Warprize

end.
    “Warlord.”
    We turned to see the warrior standing behind us, with Heath at his side, grinning like a fool.
    “Heath!” I jumped to my feet, leaving the cloak behind me. The cooler air hit me, giving me goose bumps, but I paid no mind as I ran over to greet him.
    Heath was stiff, but he relaxed and brought his arms up to give me a quick hug, before pushing me back slightly. He brought his hand up to cup my neck, then let his hand fall as he stepped back. He dropped to one knee. “Warlord.”
    I turned, to see Keir standing there, a dark expression on his face. I caught my breath, suddenly understanding that I’d made a mistake. Heat flooded my face. Keir pointed at the stool where I had been seated, and I returned to it. Marcus draped the cloak back over me, and made sure that it covered me completely.
    “Your message?” Keir’s voice was cold, as behind us Iften called the next dance.
    “Warlord, King Xymund sends word that Lord Durst still lives. Eln the Healer believes that he will recover.” Heath lifted his head. “Lord Marshall Warren and the King continue to question and investigate the attack on the warprize and will send further word tomorrow.”
    Keir grunted, but I saw a brief flash of relief in his eyes.
    Heath continued, “Warlord, I also beg your forgiveness on behalf of myself and your warprize. We are childhood friends, who played in the kitchens together when we were small.” He swallowed hard. “I had heard that she was hurt, and asked to carry the King’s words in order to see for myself and report back to my mother.”
    Keir narrowed his eyes. “Your mother is Anna the Cook?”
    Heath nodded. “She who rules the kitchens, and will beat me with a spoon if I do not report back on Lar
    —the warprize’s condition.”
    Simus chuckled. “Never anger a good cook, Keir.”
    Keir still looked grim, but his voice was polite. “Stay then, and talk with the warprize. Would you see a dance?”
    Heath smiled, stood and moved to sit on the platform, leaning back against the side of Atira’s cot. He looked at her leg, and grimaced. “Broken?” I nodded. He smiled at Atira, and pointed at her leg and then at his. “I remember what that is like. Tell her she has my sympathy.”
    I translated for Atira, and she nodded her thanks, eyeing Heath’s leg and its apparent health. Keir and Simus settled back down as the next dance was called. Atira propped herself a little higher when Iften called the color. ‘These are my dancers!“
    I quickly explained things to Heath as the dancers ran out on the field. Their ribbons were blue, and they formed a square in the center of the field. But instead of sticks, they carried what looked like rocks. We watched as the drums pounded and the dance began. The dancers wove a pattern for some time before they raised their rocks and cracked them together. The sound it made was far different from the sticks, and the crowd cried out in astonishment as sparks flew from the dancers’s hands. Keir and Simus stood, and Marcus moved to the front of the platform to get a better look. I stayed where I was, not wanting to block Atira’s view. The dancers beat out the pattern with their feet, the drums seemed to build in intensity, and every so often the sparks flew as the rocks were struck. The crowd started to stomp their feet in time with the drums, and seemed to be chanting ‘heyla’ over and over to their beat. The sound was infectious and I clapped to the rhythm. Atira was grinning, and Heath seemed spellbound by the sight.
    At last the dancers came to the end, and the crowd cried out their approval. Atira collapsed back onto her cot, letting out a large nervous laugh.
    Marcus put a hand on her shoulder. “Well done, pattern weaver.”
    She smiled at him with tears in her eyes. “Thank you.”
    “It was your pattern?” Simus asked, visibly impressed.
    “My first.” Atira grinned. Heath was looking puzzled, so I translated for him. By this time, the dancers had run to the platform and formed a group in front of Keir. The tallest one stepped forward. “Warlord, may we take Atira? We wish to praise our weaver to the skies.”
    Keir gestured to the cot, and the breathless men and women swarmed the platform to lift her high. “Have a care of that leg!” I called.
    One stopped and bowed toward me. “We’ll take her to the healer tent, Warprize and celebrate there. We’d not risk that she’d not dance again.” With that, they disappeared into