Warcry

about, and she felt heat bloom within her as he drew closer.
    But Heath just gathered up his bedroll. “Come on,” he said, heading for the shuttered window. “Bring your bedroll.” He snagged up his sword, then turned back to his press. “You’d better wear one of my tunics.”
    “Where are we going?” Atira whispered, getting to her feet. Heath tossed her a tunic and then turned to the window. “Where?” she repeated, as she pulled the spice-scented cloth on over her head.
    Heath was outlined against the window as he lifted the bar and opened the shutters. “Out,” was all he said.

    THERE WAS JUST ENOUGH LIGHT TO SEE BY, although Heath knew the way well enough that he could have done it blindfolded. He jumped over to the roof of the shed and held out his hand for Atira.
    She ignored it and landed beside him with ease.
    He puffed out a breath at her stubbornness, and then led the way along the roof, back toward the tree that they had climbed. But instead of climbing down, Heath ducked under the branches and along the roof to the next building over. Here the slate was only slightly slanted, and the stone beneath his feet was warm.
    “What is this?” Atira asked as she came to stand close, her voice little more than a whisper. From here she could see more of the courtyard, which contained a well and what looked to be a sparring circle.
    “The baking ovens,” Heath whispered back, kneeling to lay out his bedroll. “The cooks keep a steady fire going all day, so the stone will be warm for hours. I used to climb out here all the time and watch the stars.”
    She hesitated. “We’ll fall.”
    “We won’t fall,” Heath said.
    Atira looked at the edge of the roof doubtfully. “We’ll—”
    “Move slowly and keep your feet pointed toward the edge,” Heath said. “You won’t fall.”
    Atira set about spreading her bedroll next to his. “This is what Xyians do when they can’t sleep?”
    “Hardly,” Heath chuckled as he stretched out, his feet inches from the edge of the roof. “But I never got caught. The tree blocks the view from the castle, and no one comes out here at night. Mama has a flock of chickens that she keeps in a coop, but they are penned at dusk. As long as we’re quiet, they won’t put up a fuss.”
    Atira placed her weapons close, and then she settled onto her bedding, rolling onto her side to face him. Heath admired the way her hips shifted under his tunic, offering glimpses of the shadowed area between her thighs.
    He tore his gaze away and stared up at the night sky. The heat of the roof was coming up through the gurtle pads. He should have been relaxing into it, but he still felt tense. Tight.
    It didn’t help that Atira was staring at him, her head propped up with one hand.
    “I should have the tree cut down,” he said. “If I could figure out how to use it to gain access, someone else can do the same.”
    “That seems wrong,” Atira said. “A thing that has grown there for so long dies because it is an inconvenience to you?”
    Heath stretched his arms over his neck and arched his back, trying to work out the kinks in his shoulders. “There is truth to that. But it would be foolish to leave it there.”
    “Sit up,” Atira commanded.
    Heath sat up on the bedding, his legs crossed. Atira settled behind him and started to work his shoulders. “Foolish to suffer when I can work those knots out.”
    Heath grunted as she started to knead his muscles. It felt good, and without thinking, he sighed.
    “That’s better.” Atira’s voice was a warm whisper in his ear.
    “The tree is a weakness,” Heath said. “That wasn’t a fear before, when Xymund was King. But now . . .” He straightened as Atira worked her way down his spine. “Now it needs to be addressed.”
    “As does the state of the warriors in your guard,” Atira said. “Detros is a man you trust, but look at the size of his belly.”
    Heath shook his head. “Don’t be fooled. Detros may not be young and fast, but he knows the men well, and their strengths and weaknesses. He knows the castle, too. He’d be a good choice to lead the Guard, after—” Heath cut off his words, not sure he wanted to talk about the future. Not now. Not yet.
    Atira didn’t seem to notice. She was stroking his arms now, tracing down them with her fingertips. The cloth of the tunic she wore brushed against his skin, and he could smell the spices rising from the warmth of her body. He drew the scent in, breathing