Warcry

jar. He threw it to Atira, who caught it easily. “You hold my token, Atira. What truths would you voice?”
    Atira pulled in a breath before speaking. “Warlord,” she said in the language of the Plains. “When you—”
    Keir’s frown deepened. “Speak Xyian.”
    “There may be truth in my words that you do not wish them to hear,” Atira said simply.
    “No secrets,” Lara said. “They need to know.”
    Atira bowed her head, then started again. “Warlord, when you departed Xy, you left behind a force of warriors under the command of Simus of the Hawk. That force was pledged to remain and hold Xy in your name for the winter season.
    “After your departure, word came of the troubles you encountered with the Council of Elders. Simus left for the Plains, along with myself and Heath, in order to stand at your side during that time.”
    “It was well that he did,” Lara commented. “We needed him more than we knew.”
    “Simus left Wilsa of the Lark in charge of the remaining warriors. Elois of the Horse was to be her second. All was well, until the messenger from the Council of Elders appeared with word that you had been . . .” Atira hesitated, glancing at Othur. “That your status had changed.”
    “What?” Othur asked Keir sharply. “What is this?”
    “The message was not shared with the Xyians, apparently,” Keir said dryly.
    “Wilsa thought it best not to share this truth with the Xyians,” Atira said.
    “What does that mean, exactly?” Othur said with a growl. The invalid was gone, and the statesman had emerged.
    “Othur,” Lara started, but Keir interrupted.
    “The Council of the Elders stripped me of my position as Warlord, as punishment for the deaths under my command.” Keir’s voice was calm, but Atira saw a muscle twitch in his jaw.
    “Deaths from illness,” Lara said hotly. “The Council was wrong to—”
    “Right or wrong, it was done.” Keir put his hand on her shoulder. He looked over at Atira. “Wilsa shared this truth with all of the warriors, eh?”
    “Yes,” Atira said. “And this truth was not well received.”
    Meara started to fuss, so Anna put her back down on the floor. She cooed with delight and started to crawl around Lara’s skirts.
    “That explains it,” Othur said, rubbing his jaw. “After Simus left, after that messenger arrived, I noticed . . .” His voice trailed off. “Wilsa was fine, but the others . . . there was a coolness. As if they were offended. I thought they were having trouble adapting to our ways.”
    “That was part of it, Lord Othur,” Atira said. “They were upset, but they had pledged to Keir that they would stay the winter, and stay they did. They spent the winter dealing with city-folk and uncertain as to their status.”
    “Their status?” Eln asked. He patted Heath on the shoulder. “The bleeding’s stopped.”
    “The status of a Plains warrior is a reflection of those they serve,” Keir explained. “My loss is their loss.”
    “Not all are dissatisfied,” Atira offered. “Some support Keir in all things and mistrust the decision of the Council. Others wait to hear your truths for themselves to decide. Others were deeply unsettled at the news of the deaths and wish to be released from their pledge.” Atira drew a breath. “The Xyian child’s appeal over a forced bonding was the final blow for many. They could not stand by and see that done.”
    “I do not fault them in that,” Keir said. “But to wear masks? Attack in ambush? That is not our way.”
    “New ways can be learned, Warlord. I do not say it is certain; I only raise the possibility. That is my truth.” Atira returned the jar to Keir.
    “And I thank you for your truth,” Keir said.
    “What does this mean, your loss of status?” Othur asked. “If you are not a warlord, will that allow another warlord with an army the freedom to attack Xy?”
    “That will have to wait until morning,” Eln said. “This visit to an invalid has gone too long as is. And Lara needs her rest.”
    “True enough,” Othur said. “Although Lara’s visit has restored my life to me.”
    “Let’s not be that obvious,” Eln said.
    Meara had found Keir’s black boots and was pulling herself up by his trous. Keir looked down and smiled, swinging her up into his arms. The little girl chortled and reached over his shoulder for the hilt of his sword.
    “Not yet, little one,” Keir said. “Wooden ones first, and only at first teeth.” He tickled her