Warcry

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