Warcry

the shutters—
    “Don’t,” Atira said. She was standing just inside the door. “The walls are already close enough. Let us at least have air.”
    Heath shook his head and swung the wooden shutters closed. “We’ve been attacked once already tonight. Let’s not invite another.”
    Atira sighed as he placed the bar over the shutters, but she reached for her packs without another word.
    “What, no comments on the silliness of Xyian ways, or the strangeness of stone tents?” Heath asked.
    Atira ignored him. She started to roll her bedding out in front of the door.
    “What are you doing?” Heath snapped. “You can’t sleep there.”
    Atira paused, giving him a mild look. “Where else would I sleep?”
    “Well.” Heath pointed at the bed. “Here.”
    Atira raised her eyebrow. “I would not string you along. You placed a price on sharing, remember?”
    Only too well. Heath clamped his jaw shut on the words he wanted to say, but she was right. He’d meant what he’d said there under the pines, but right here, right now, he wanted . . .
    Gods. She would drive him insane long before their enemies killed him.
    “Fine.” Heath started to remove his weapons, moving toward his press. “But at least sleep closer to the fire.”
    “Fine,” she snapped. Atira had her back to him, stiff and as disapproving as a back could get. She continued to lay out her gurtle pads and blankets in front of the door.
    Heath cursed under his breath as he stripped down, hanging his sword-belt from the bedpost. He opened the lid of the clothes press, looking for the thin linen bedclothes.
    “What’s that smell?” Atira asked.
    Heath didn’t look up. “Spices. Mother refuses to waste anything. If a spice gets too old to cook with, she makes up small bags and hides them in the clothes. She claims it keeps vermin out of the press.” He pulled out a pair of sleep trous.
    “And that thing, it is filled with clothes?” she asked.
    “Yes.” Heath closed the lid and started to pull on the trous.
    “That’s more clothes than any of the Plains warriors I know,” Atira said.
    “You only have what you can carry on a horse,” Heath said.
    “True,” Atira said. “Although there are stories of a Singer whose tent is filled with more than ten horses can carry,” she chuckled. “But those are only words the wind brings, and they can’t be trusted.”
    Heath pulled back the blankets on the bed.
    “That scent,” Atira said, her voice slightly husky. “It’s nice.”
    Heath looked over at her.
    She had placed her weapons on the floor within easy reach, then followed the Plains tradition of sleeping naked. She stripped down to her bare skin, and was stretching in the firelight, letting her hair down from the braid she wound around her head. She was being careful not to look at him.
    He couldn’t have looked away if he’d wanted to. She was lovely, strong and golden in the firelight. His mouth went dry and his body betrayed him as his desire rose. He’d been an idiot to say that he would not lay with her unless they bonded.
    Atira ignored him as she slid into her blankets, but there was a smirk on her lips that told him that she’d seen and she knew, and . . . he blew out the candle and went to his own bed before he did something stupid.
    Hells, he’d already done something stupid, falling in love with a warrior of the Plains. What had he been thinking? Heath smiled ruefully as he slid into the cold bed. He hadn’t exactly been thinking, now, had he? In fact, quite the opposite.
    The fire crackled, warming the room, and Heath pretended to watch the flames. But his gaze kept wandering over to Atira, sleeping on her side, her face toward him, her hair spilling around her head. He just needed to make her see . . . to make her understand that he wanted her oath, and for her heart to be his alone. As his heart was hers.
    Finally, he forced himself to look up at the ceiling, laying there waiting for sleep to come.
    The rustle of blankets told him that Atira was stirring, which wasn’t like her. She usually dropped off fast and rarely stirred in the night. So he wasn’t really surprised when her voice came out of the darkness. “Do you think she knew what she asked of him?”
    “Huh?” It was about all Heath could manage; he didn’t have an idea of what she was talking about.
    “The Warprize,” Atira said. “Do you think she understood what she was asking Keir to do? To suffer?”
    Heath turned on his side and