems to me, my choice is to ignore the outstreched hand, or reach out and take it.”
“I think that Keir would reject that hand,” Joden said carefully.
Simus slowly nodded his head in agreement. “You are probably right.” He looked at his friend. “Do you think I am wrong?” he asked, almost dreading the answer.
Joden drew in a heavy sigh. “Maybe,” he said, then countered with, “What do you think Keir will do when Eloix arrives with your message?”
“I do not know,” Simus said.
“Have you thought of sending another in light of all this?” Joden asked.
Snowfall slipped back into the room, fresh kavage in her hands.
“Yes,” Simus snorted. “But I need people I trust near me, even when they tell me I am wrong. And yes, I thought of sending you back, but the need for you is here, not there.” He narrowed his eyes at Joden. “Were you avoiding Essa?”
“No,” Joden said shortly.
“Have you talked to Essa?”
“No,” Joden said, his voice still clipped.
“Ah,” Simus said. At the look on Joden’s face, he decided not to press the issue.
Snowfall started to straighten the gurtle pads, moving around the area with a gentle grace.
“Enough serious thoughts,” Simus said, and laughed. “Come,” he said, addressing them both with one expansive gesture. “There is dancing tonight. We will chant and dance patterns and exhaust the opposition. The morning will bring what the morning will bring. For tonight, we dance.”
Snowfall looked at him as if surprised he would include her. She shook her head. “Warrior-priestesses do not dance.”
There was a hidden sadness in her words that made Simus stop and think. Warrior-priests were isolated from warriors, maintaining their own camps. But not to dance? Another mystery in the depths of her eyes, and he wanted answers.
“You must,” Simus insisted, putting a hand to his chest with a flourish. “You are my Token-bearer; you must come. If only to watch me.”
“To watch,” she agreed. “Just let me check on the servers in the back, that all is done properly.”
“And then perhaps tonight, we could share our bodies,” Simus suggested as she walked away. “If only to celebrate.”
Snowfall paused, and looked at him with her calm, grey eyes. “No,” she said.
Joden choked on his kavage.
“What?” Simus said.
“No,” she repeated calmly. “It would complicate things.”
And with that, she disappeared into the back.
Simus stood there, staring after her in astonishment.
Joden was coughing, talking and clearing his throat at the same time. “Thought you didn’t share during the Trials?” he choked and laughed. “Thought it made things complicated?”
“Show more respect for your Warlord,” Simus growled.
Joden just kept laughing.
Chapter Twenty-One
“You understand, I do not wish to trouble the Warprize?” Amyu asked anxiously, embarrassed to be seeking reassurance.
The stone walls of Master Healer Eln’s chamber were covered in shelves, filled with bottles and jars, more than she’d ever seen in a Xyian building. She stood by the large wooden table, glancing around. It made her feel even more nervous, all these things surrounding her. She felt hemmed in. Trapped.
Master Healer Eln sat on his stool by the table, his long grey hair braided down his back. He had a calm presence, a very quiet man. The braid was unusual in a city-dweller; for Amyu, it made him seem safer somehow. Like one of the Plains.
“It’s just that she, the Warprize,” Amyu hurried on, “she has other worries right now, with her kingdom, and her new babes.”
Master Healer Eln nodded, studying her. “You want to talk, as if under the bells, correct?” he asked gently. “That’s why you came here to see me?”
“You’d think they were the first babes ever born.” Amyu reached up and pushed her brown hair behind her ear. “They are good babies, mind you, but—”
Eln snorted with amusement. “But all new mothers are like that, even Master Healers.” He paused. “But that is not why you are here.”
Amyu dropped her gaze, glad that she’d made the journey from the Castle to his shop in the City. Far more private then any tent, with stone walls and closed doors. “The Warprize has said that Xyian Healers hold words told them to their hearts, yes? Like the Singers?”
“I will tell no one what you confide in me,” Eln said softly. “And that is the second time you have asked me that, Amyu. What troubles you so?” The concern in his voice was clear, and reassuring. She looked up when he continued. “Does it have to do with...” His glance fell on her left arm.
So he knew about her lack of tattoos, of her b
arrenness. Knew that to her own people she was still a child and a failure. Yet still he treated her as an adult, as a person of worth. Xyians were odd that way. It felt so strange, and yet, so wonderful at the same time.
“No, it’s not about that,” she said softly, and cursed the tears that welled up in her eyes when he just nodded, and didn’t press the matter. “It is—” Amyu tried to find the words. “Since the night of the pillar of light, I have—”
Raised voices cut through the quiet and the door to Eln’s chamber burst open. Amyu spun, her weapons in her hand.
“Wounded, Master,” an apprentice explained, holding the door open. Into the chamber rushed a group of four in the uniform of the City Guard, all talking at once, carrying an unconscious warrior face down between them. “Master Healer,” one of them grunted under his load. “Wyvern sting.”
“Here, quickly.” Eln was up, moving his stool to the side, gesturing toward the table. “Where’s the wound?”
“Lower back,” one said.
Amyu pressed herself against the shelves to make way. Jars and bottles rattled behind her. Eln called for his apprentices and the other healers.
The unconscious warrior’s lower back was a mess of torn leather armor, blood, dirt, grass, and sizzling flesh. Amyu wrinkled her nose as the stink of the poison rose from the wound. It smelled as rank as ehat musk.
“Two of the wyverns came swooping down as they rode out of the woods,” a guard explained. “Poor bastards didn’t know to watch for them. The others with her didn’t make it.”
The guards settled the warrior onto the table facedown, as gently as they could. “She’s breathing still,” one said. “We think maybe she’s from the Plains.”
Amyu sucked in a breath at that, and craned her neck to see the warrior’s face. “Eloix,” she said, recognizing the lax face. “She was with Simus of the Hawk.”
“Send word to the Warlord immediately,” Eln commanded, and one of the guards leaped to obey. “I need a few of you here,” Eln said. “In case—”