Warsworn

under the bells. All is not well with you, Lara." I didn't look at him. "I'm fine. I just had some questions—"
    "Look at me." Keir's voice was firm, and I obeyed, slightly resentful of his order.
    "This has been hard on you." His voice was quiet, and he gave me an intent look. "Marcus has told me that you are trying to cope as best you can." Keir rolled his eyes. "I got an earful about the abuse I am putting you through."
    I smiled, knowing very well the sharp edge of Marcus's tongue. "You're not abusing me. I'm doing fine."
    "I'm sorry for this." Keir shifted to lay flat on the blanket, his hands on his chest. "I'd slow our pace, but I can't. We need to arrive at the Heart of the Plains as soon as possible."
    "Joden tried to explain, but I'm not sure I understand."
    Keir turned his head to look at me with his blue eyes. "I sent messengers to the Elders at the Heart of the Plains the very night I claimed you. They will have sent messengers of their own, summoning the other elders and warrior-priests. The ceremony will start when we arrive, under the open skies for all to see. If we hurry, the ceremony will be held before all can make the journey. There are some I would prefer to avoid."
    "Can they deny my confirmation?" I leaned forward a bit, and the blanket that I had wrapped around me dropped slightly.
    Keir's eyes fixed on me, but not on my face. "I don't want to talk about the future, Lara." His eyes grew sultry, and his voice roughened. "I don't want to talk at all." He rolled back on to his side, and reached over to tug on my blanket. "I'd rather talk about the way the sun is dancing on your skin. How you smell like vanilla. How the light is being caught in your hair, and kept prisoner."
    I flushed up, put the comb down and moved toward him, letting him pull the blanket away from my body. His eyes were half-closed as he pulled me in close, wrapping me in his arms. He nuzzled my neck, and his hand drifted down to my buttock. "Too long apart, Lara. I've missed your touch, your heat, your—"
    I opened my mouth in a jaw-cracking yawn.
    Keir pulled back, looking into my eyes. I blinked at him, my vision suddenly blurry and tired. He shook his head, and then pulled me down to lay next to him, my head on his shoulder.
    "Sleep, Lara."
    "Keir, let's not waste this haven. I can sleep late—" Another yawn cut me off.
    "But you won't, and haven't, have you?" He stroked my back, rubbing circles softly on my skin. "Put your head down, and close your eyes, Lara. I'll be here, watching over you." I yawned again, the warmth of his body and my full stomach defeating me. Keir chuckled as I relaxed, and I felt him pull the blanket up over us, even as I drifted off to sleep. I woke to the odd feeling of something tugging my hair. Keir had spooned up behind me, and his arm was draped over my hip. The odd feeling was a robber jay, tugging on one of my curls that were spread over the blanket. I'd heard of them from my father, large grey birds that feared no one and nothing, and that stole whatever they could get their hands on. The bird tilted his head, looking at me, then jabbed at my curl again, trying to pull it away. Keir's hand flipped out, and the bird took flight, scolding us in the process. I felt Keir nuzzle my neck, and I hummed softly at the pleasure.
    Keir chuckled. "You smell wonderful."
    I turned slightly, smiling into his blue eyes. His hand drifted up to cup my breast and I groaned at that simple touch. "One stroke of your hand and I feel such wonderful things."
    "There's more," he whispered.
    I kissed him, ready and eager for more when there was an outburst beyond the bushes. Horses, a lot of them, pounding up, with warriors calling out for Keir.
    Keir sprang to his feet, with sword in hand. I fumbled for the blanket, pulling it to my chest to cover myself.
    "Warlord!" The voice that came from beyond the thick alders was high and tense. "I must report."
    "What news?" Keir sheathed his sword and grabbed for the rest of his gear.
    "Rebellion, Warlord!"
     

 

     
     

Chapter 3
     
    The tradition of the Plains is that the Warprize takes nothing except from the hands of the Warlord. This was not, as I'd originally thought, to keep the Warprize subservient and dependent on the Warlord. Rather, it was to allow the Warlord to demonstrate that he had the ability and strength to provide for the Warprize.
    This had resulted in some rather rigorous arguments with Marcus, self-appointed guardian of the tradition, once I'd