Warsworn

Chapter 10

I dropped the cloths, too astonished to cry out.

Keir didn’t react, still unconscious, bound to the bed, helpless. Iften turned toward me, and laughed, sheathing his dagger. “You think I would advance myself through his death?”

I nodded.

He laughed again, a cruel harsh sound. “Why take that action when the elements will take it for me, eh?”

I took a step forward, my anger overruling my fear. “He is not going to die.”

“But you are not sure, are you, little healer?” He mocked me. “You, who claim the power to heal all.”

“I never claimed that, Iften.” I stepped closer to the bed, sweeping my gaze over Keir, making sure that he hadn’t been hurt. But I didn’t take my eyes off Iften for long. Oh, where was Isdra?

Iften folded his arms over his chest. “With his last breath, your status changes, Xyian. You will be as nothing to us. It will be my charge to return the army to the plains and report his failure. And in the spring, when the challenges are issued and won, I will return to this valley as Warlord, and—”

“Keir will not die. Leave us.” I was of half a mind to scream out, to attract attention. But what would they think of a Warprize cowering before him? I grit my teeth.

Iften opened his arms, as if making a peaceful gesture. “It is you that should leave. Ride out now, return to your people. All will be as it was.” His voice was smooth and sure, as if offering the friendliest of advice. “No need to place yourself in jeopardy. No need to face attacks, such as in your own marketplace. No need to face the Elders or the warrior-priests.”

His face changed, and I had to stop myself from taking a step back. “Go, Xyian. Prepare your people for the army that will come in the spring, to ravage—”

Something broke the fear inside me. With swift steps, I moved toward him, my fist raised in anger, swearing at the top of my lungs. “I curse you, bracnect. May the skies deny you breath!”

Iften’s eyes went wide, and his breath caught. His hand went to his sword hilt.

I glared at him, took another step forward and shook my fist in his face. “May the earth sink below your feet.”

There was a gasp from outside, I wasn’t sure who, but I didn’t let it stop me. “May the fire deny you heat, and the very waters of the land dry in your hand.”

Iften didn’t draw his sword. His face went pale and he stepped back quickly, stumbling out into the meeting room, heading for the main exit. As he retreated through the flap, I followed right behind. “May the very elements reject you and all that you are!”

Marcus and Joden were outside, their eyes wide as plates. Others within hearing distance turned horrified faces toward us. I just kept my eyes on Iften, and took another step to jab my finger into his chest. “May your balls rot like fruit in the sun, and your manhood wither at the root!” I spit in the earth in front of Iften’s toe.

Without another word, I stomped back into the tent.

By the time Marcus and Joden stepped into the tent, I was sitting calmly by Keir, wiping his chest down with water that I had added herbs to.

Marcus spoke first, softly. “Warprize? How did you know such a curse?”

“She overheard it?” Joden said.

“How? When? None would say it in her presence without my knowledge. And none have cursed so in this army that I have heard word of.”

I responded calmly. “I didn’t know it. I made it up. He was standing there, prating about the elements and bragging about what he was going to do and I just got so very angry.”

“A strong curse, Warprize.” Marcus’s voice carried a note of pride.

“I don’t care, so long as he stays away from me and Keir.”

Joden’s tone was dry. “No fear of that, Lara.”

“MARCUS!”

I jolted up out of my pallet from a sound sleep.

Keir had broken one strap. With his free arm, he was fighting the very man he was calling for. I stumbled up and over, and placed my hand on Keir’s forehead. Marcus was doing his best to secure the loose arm, and he grunted with the effort. I raised my voice, calling out. “We need help!”

“Help him, you maggots! It burns, oh Skies, he burns!” Keir was screaming the words, the muscles of his neck taut with the strain.

“For sure they heard that,” Marcus muttered, forcing Keir’s arm down onto the bed.

“Keir, it’s Lara. It’s all right—”

Keir strained at the strap around his other wrist, trying to break it. He cried out again, summoning unseen help. “Bring water! Douse him with water, bring buckets—” Keir relaxed for a moment, moaning as if in sorrow. “His ear, oh his ear.”

I glanced at Marcus, and knew where and when Keir was.

Keir’s voice dropped to a snarl. “Damn you to the snows forever, Warrior-Priest. He will live, and I will use my last breath to break you, do you hear me?” He threw his head back against the bed. “Heal him now, or I will kill you.”

“Is this what happened?” I whispered.

“Don’t know, Warprize. I was not aware at the time.” Marcus looked grim. “Where are those fools?” He looked toward the tent flap, then back at me. Marcus growled. “Do not dwell on it. He called me back from the snows. I answered. There is no more to say.”

“Fear the day Keir of the Cat is named Warking.” Ken-howled.

Prest, Isdra, and to my surprise, Rafe poured into the tent, with Isdra stepping forward to help Marcus. At the word ‘Warking’, all of them flinched in shock, but only for a moment. Marcus darted to Keir’s side, and put his fingers over his mouth. “Warlord, the enemy is near. Be silent.”

The others exchanged worried looks. I opened my mouth to question them, but Marcus caught my eye, and shook his head, putting a finger to his lips. So I suppressed my curiosity.

“Rafe, are you well enough to be up and about?” I asked.

“Well enough, Warprize.” He gave me a faint smile. “Seems I didn’t sicken as much as others did. Didn’t even need the aid of the lake waters.”

I frowned, considering him. He’d lost weight, and there were smudges under his eyes. He was pushing too hard, I was certain, but for now I had a greater concern.

Keir had fallen silent, still a prisoner of the fever. The others started to rebind Keir, but I stopped them. “Prest, call Gils. It’s time.”

I followed them down to the shore, the moon providing enough light to see by. Gils, Prest, Marcus and Isdra carried Keir, who struggled in their arms. Marcus had insisted that they bind Keir to take him to the water and he’d been right. They set him down on the shore to give themselves a chance to strip out of their own clothing. Once they picked him back up, I followed them right into the water, catching my breath at the bite of the cold against my skin.

I supported his head, using my hands to pour the water onto his forehead. His bronze skin looked so pale, his hair so dark as the water trickled through it. He didn’t open his eyes, but his lips opened slightly, and I trickled water into his mouth, remembering how sweet it had tasted when I’d been in the same position. The others chanted the same ritual of purification that I’d heard in my fever.

I knelt down, and whispered his name into his ear. A slight turn of his head, and I knew I had his attention. “Fight, beloved. Remember that you are my Warlord, Keir of the Cat. You are mine, and I am yours. Fight for us, my heart’s fire.”

Keir blinked, but gave no other sign.

They dipped him in and out, letting the water and the slight breeze chill his naked form to the point where he was shivering. Only then did we return him to the command tent. Rafe had stayed behind, warming the bed with heated stones under the bedding, keeping the warmth within the covers. He used a dagger to cut Keir’s bonds as the others gathered drying cloths.

Once we had him dry, we slipped Keir into the warmth, keeping him upright just long enough to get a bowl of broth into him. He looked so pale, laying there, so still. My heart was in my throat, although his pulse beat strongly under my fingers.

To my surprise, Keir’s eyes fluttered open after we settled him down. They were foggy with sleep, and when his fingers moved, I took them into my hand. He felt so cold, so I sat on the bed, and tried to rub some warmth into them.

“You need to get out of these wet things and get some sleep.” Marcus moved behind me, and put his hands on my shoulders. “I’ve sent the others off to rest.”

“You need sleep more than I do, Marcus. I’ll change, then take the first watch.” Marcus sighed, but he didn’t argue.

How many sickbeds have I watched over in my time? More than I can count or remember. Yet, this time was different.

Eln taught that a good healer was dispassionate. Objective. I tried to follow his teachings, and with most patients I succeeded.

Not with my father.

Not with Keir.

My father’s illness had been a long slow process, and his death had been a release. But this man was a strong warrior, in his prime, and my emotions swayed from despair to hope and back again. I’d done everything I knew to save him, and it lay within the Goddess’s hands. All I could do was sit and watch over him, taking in each breath as if it were my own. Hours passed, and Keir still slept, with no sign of the fever’s return. The light was faint in the tent, with the braziers burning to provide warmth.

Marcus had curled up on a pallet at the foot of the bed, exhausted. I checked on him as the hours wore on, to make sure that he was sleeping easily, and that no sweat formed on the scarred forehead. I’d everything I needed close at hand, thanks to him, including a pitcher of kav-age as thick as mud. All that was left to do was wait and watch.

Watch and worry.

What would happen if Keir died?

What would happen to my life? The others were pledged to see me home, to the safety of the castle at Water’s Fall. In the face of Iften’s threats, I knew that Keir’s dream of uniting our peoples would die with him.

But, Goddess forgive me, my concern was not for our people. For Keir’s death would shatter the very heart in my breast. It would die, or the largest part of it would. As I looked ahead to that future, I knew for an instant Isdra’s pain, and the release that she sought.

I flushed, ashamed for what I’d asked of her. The priests of the God, Lord of the Sun, condemn suicide. But my own pain showed me this very truth—that it wouldn’t be far from my thoughts if Keir took his last breath.

Yet, as another hour passed, Keir’s breaths came steadily, one after another. And I gave thanks to the Goddess for each and every one.

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 war-horse, 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 hiding 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 Is-dra 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 Fire-lander’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.”

“Warprize?”

“Rafe, sometimes, with this kind of illness, the male warriors may have other problems, lingering effects, that might worry them.”

Rafe looked at me, his face intent. “Problems?” His eyes drifted down slightly, then returned to mine.

“Problems.” I said firmly, giving him a steady look. “Such as maybe their… bodies… not working as they did in the past. But it is passing, and will return to normal when their full strength returns.”

“So.” Rafe thought for a moment. “Can I spread word of this?”

“Please.” He stood, as if to go, and I raised my hand. “And please spread the word that any can come to me when they have… problems.”

He paused. “Are you sure? It’s hard to know, Warprize, your ways are strange to us. No one wishes to embarrass you or to anger the Warlord.”

“I’m modest as to my body, Rafe. But not as to my patients. I have a token. I know what it means. Tell them to use it.”

“I will, Warprize.”

I watched him walk off to spread the word, and then turned and contemplated the command tent. Seems I

might need to have a quiet word with one very cranky, and very worried, Warlord.

“It’s called a’draw’.”

Keir and Prest glared at me. I remained calm, looking down at the playing board. “When neither player can maneuver the other into checkmate, it’s called a ‘draw’. The game is over with no winner.”

“There is always a winner.” Keir declared.

“And a loser.” Prest agreed.

I rolled my eyes. “Not always. Keir, you weren’t a clear winner against Xy.”

Keir flashed that boyish grin of his. “Ah, but I claimed my Warprize, didn’t I?”

I blushed. Luckily, Prest was studying the board. He grunted, “But I’ve no piece to offer as warprize.”

Somehow, they’d assigned sexes to the various pieces. They didn’t like the fact that the Queen was the only female piece on the board. I wasn’t sure how they’d assigned genders but they managed to their satisfaction. So now they both looked at the remaining pieces intently. Finally, Keir sat back. “With no Warprize to offer, I suggest we regroup our troops and meet in battle again.”

Prest nodded, and they started to rearrange the pieces.

I opened my mouth to argue, then closed it again. I suspected by the time we returned to Xy, the rules of the game would be so changed as to be unrecognizable.

Ortis entered the tent, ducking his head to avoid the top. “Papers from Water’s Fall, Warlord.”

We both looked up, startled to see a bundle of letters in his hand. He spilled them out on the bed at Keir’s feet. “Exchanged at a distance, as commanded.”

I looked up at him, and he smiled and nodded. “I sent your papers back the same way, Warprize.”

“Thanks, Ortis.”

Prest had moved when Ortis had entered, and he now moved the board away from the bed and took his leave. I started sorting through the various letters, looking for familiar handwriting. Most all were formal missives from the Council, but I found one from Eln, Othur, and what looked like another one from Simus.

I paused, feeling the heavy paper crackle in my hands, looking at the wax seal. I wasn’t really sure that I wanted to know their contents. These would contain word of the plague and its effects. I glanced up to see Keir looking at me, patiently waiting. I broke open Othur’s seal.

I fell back on the bed, laughing in delight at the image of Simus wreaking havoc in the Court of Xy.

I’d returned to the stilltent, after I’d read Simus’s letter to Keir, along with the rest of the letters from Water’s Fall. Eln had written of his dismay over the disease and its severity, but he’d come up with no alternative remedies. I took comfort from the fact that I had already sent a letter to him outlining our treatments. But I took far more comfort that the Sweat had not reached the City. It would be months before we knew its true effects.

The Council reports were dry, but Keir seemed interested, so I read them out to him. I’d left him with a firm promise that he’d sleep. I decided that the time was right to clean and reorganize the stilltent. It had been sometime since Gils had reported a new fever, and I prayed that we’d seen the last of it.

I had a bucket of jars and bottles to clean when I was done, and I took them outside and sat on a log to start cleaning them. There was still a bit of sunlight to enjoy, and I wanted to take advantage of it. Isdra was off some ways, supervising some warriors doing laundry. Rafe and Prest were at the command tent, sitting outside, playing chess from the looks of it.

I was content with my small chore, setting the clean items on a cloth to dry when Gils stumbled up and sat next to me, his satchel in his lap. The strap fell off his shoulder. I smiled, then frowned as I saw how tired he appeared.

“Gils, you are exhausted. Let me get you some kavage.”

He sighed softly. “Just had some, Warprize.” His face was turned, and he was looking at the sunset. “I’s just very tired.”

“Gils?”

Without another word, his satchel slipped from his fingers, and he collapsed against me, his head on my shoulder. I put my fingers on his warm forehead and cried out for help.