Warprize

laughed. “Why sing about the injury unless you sing about the healing?” He clapped his hand on Prest’s back, and they walked off, leaving me standing there with a foolish look on my face. Marcus greeted me when I entered the tent. “Can I get you anything, Warprize?”
    I put my hands on my hips. “Lara.”
    He turned his one eye up to study the tent. “Kavage, perhaps? Some hot water?”
    I snorted, but was too tired to fight him. “No, thank you. I think I will go to sleep.”
    Marcus nodded. “I will add some fuel to the braziers. The Warlord is still with Simus, and I think they will talk the stars away.” He bustled about, as I sank down onto the bed, and bade me good rest when he left. I yawned, my face almost splitting with its strength. The bed felt wonderful when I crawled under the blankets and furs.
    Later, much later, I woke to find Keir had crawled into the bed at some point. He lay off to one side, on his back, sleeping peacefully. There on his bare arm were those tattoos. I stared at him in the soft glow of the coals, then went back to sleep.
    The dress was bright red. Bright, bright red.
    Marcus smiled at me. “There, now. That will do us proud.”
    I tried to smile back at him.
    The morning had started well enough. When I awoke, I found the bed empty and Keir already gone. After breakfast and kavage, I returned to the healing tent, to find Gils there feeding everyone and asking as many questions as he could with one breath. After some negotiation, I allowed some of Atira’s friends into the tent, so they could make their plans. Whenever I wandered in their direction, they would cover up the board, and wave me off. The only times I pushed the issue was when I needed to check the leg, other than that I left them to their schemes. The morning passed quickly, and I soon found myself hustled back to Marcus and food and the dress.
    As dresses went, it was quite comfortable. A high neckline and long sleeves, with a flared split skirt. I especially liked the skirt, given the chance of a side-saddle in this army camp was nonexistent. The fabric slid between my legs like water glides over skin. It was nothing I’d ever seen or felt. Somehow Marcus had even gotten slippers that matched the dress.
    I soothed the dress, running my hands over the fabric with mixed emotions. I certainly didn’t fill the bodice, the cut being made for more generous curves. The skirt fit fine over my more than ample hips, and the cloth flowed down my legs. Ordinarily I’d be pleased to own such a dress. But not a scarlet dress.
    In Water’s Fall, red was the color worn by women whose profession I was not supposed to know about. At times, some of the bolder women of the court would dare to have a scarf, or some trim of that color, but not a whole dress. What made it that much worse was that I had never seen a red like this before, so bright and vivid. It was the bright red of new blood, brighter even than the roses in the briar of the palace garden. It put all the Xyian colors to shame, making them look drab and dowdy. A dress like this, as bright as it was, all but screamed my position in no uncertain terms. I bowed my head, hiding my face with a curtain of hair. If I said something, Marcus might not understand, but he might not make me wear the dress. Trous would raise eyebrows, certainly, but this dress would have the lord and ladies of the Court collapsing with seizures. I didn’t want to offend him, but I couldn’t wear this. In the back of my head I heard Great Aunt Xydella’s quavery voice. ‘Speak up, child.’ She’d say. ‘I can’t read minds.’ Of course Great Aunt Xydella would have worn the dress and loved every outrageous minute of it.
    I bit my lip, then opened my mouth. “Marcus—”
    Keir walked into the tent and stopped short. His eyes widened, and his face lit up. “Fire’s blessing.” He stood, looking at me with approval.
    I swallowed what I had been about to say.
    Keir made a gesture, and I turned slowly, allowing him to see it. “Marcus, where did you find such a dress?”
    Marcus drew himself up and arched his eyebrow. “The clothing of one woman is a task well within my skills, Warlord.”
    Keir smiled and acknowledged Marcus with a slight bow. “I stand corrected, old man.” He straightened. He was outfitted in full chain that held a high gloss, with a black cape edged in fur. The hilts of his swords peeked over his shoulders. He moved to stand before me, a look of pride on