Warcry

by Elizabeth Vaughan

  Atira stepped into the circle, smiling, a wooden dagger in each hand and a teasing smile on her lips. She was a lovely sight, those brown eyes dancing with pure pleasure at the prospect of a fight. Heath turned his back, taking his time to choose his blades, letting her wait. But he could feel her gaze on the back of his neck, and his heart started to beat faster.

  “Slow,” Atira’s voice was just a whisper. “So slow. City-dwellers think too much—”

  Heath spun and charged into the ring.

  Atira let out a whoop of joy, moved back just enough to avoid his lunge, and fended him off with her right dagger. Wood clattered on wood as she met his blade, forced it to the side, and brought the one in her left hand to bear.

  Heath blocked that attack, even as he used the downward motion of his other dagger to slash at Atira’s thigh. But she was moving again, backpedaling around the circle and out of reach.

  Heath didn’t follow. He gave her a grin of his own. “Firelanders. Always retreating.”

  She came at him again, and he scrambled to fend her off.

  Heath lost track of time as they traded blows, broke off to circle each other, then went back at it. His world narrowed to Atira and the fight. The warm sun, the sweet scent of her body, the burn in his muscles, they were all pure pleasure.

  Not as good as sex, but very close.

  Atira broke away, and Heath didn’t try to follow. He paused for a breath, conscious of feeling better than he had in days.

  Atira was also breathing heavily, but she was smiling. “Had enough?”

  “Hells, no.” Heath struck his chest.

  Atira’s eyes narrowed, and she attacked. Heath planted his weight on his forward foot, braced and ready, but then realized his mistake. A rigid stance cut off his options. As Atira closed, he slashed at her face, forcing her to use one dagger to block instead of attack. He spun away, barely avoiding her strike.

  “Oh, that’s gallant,” came a dry, male voice.

  Heath knew better than to look away; Atira wasn’t going to stop because of a comment. Besides, he knew full well who was standing there. Lanfer was probably spoiling for a fight, and Heath was not going to oblige him.

  But to his surprise, Atira backed off and looked over at the edge of the circle with a considering look. “More insults, Lord Lanfer?”

  “Sun God forfend. I was merely making an observation, Lady.” Lanfer stood tall, his arms crossed over his chest. His blond hair shone almost white in the sun. “My Lord Heath has learned your ways quite well. That blow to the face, for example. I assume you also strike for the groin?”

  “When survival is at stake, even so vulnerable a target as that is fair prey,” Atira said. “But I’ve other uses for Heath’s—”

  “Perhaps you’d care to spar, Lanfer,” Heath interrupted.

  “Not with you,” Lanfer said. “But Lady Atira,” Lanfer gave her a bow, “if she is willing.”

  Heath snarled and opened his mouth to forbid it, but a quick look at Atira made him close his mouth with a snap.

  “That would be lovely,” Atira said sweetly. “Which weapon would you prefer?”

  Once before Heath had stepped between an enemy and Atira; she’d given him a black eye for daring to deprive her of a battle. He wouldn’t step between her and a fight again. But it took more than he cared to admit to go stand by the bench where their weapons lay.

  They’d gathered a bit of a crowd since they’d started sparring. A group of women were just outside the doors of the kitchen, plucking feathers from fowl, talking among themselves. The two workmen were still at it, although they didn’t seem to have made much progress.

  Lanfer had some others with him. Members of the court, and mostly second sons for all that. Heath wanted nothing more than to reach over and belt on his sword, but he stood instead, holding the practice daggers, trying to look unconcerned as Atira and Lanfer selected wooden swords and shields and stepped into the practice circle together.

  Heath clenched his jaw as they started to spar.

  Oddly enough, Atira didn’t leap forward for the first attack. She waited, shield up, watching Lanfer as he approached cautiously, and let him take the first swing.

  Lanfer’s friends gathered at the edge of the circle, but some instinct of preservation kept them a good distance from Heath. At first they made comments, cheering Lanfer on, but after a few uneasy glances at Heath they subsided, seemingly content to watch. Quietly.

  A wise choice on their part.

  A few more blows, with Lanfer the aggressor. Heath relaxed his jaw a bit as he realized that Atira was holding back.

  Lanfer was good, there was no mistaking that. Heath knew that. Not just from the various fights that they’d gotten into as kids, either. He’d sparred with Lanfer often enough, usually until blood spilled and they were separated by their teachers.

  But here again, Atira fought as one who’d been taught by the need to survive. She had the keenness of a blade that was used to kill, not displayed on a wall.

  Gods, he loved her. In all her bright, deadly beauty.

  Was he wrong, to want to hold her? Heath’s heart clenched in his chest. Was it wrong to think that he and Atira could have what his parents had? Did he have the right to demand that of her? Maybe he should accept what she was willing to give, except they were both capable of so much more.

  Why should she say yes to him? Why would he think that she would even consider staying in Xy?

  Atira had grown bored with the fight. Heath saw it in her face just before she narrowed her eyes and really went after Lanfer. In the next heartbeat, he was disarmed, down on the ground, staring at the point of her sword.

  Lanfer stared up with her in fury.

  Atira stepped back and flashed a smile. “My thanks, Lanfer. Well fought.”

  Lanfer stood. “Let us go again,” he snapped, reaching for his sword and shield.

  “Nay,” Atira replied. She put her sword in her shield hand and wiped her brow. “You do well, but your skills are not much of a challenge. Still,” she gave him a bright smile. “I thank you for the practice.”

  In a pig’s eye, Heath thought. He eyed Lanfer carefully as the man went white with rage, then struggled to get control.

  “Very well then.” Lanfer turned away from Atira, leaving his practice weapons lying on the ground. “But you must allow me a rematch.” He turned toward his friends.

  “I’d enjoy that,” Atira said, reaching out and groping his ass.

  AS SHE SUSPECTED, ATIRA FELT A BANDAGE UNDER her fingers.

  Lanfer jerked and spun, his face a mixture of outrage and pain.

  Atira opened her eyes wide. “Did I get that custom wrong? Do you not pat each other for a fight well fought?”

  “On the back.” Lanfer’s lips thinned as he spoke through his teeth. “Between the shoulders.”

  “Ah.” Atira gave him a friendly nod. “My mistake.”

  Lanfer walked off stiffly, taking his friends with him, past the giggling kitchen maids and into the castle.

  Atira watched him go, letting her smile fade. So Lanfer was behind that attack in the dark hall. She turned to tell Heath, only to find him glaring at her, his arms crossed over his chest.

  “What?” she asked innocently as she retrieved the gear that Lanfer had dropped.

  His glare deepened. “You know damn well what the custom is.”

  Skies above, it was fun to tease him. She ignored him, moving over to the racks to put the swords and shields away. “Oh, but there are so many customs to remember. How to greet a person, when to take offense.” She glanced over at the roof of the baking ovens. “Which way is down? How is a poor Firelander to remember it all?”

  “With your excellent Firelander memory, that’s how,” Heath growled. He tossed the wooden daggers into the basket and picked up his own sword. “Come on.”

  Atira gathered up her sword and dagger as Heath stomped over to the well. She could see buckets and towels set out for anyone’s use. A wash woul
d feel lovely.

  So would teasing her Heath.

  Heath dropped his sword on a nearby bench and threw the bucket into the well. He leaned on the wall, his leathers tightening over his ass. Atira gave them an admiring look as she set her weapons down as well. “You needn’t get so angry.”

  “You needn’t feel up Lanfer’s ass, either,” Heath snarled.

  “Well, it is a nice one.” Atira tried hard to keep her laughter out of her voice. “Firm and taut.” She moved next to him and leaned against the stone wall of the well. “And well bandaged.”

  Heath jerked up and looked at her sharply. “You’re sure?”

  “Oh yes.” Atira nodded. “Very sure.”

  Heath said nothing, just reached for the rope and started to pull up the bucket. But Atira suppressed a smile at the relief in his face.

  “I don’t suppose I could strip to the waist,” Atira said wistfully as he brought the bucket over the side.

  “Now, now,” Heath said as he started to do just that. “Women’s breasts are not bared in Xyian society.”

  “And that is somehow fair?” Atira grumbled. “My chest and your chest are no different.”

  “Yes, they are.” Heath knelt by the bucket and started to splash himself with the water. “And I thank all the gods that they are so very, very different.”

  Atira laughed. “Fool. That’s not what I meant.” She reached for a towel and handed it to him.

  “I know,” Heath said, toweling off.

  Atira dipped her hands in the cold water and splashed her face.

  “Later, after the dinner, I’ll show you the hot springs under the castle,” Heath said quietly. “There’s pools for bathing and soaking down there.”

  “Together?” Atira asked, toweling herself dry.

  “No,” Heath gave her a grin. “Separate.”

  “Joy,” Atira grumbled. She picked up her sword, belted it on, and watched as Heath did the same.

  “Heath, lad.” Detros hailed them from over by the ring, standing with a group of guards. “Are ya done, then?”

  “It’s all yours, Detros.”

  Detros gave him a wave and turned to the others. “All right then, lads, let’s be about it.”

  The guards started picking wooden weapons as Detros issued instructions.

  Heath took care of the bucket as Atira hung the towel close by. “Feeling better?” Atira asked.

  Heath sighed. “Aye to that.”

  “We need to talk,” Atira said.

  “We can sit here in the sun and talk here well enough. In your language, I think,” Heath suggested. “I’ll fetch something to eat.” He turned, headed toward the kitchen.

  “And something cold to drink,” Atira called after him. She settled on the bench, leaned back against the cool stone wall, and watched as Heath walked over to Detros and spoke to the man for a moment. After a few words, Heath clapped him on the back and headed for the kitchens.

  Detros called one of the guards over and sent him on an errand before he went back to directing the sparring. The old warrior with his paunch stopped his men in mid-stroke and pointed out their mistakes. Atira couldn’t make out everything he said, but his men listened, even those waiting their turns.

  Detros backed off and barked a command, and the guards went at it again.

  Heath reappeared with a kitchen maid at his side. He was carrying a pitcher of cooled herb tea and two mugs; the maid had a tray.

  She placed it on the bench. “You need more, you call me, eh? Best to stay out of the kitchens for now. Your ma, she’s all worked up about the feast.”

  Heath gave a mock shudder. “Worse than a battlefield in there.”

  “That it is,” the girl laughed. “But it will be worth it all tonight.”

  “Marcsi, where are you?” came a cry from the kitchens. “The sauce is burning!”

  “Oh Goddess,” the girl said, and ran for the kitchen door.

  “You sent word,” Atira asked.

  Heath nodded. “I told Detros, and he sent word to my father. Lanfer will be watched.”

  Between bites of warm bread smeared with soft white cheese, Atira told Heath what had happened in the senel. Heath listened as he ate, not interrupting, until she had finished.

  He waited as she took a sip of the tea. “Will the warriors leave?” Heath asked.

  “Not all of them,” Atira said. “Keir has never made a secret of his intentions. But the deaths from illness . . .” she sighed. “There is no honor in that death.”

  “No dishonor, either,” Heath pointed out.

  “That may be true here in Xy,” Atira said, “but on the Plains?”

  Heath shook his head and took a sip of kavage.

  “What of the Warprize’s senel?” Atira asked.

  Heath sighed and told her, explaining the importance of the paper and the writing that was on it. Atira nodded, so he went on, talking about Lord Reddin’s request.

  “I’m sure Durst is behind it,” Heath said, pulling apart the piece of bread in his hand, “but I can’t see why.”

  “Words on paper hold a strange power.” Atira tore another hunk of bread from the loaf. “They are always the same, unyielding in their truth.”

  Heath looked at her. “But your people have perfect memories, Atira.”

  “Not perfect.” She frowned, trying to figure out how to explain it. “Even with exact memories, each remembers his own truth, as each understands it to be.” She lifted her head to look at him. “Still, on the Plains, one can see an enemy coming for miles.”

  “Unless he is hiding in the grass,” Heath pointed out.

  Atira shrugged as she spread cheese on her bread. “That is a truth,” she replied. “But somehow it feels different here. Is this what it feels like for you when you try to play chess in your head? You can’t really play without seeing all the pieces. You lose track, or forget that—” she cut herself off at the odd look on Heath’s face. “What?”

  “You’re right,” Heath said slowly. “There’s a piece missing.”

  CHAPTER 17

  ATIRA WAS STARING AT HIM WITH WIDE BROWN eyes, but she stayed silent, letting him think.

  “We can’t see all the pieces, can we?” Heath said slowly.

  “Well,” Atira said softly, “we can see Lanfer now.” She paused, focused on him. “We can see the threat he represents. And you and your father know the lords and their loyalties—”

  “No,” Heath said. “There’s a piece missing from the board.” He let his gaze fall on the kavage in his hand, thinking.

  He felt Atira move slightly, scanning the courtyard. The sounds of the guard’s practice, the kitchen maids, gossiping as they plucked feathers—they all faded as he ran through the events of the last few days.

  “The Archbishop hasn’t made an appearance, has he? He isn’t on the board.” Heath kept his voice low. “He sent word through Browdus that he was ill, but not so ill that a healer was needed.”

  “Is that unusual?” Atira asked, her voice just as low. “Isn’t it normal for Xyians to get sick?”

  “That man loves his own importance,” Heath said. “The entire city and all of the nobility knew when Lara would enter Water’s Fall. So sick that he couldn’t attend a moment of such great importance?”

  “Like a warrior-priest, more concerned about status than anything,” Atira said. “Is the Archbishop a clever man?”

  “No,” Heath shook his head. “He’s pompous and always looking out for himself. Easily swayed to a position. Lara ran right over him in her haste to be crowned and follow Keir. She talked to him privately for a short time just before she convinced the Council to let her have her way.” Heath looked at Atira and gave her a grin. “I wonder what she said.”

  Atira rolled her eyes. “When the Warprize wants something, she is like the wind.”

  Heath laughed. “I once overheard Xyron, Lara’s father, tell my father that the pennants and the Archbishop move with the breeze.”

  “Maybe
he doesn’t wish to be seen as unable to decide?” Atira offered.

  “Or maybe someone is afraid that he will waver if he sees Lara,” Heath smiled. “I—oh hells.” The truth flashed before him like lightning.

  “What?” Atira demanded.

  Heath put his mug down on the bench. “I know why Durst wanted that language change. I didn’t see it before, and Father hasn’t seen it, or he’d have said something. We are all idiots.”

  He stood, adjusting his sword-belt.

  “What?” Atira reached out, her hand on his arm. “What is it?”

  “When is a child not an heir?” Heath asked her.

  “How would I know?” Atira stood as well, giving him a scowl.

  “Come on,” Heath said. “Let’s go see my father.” He grabbed her hand and pulled her with him.

  She pulled her hand away, but she stayed at his side as he trotted toward the castle. Detros hailed them as they passed the practice circle.

  “Atira,” Detros’s voice boomed out. He was grinning from ear to ear. “I hear you knocked Lanfer on his backside. Good for you!”

  “How did you know?” Heath asked as they moved past him.

  “It’s all over the castle, lad!” Detros turned back to his charges. “Ack, Ward, you hit like a girl! Put some muscle into it!”

  Atira frowned and slowed, but Heath laughed and pulled her on.

  ATIRA KEPT PACE AS HEATH TROTTED THROUGH the castle halls. He asked a quick question of one of the guards, who told him that his father was in his office. Heath headed off in that direction and Atira followed, curious as she could be.

  There were two guards posted at the doors, and one reached over and opened the door for them so that they sailed right through. Othur looked up with a smile that faded to a look of concern. “What’s wrong?”

  “Father.” Heath came to a stop in front of his table covered in papers. “Father, when is a child not an heir?”

  “When it’s not legitimate,” Othur replied.

  “Eh?” Atira stood next to Heath.

  “Oh.” Heath sounded disappointed. “You knew.”

  Othur nodded. “Shortly after we left the Council chambers with the signed document.” The older man sighed. “I should have seen it earlier. It was a mistake to agree to the change of the wording.” But then he gave his son a sharp glance. “I’m impressed that you saw it. You are starting to think like a—”