CHAPTER
16
“SPARRING?”
DISAPPOINTED, HEATH FOLLOWED Atira into the sunlit courtyard by the
baking ovens. “But I was thinking of . . .”
Atira looked over her
shoulder and raised an eyebrow. The sun glinted off her hair as she
moved out of the shadowed doorway.
“Well, you know,”
Heath shrugged. “Something a bit more . . . relaxing.”
“Sharing our bodies?”
Atira said. She headed for the practice circle that lay beyond the
courtyard. Heath admired the sway of her hips as she walked off.
“That is for later. For now, we need to move and
sweat.”
“There is movement
in—” Heath stopped as he caught sight of two men, apparently
rebuilding the chicken coop. They gave him a respectful nod as he
passed.
“You are good in
bed,” Atira said easily, tossing her hair back as she walked past
the workmen. “But now, we fight, eh? Sex is for
later.”
One of the workmen
banged his hand with his hammer and cursed. The other stared at
Atira, stunned.
Heath figured it was
just easier to keep walking.
Atira was at the rack
of practice weapons, checking them for weight and length.
“Daggers?” she asked. “Or sword and shield?”
“Daggers,” Heath
said, unstrapping his sword and placing it on a nearby
bench.
He removed his cloak
as well. Atira did the same, putting hers near his, but not quite
touching. Heath wasn’t sure if he should read something into that
or not.
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 would 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.”