CHAPTER
2
ATIRA FELT HEATH’S
GAZE LIKE A BLAZE OF FIRE over her skin.
The city-dweller was
on the rise, just up the road. She spotted him as she, Yveni, and
Ander emerged from the woods with the spoils of their hunt. Her
eyes were drawn to him before she realized it; she looked away as
soon as she knew it was him.
But the image burned
her eyes. Half-naked, standing on the rise, his tanned skin glowing
in the sun.
Her horse snorted as
it felt her legs tighten, confused by the signal. Atira forced her
body to relax, even as her fingers clenched the reins.
The snows take that
city-dweller, she thought. Take his hard, sweet body, and tender
whispers in the night. Take his touch, and his laugh, and those
brown curls that felt so soft when she ran her
fingers—
Atira cut that
thought as if with a sharp blade and urged her horse toward the
Warlord’s party. Until she saw Lara walking along the road, her
warlord following a distance behind. Atira took one look at Keir’s
face, and she veered off toward the back of the group.
“Skies above, the
Warlord looks about to lash out,” Yveni said as she urged her horse
to follow Atira’s. Her black face framed worried brown-and-gold
eyes, and Atira couldn’t blame her.
“Rafe was scouting,”
Ander offered, his bushy white eyebrows a stark contrast to his
bald head. “He’ll have found a good camp, and with luck, the
Warprize will agree to stop for the night. That will calm the
Warlord. We will feast and play some of that Xyian chess. Maybe I
can win a game or two.”
“Don’t count on it,”
Atira said. “Lara’s as stubborn as he is.”
They both eyed her
with respect, and Atira sighed inwardly. It wasn’t that she knew
the Warprize better than they did. But she’d been the first that
Lara had treated, healing an injury that would have meant death had
Lara not brought her skills to the Plains.
Atira had broken her
leg practicing her riding skills. But for Lara’s arrival, she’d
been about to travel to the snows by her own hand. That was the way
of the Plains, after all. The warrior-priests held all the secrets
of magic and healing. Even if such a one had traveled with Keir’s
army, a warrior-priest would never have aided one of Atira’s
status.
But Lara had stood
over her on the practice grounds and had offered healing, despite
the insults Atira had given her at their first meeting. Lara had
demanded that Atira have the courage to try Xyian ways, asking if
she’d let Lara see to her leg. Atira had taken the risk, and the
leg had healed. She’d become the living symbol of the gifts that
Lara brought to the Plains as a warprize.
Of course, everyone
seemed to think it had been a miraculous thing. But Atira
remembered full well the truth of healing. It had meant forty days
of restriction and restraint. Forty days of patience, which was not
one of Atira’s skills. She shook her head at the memory. All that
had kept her sane had been the wonder of the healing and
Heath’s—
“There’s Marcus,”
Yveni said, pointing with her chin.
Atira caught sight of
the cloaked figure toward the back, riding with the pack animals.
Marcus was the Warlord’s token-bearer and claimed responsibility
for the Warlord’s tent. Amyu of the Boar was riding next to him,
her long brown hair pulled back in a braid.
“Let’s take the meat
to him,” Ander said. “And avoid the Warlord’s wrath.”
“Aye to that,” Yveni
said, and they headed for them at a trot.
Atira followed, even
though she still felt uncomfortable around the man. Marcus had
suffered horrific burns to his body during a battle. His hair and
his left eye and ear had been burned away, leaving his skin ugly
and mottled. The corner of his mouth was left stiff and
unmoving.
He always rode
completely concealed in a cloak, lest he offend the elements. Most
warriors would have sought the snows after such an injury, but Keir
of the Cat had demanded that Marcus live, and Marcus had
obeyed.
One bright eye
gleamed from the depths of his hood as they rode close. “Well, that
might fill their bellies for an hour or so. Was that all the prey
you could bring down?”
Yveni, Ander, and
Atira all exchanged glances. Marcus’s tongue was as sharp as the
daggers he carried.
“It seems to me to be
more than enough,” the rider next to Marcus said softly. That was
Amyu, another whose presence bothered Atira. Amyu was still a
child, as her lack of tattoos showed. She was barren and could
never meet her obligation to the tribes and be recognized as an
adult. She should still be in the care of the theas, not traveling
with warriors. But she had saved the life of the Warprize, in
defiance of the elders of her tribe. The Warprize had claimed her
for the Tribe of Xy, which was why the child traveled with
them.
“And you know so well
what it takes to feed a warlord,” Marcus growled.
Amyu flushed, but she
lifted her chin. “I am learning,” she replied.
“Barely,” Marcus
said. He fixed his gaze on Atira. “Go tell Herself and Himself that
I’m stopping to cook, even if Herself won’t. That might get through
their thick heads.”
Amyu’s eyes went
wide.
“Send the child,”
Atira snapped, her temper rising.
The red on Amyu’s
cheeks grew brighter, but this time she looked away.
Regret washed over
Atira, dousing her anger. What was she thinking, to lash out at a
child who was unable to defend herself? She opened her mouth, but
it was too late. Amyu slowed her horse, dropping back to ride next
to Yveni and Ander.
“What’s wrong?”
Marcus asked from the depths of his hood. The cloth shifted
slightly as he lifted his head to look ahead. “Ah. Your
city-dweller still—”
Her rage flared.
Atira pulled her dagger, only to have Marcus parry it with his own,
his blade held in his scarred hand, his one eye calm as he studied
her face.
“Rein in your wrath,
Atira of the Bear,” Marcus said, his tone and manner even. “No
offense was intended.”
Atira took a deep
breath, then jerked her blade back and rammed it into its sheath.
She faced forward, cursing under her breath as her cheeks filled
with heat.
“We travel through
the lands of Xy,” Marcus continued as he slipped his blade into the
depths of his cloak. “A people with far different customs than
ours. The Warlord and the Warprize cannot afford to have one of
their warriors killing Xyians unfamiliar with our ways. You’d best
watch that temper of yours, warrior.”
“He is not my
city-dweller,” Atira snapped.
“You’ve shared his
tent.” Marcus’s voice was mild, but he was clearly intent on making
a point. “And neither of you have shared with another
since.”
“No longer,” Atira
snapped. “Heath . . .” She paused, trying to get herself under
control. “Those who dwell in the cities have strange ways. Strange
ideas.” She tried to match calm for calm and failed. “All he will
speak of is bonding.”
“Ah,” Marcus
said.
“He wants to own me.”
Atira stared at the figure on the rise, feeling Heath’s gaze. “To
control me.”
She clenched her jaw,
suddenly remembering who she was confiding in. She didn’t look at
Marcus, preferring the silence but expecting a sharp word at any
moment.
“Bonding is not like
that,” Marcus said softly.
Atira gave his cloak
a startled glance, but Marcus was not looking at her. His hood had
fallen forward, covering his entire face in shadow. He was staring
off into the distance.
Marcus had been
bonded, that she knew, to the Warlord Liam of the Deer. But the ear
that had held the symbol of his bonding had been burned from his
head, and the bonding had been severed.
“A bond is not a
prison, nor is it shackles,” Marcus continued, with an odd tone in
his voice. “It can become that, if both parties do not take care.
But when a bonding works, when it is solid . . .” He sighed. “. . .
It is . . . liberating . . .”
Marcus caught himself
then, as if remembering whom he was speaking to. “Here now,” he
growled. “You go talk to Lara. I will speak to Himself. Between the
two of us, we can convince them to stop for the
night.”
Atira gave him a
sharp nod, and urged her horse forward.
HEATH WATCHED AS KEIR
SETTLED LARA ON A BED made of gurtle felt pads and heaped with
blankets and furs. “I’m fine,” Lara said, trying to stifle a yawn.
“Honestly, Keir. It’s not healthy for you to carry me everywhere.
Don’t you believe your own Master Healer?” Lara smiled up at Keir,
her blue eyes dancing.
Keir shook his head,
his dark hair hanging in his eyes as he leaned over her, helping
her arrange the bedding to support her on her side. Heath caught a
glimpse of the gold ear-weaving on his ear, which matched the one
on Lara’s. The ear-weaving that marked them as a bonded couple on
the Plains.
Lara gave in to the
yawn, then blinked at him sleepily. “A short nap, and then we can
keep going. Another mile or so, and we should see the walls of
Water’s Fall in the distance. Isn’t that right,
Heath?”
“It is,” Heath
agreed.
Keir shook his head,
and Lara opened her mouth as if to argue, but Marcus cut her off.
“No. There’s a good-size deer out there, and I’ve a mind to roast
it in coals this night. We will stay here and eat well. Tomorrow is
soon enough, Warprize.”
“Those that travel
with us might appreciate the rest,” Keir rumbled. “Given the pace
you are setting, Lara.”
Lara rolled her eyes,
then put her hand on her belly. “You’re assuming your child will
allow me to sleep, Keir of the Cat.”
Keir lowered his head
to hers, and whispered in her ear. Lara blushed, then patted the
bed. “I do seem to rest easier with you beside me, my
Warlord.”
Keir straightened and
started to remove his swords. “You’ll see to the camp,
Marcus?”
“Aye,” Marcus
said.
Lara sighed as she
shifted over, making room for Keir to spoon up behind her. “You
could ride ahead, Heath. You really don’t have to wait for us to
make our formal entrance into the city.”
Heath shook his head.
“No thanks, Your Majesty. Better that both my parents are caught up
in the excitement of your arrival before they see their wandering
boy.”
Lara gave him one of
her looks, and Heath knew that she wasn’t done with this
conversation. Thankfully, she yawned again, so Heath gave her a
grin, and turned to follow Marcus from the tent.
Rafe and Prest were
outside, taking up their posts.
Marcus was already
gathering the others, announcing that they were stopping for the
night. Amyu was kneeling nearby, digging out a fire pit. Heath
headed in that direction, watching out of the corner of his eye for
Atira.
Amyu regarded him
with steady eyes as he approached. Heath gave her a smile, but Amyu
did not return it. She was a quiet one, that was for sure. She kept
herself apart and away from the others. Lara had explained her
circumstances, but Heath wasn’t sure that he understood. She was no
child.
“We’ll need more
wood.” Atira looked at Marcus, who nodded in
agreement.
“You and Heath will
go. He will take that tool of his—”
Atira’s face went
bright red in an instant.
“Not that tool.”
Marcus rolled his one eye. “Get your head out of your tent. He will
take his ‘axe.’ ”
“My other tool will
come as well,” Heath said. “I’m attached to it.”
The other warriors
broke out in laughter. Atira stiffened, throwing a glare at Heath,
and opened her mouth to protest.
“The Xyian will not
get lost,” Marcus cut her off with a glare. “And you can get your
arguing done out there, away from Herself. Take some bells. You can
be as loud as you wish without disturbing her or us. Regardless of
which tool gets used.”
The other warriors
stifled their laughter as Atira glared, then stomped
off.
“Be certain you
remember to bring back wood. At least an armful,” Marcus called
after her. “Make sure it’s dry, too.”
Heath followed after
Atira, not bothering to cover his grin.