CHAPTER
4
ATIRA FUMED AS SHE
FOLLOWED PREST AND HEATH out of the woods, clutching her load of
firewood and trying to avoid all the obstacles of the cursed trees.
Roots to trip over, branches to fall on you. She wanted nothing to
do with trees, with Xy, and with one city-dweller in
particular.
How dare he call her
a coward? She should have gutted him where he stood. No token in
his hands, that smirk on his lips. Heath was making her crazy; he
just would not listen to her.
It didn’t help that
Heath seemed to glide over the deerpath ahead of her, moving
confidently even though his arms were full. Atira cursed the earth
as she stumbled yet again.
Clearly, his wits had
been taken by the winds. She should just ignore him, just forget
him. Invite another to her tent and wash her hands of
him.
So why couldn’t she
take her gaze off him as he walked in front of her, his leather
armor tight over his—
“Wait a bit, Prest,”
Heath said.
Ahead, Prest paused
at the edge of the trees, looking back over his shoulder with one
eyebrow raised in a question. He also carried firewood, since there
was no sense wasting empty hands.
“Let’s get out of
these trees,” Atira urged, casting around for threats from
above.
Heath gave her an
amused look, then moved up to stand next to Prest. “I just want a
look at the messenger before he gets a look at us.” Heath paused
just at the edge of the brush.
“Why?” Atira asked,
coming to stand behind him.
“Scouting the enemy,”
Heath said.
Prest stiffened at
the same time Atira did.
Heath gave them both
exasperated looks before turning back to peer through the leaves.
“Just because they are from Xy doesn’t mean they support
Lara.”
“They made no
threat,” Prest rumbled.
“Not all threats are
with swords,” Heath said softly. “Look at the sundering of your
Council of Elders.”
Atira nodded,
understanding. Sometimes words were deadlier than
blades.
“Xylara is the
consecrated Queen of Xy,” Heath continued. “Her word is the law of
the land. But that doesn’t mean the Lords will all support her, or
offer no threat, even with Keir as Overlord.” Heath tilted his
head, as if to see better. “Interesting . . . Who kept them out of
the tent?”
“Marcus,” Prest
said.
“Good,” Heath said.
“Give her a minute or two to wake up before she talks to
them.”
Atira craned her
neck, looking through the branches, trying to see for
herself.
There were three
Xyians standing some distance from the tent. Two of them were
dismounted, holding the reins of their horses. They each wore a
cloth of green over their armor and appeared to be
warriors.
The one that remained
mounted wore clothing that seemed to glitter. There was no sign of
armor that she could see, although the man had a sword at his side.
His clothing was trimmed in the same color, the deep green of a
pine tree with sparkles of gold.
“What’s interesting?”
Atira demanded.
“Prest, can you get
some others to carry this wood?” Heath set down his load of
firewood. He brushed off the dirt and bark from his leathers as he
rose.
Prest nodded, adding
his load to Heath’s.
“Why?” Atira
demanded.
“Because to Xyian
nobility, appearances are everything,” Heath said, starting to take
the wood from her arms. “And that messenger is Lanfer, Lord Enali’s
youngest son. A man of importance in Water’s Fall and as friendly
as an ehat in rut.”
Atira let him take
the firewood. “Why is that interesting?”
“Because that means
that the messenger is not a member of the Castle Guard, or one of
Lord Marshall Warren’s men,” Heath said. “Which probably means that
the message is not from my father. It’s probably from the
Council.”
Heath reached out as
if to brush dirt from her chest. Atira knocked his hand aside. “So?
What does that mean?”
“I don’t know,” Heath
admitted. “But it’s something that we need to keep in
mind.”
“The Warprize will
know this?” Prest asked.
“I’m not sure.” Heath
shrugged. “Lara and I were raised together, but once she decided to
become a healer, she spent more time with her teachers than in the
castle. She’s never really been a part of court life, like I
have.”
“Ah,” Atira said.
“She’s not of the tribe’s tents.”
“Xy is not all one
big tribe.” Heath gave her a sharp look. “And you need to remember
that Xyians do not have tokens.”
Atira rolled her
eyes. “‘Xyians do not have tokens,’” she said mockingly. “Xyians
may use their fists if provoked, but only fists. Xyians give
warning before their swords are drawn.” She snorted. “We are to
treat them as children. We are not to take insult at their
words.”
Heath flashed her a
grin. “Oh, you can be insulted. Just don’t draw your sword and kill
them with a stroke. Like Keir did when Lord Durst insulted
Lara.”
“The man did not
die,” Atira said.
“Close enough,” Heath
said. “But even the Warlord acknowledged that he had made a
mistake.”
“True,” Prest said,
then started toward the camp. Heath gestured Atira on and followed
behind.
They had the Xyians’
attention the moment they emerged from the trees. Atira focused on
the mounted man—about Heath’s age, was her estimate, although it
was hard to tell with Xyians.
His upper garment was
padded and worked with threads that sparkled in the sun. The effect
was pretty, but Atira was certain that her dagger could rip right
through the fabric. His hair was short and as blond as her own. She
couldn’t see his eye color from here, but she could see his glare.
And it was focused on Heath.
“Lanfer,” Heath
greeted the man as they walked closer.
“Heath.” Lanfer
dismounted, handing the reins to one of his warriors. He tugged at
his clothing as he gave Atira a glance, looking down his nose.
“Still chasing your Plains whore?”
Atira jerked to a
stop in surprise.
Heath took two steps
past her and punched Lanfer right in the face.