Warprize

heir, he would let me live my life as I chose. It seemed likely that he would wed within a year’s time. There had been talk of at least two prospective alliances. Or at least it had seemed so before the Warlord’s attack.
    Which reminded me of that man in the tent. I stopped and chewed my lip. Goddess forgive me, I was not going to betray a wounded and sick man to Xymund just so that he could undo all my work. Others might think it a betrayal of my king, but to my mind it was extending the Goddess’s mercy. Just in case, I ducked into one of the alcoves off the hall and put the brooch into the top of my boot. I pushed it down far enough to insure that it would not fall out. The boots were big enough. One would not be able to tell it was there. I’d wait and speak to Lord Warren tomorrow. He’d make sure that the right thing was done.
    A moment more, and I was before the guards at the door to the King’s study. I nodded to them and set my basket down against the wall. There was the sound of raised voices from within. The argument sounded heated. I glanced over at the guard, who shrugged. He knocked on the door. There was instant silence, then Xymund’s voice granted entrance. The guard swung the door open. I kept my eyes down, advanced five steps and sank to my knee.
    Xymund loved the pomp of his circumstances and required the formality. Father would have kicked him in the buttocks for it. Othur felt it showed Xymund’s lack of self-confidence and I agreed. The guard behind me cleared his throat. “Xylara, Daughter of the House of Xy.” I turned my head and shot him a look out of the corner of my eye. He caught my meaning. “And Master Healer.”
    The argument hadn’t stopped when I entered, they were too caught up in the dispute. I could have been a chair for all that they noticed. I risked a quick glance up at my half-brother. He was not a tall man, but looked impressive, still dressed in formal court garb, bedecked in a dark blue tunic and pants with silver trim. He wore a simple coronet, having discovered that the full crown had an annoying tendency to fall if he moved his head too quickly. His brown hair was graying at the temples, and his face bore lines of worry that had not been there a few months ago, although the lines were hard to see in the angry flush that covered his face. When he shifted in the chair behind Father’s old desk, it creaked. He had gained weight in these last few months.
    Another quick glance at Lord Marshall Warren, standing over by the fireplace. Spry and thin, he always seemed to me to be in motion. No flushed face there, instead his face was white, drawn and pale. “
    Please, Your Majesty. We can drive them back from the walls if you let—”
    “Do you question my competence, Warren?”
    The slight pause didn’t help matters. Xymund tightened his lips, but Warren was quicker. “Majesty, none of us have had to deal with horse archers before this. We’re not used to their tactics—”
    “Damned horses.” Xymund was snarling. “I hate those horses.”
    “Their horse archers are devastating against the foot, Majesty. But they have no siege equipment at hand, and the snows will come before they can build sufficient—”
    “ENOUGH!” Xymund barked and Warren closed his mouth with a snap.
    I looked down at the carpet, unwilling to rise from my knees and draw attention to myself. Xymund’s breathing was audible, harsh and fast. It took long moments to slow.
    “Rise, Xylara. You were not at dinner.” Warren was standing at the fireplace, looking at the smoldering coals. Xymund continued. “You should make an effort to attend our Courts.”
    “Yes, Your Majesty.” The word ‘brother’ had not seen use since Father died. He looked me in the eye. “You went out there again, didn’t you.”
    “Yes, Your Majesty.”
    His face hardened. “Why do you insist on aiding my enemy?”
    So it was to be the same old argument. I started with my usual rebuttal. “Sire, I tend to our wounded before I go…”
    He held his hand up, and I stopped obediently. I saved my defiance for when it really counted.
    “Let’s not start.” He glanced off with a frustrated look. “It’s not like you will obey me in this anyway.”
    Xymund continued. “How many prisoners are in the tent?”
    Surprised, I thought for a moment. “I have not taken an ac-tual count, Sire. I would guess around twenty. I don’t really know.”
    He looked unhappy. “Well, the exact number is not