Warcry

a studied casualness that was betrayed by their wide eyes. Othur looked, but none of the women had the bonding decoration. Odd, that—Keir had said that bonded couples rarely traveled apart.
    Liam stopped before the high table and bowed his head to Lara. “Warprize, Warlord,” he greeted them in the language of the Plains. “It is good to see you.”
    Liam lifted his head, scanning the area, and Othur sucked in a breath at the look in his eyes: haunted, like a man longing for something. Hungry. Thirsty. Desperate.
    Then his eyes—hells, his entire face—lit up. Othur shifted his gaze to see Marcus, his face barely visible under the cloak, peering out, with the same hunger in his eyes.
    The moment was gone in an instant. Marcus was serving Keir; Liam seemed as stoic as stone.
    Othur glanced about to see if any others had caught it. But Anna was busy glaring at Vona, and the Archbishop had his eyes on his plate.
    Othur dropped his gaze to the table and frowned at the hapless chicken laying there. Wild rumor had it that Firelanders were indiscriminate. They’d breed with anything on two legs or four. Othur hadn’t put much stock in the four-legged stories . . . but he’d listened when people spoke of other kinds of relationships.
    Such things were considered sinful by the church. Othur had known some men of that kind when he’d served in the guard. Such couples stayed out of the public eye, keeping themselves to themselves. He hoped those of the Plains had the sense to do the same.
    Lara and Keir had both caught the look and had exchanged one of their own. “Liam,” Keir said in the language of the Plains. “You are very welcome. Come join us. Sit here beside me.”
    Othur winced inside. He’d need to talk to Keir about High Court etiquette.
    Liam deliberately surveyed the room. “An odd feeling, Warprize. To enter a city without laying siege or people trying to kill me.” Liam arched an eyebrow in her direction. “This will take some getting used to.”
    Lara laughed. The Plains warriors around the room chuckled at that; even Othur smiled at Liam’s dry delivery.
    “I thank you, Warlord, for the courtesy,” Liam said. “But if someone will tell us where to set up our tents in this stone city of yours, I will see to my people first.”
    Heath stepped forward. “I thought perhaps the palace gardens would be best. I’ll have my men show you where.”
    “Excellent idea,” Lara said, as Amyu filled her goblet.
    “What news of the Plains?” Keir asked.
    “What little I have, I will share,” Liam spread his hands. “Simus and Joden are at the Heart. Confusion abounds, and the warrior-priests are of no help. They have gathered at the Heart in droves. It almost seems they are all there, but there is no way to know for certain. They have made every warrior leave the area of the Heart, and the winds have it that they forced Essa to move his tents.”
    Keir frowned. “Have the spring challenges begun?”
    “No,” Liam shook his head. “The warrior-priests have delayed them, with no reason why. Simus will send word as soon as he is able.”
    Keir grunted, clearly concerned, as Marcus refilled his goblet.
    “I issued a call for warriors,” Liam said. “So many came to my call that I decided not to wait for Simus to qualify as Warlord. He and I agreed it would be best if I came now, to prevent troubles. I left my main force at the border of Xy and the Plains, as we had discussed over the winter. But I came to greet you, and remind you, Warlord, and you, Warprize, of the price I placed on my aid.”
    Othur frowned. What price were they talking about?
    Marcus stiffened, the pitcher of kavage in his hand.
    “We remember,” Keir said. “But recall, Liam—Marcus is his own man.”
    “He is not,” Liam growled. “He is my bonded and I would—”
    Marcus threw his pitcher. It shattered at Liam’s feet, sending shards and wine all over the floor. “I am no longer your bonded, fool. The elements have declared it, have they not?” With a savage gesture, Marcus yanked back his hood, showing his scars, and his ear burnt clean away.
    So much for subtlety, Othur thought.
    Anna leaned over. “What are they arguing about?”
    He blinked at her, then smiled. “Military tactics. Anna, my love, this chicken is fabulous. What did you stuff them with?”
    “Dried cherries,” Anna said as she eyed the arguing men. “They take their tactics seriously, don’t they?”
    “Oh yes,” Othur replied. “Is