“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 the crowd.
Heath stood and moved next to me. “I should go as well, for Anna is dying for news.”
I smiled, but refrained from hugging him. “I’m fine, Heath.”
He smiled back, and cupped my cheek again before turning to make his respects to the Warlord. Keir signaled for someone to escort him, and he too disappeared into the crowd.
I knew I had a broad grin on my face, but I didn’t care. I loved the dancing, like nothing ever seen in the Kingdom of Xy before. I looked about to see if the next dance was about to be called, but the crowd was still moving around. I noticed that Keir was watching me intently, his expression stern. I ignored him, not wishing anything to steal the pleasure of the next three dances from me.
The crowd settled, and once again Iften moved to the center of the field. This time, he had no bowl in his hand, but stood with naked sword in one hand, shield in the other. “Warlord!” His cry echoed over the field. Keir and Simus both stiffened. “I cry challenge on you.”
All was quiet and movement ceased.
“The time of challenge is in the spring, Iften.” Simus rose and moved to the edge of the platform. He limped slightly and I suspected he’d pushed the leg too far. His strong voice carried easily over the crowd. “Your challenge is improper.”
Iften stayed where he was. “I cry challenge on you, Keir of the Cat, named Warlord of the Northwestern Range for this Season of War. I cry challenge for all the elements to see and witness.”
Keir spoke. “There is no challenge on campaign, Iften. You’ve sworn oaths to follow me until you are released from my service.”
“That woman beside you is no true warprize and of a people who use assassination and treachery as their weapons. Are these the ways you wish us to learn?” Iften beat his sword against his shield, and I jumped, startled by the sound. “I swear I will kill you and the woman and lead this army to take what is ours by right. Come and fight me, Keir! Fight and die!”
Chapter 10
In an instant Rafe and Prest stood beside me, weapons drawn. Marcus shifted as well, standing at Keir’s side. I sat frozen, not understanding how everything could change in an instant.
Simus spoke softly, turned slightly to look at Keir. “Do you think he’s behind—”
Keir responded in the same tone. “I don’t know.” He stayed seated, raising a voice that held a clear disdain for the man before him. “I’ve made no secret of my intent, Iften. I will bind these lands together, weave new patterns from our ways and theirs.” His voice carried with no difficulty. The watching warriors had their eyes on him, and few stirred. There was only the soft breeze and the fires of the torches that moved and crackled. Keir continued. “We will be stronger for it. Take back your flawed challenge. You swore an oath for all the elements to see that you would follow me. I hold you to your oath.”
“Their ways are foul and tainted. I cry challenge now, before you destroy us all.”
Marcus snorted. “His wits have been scattered by the winds.” Keir grunted but didn’t turn his head.
“Where is the singer?” Iften shouted out. “Where is Joden?”
Joden emerged from the press of bodies off to the side, his broad face unhappy. “I’m here, Iften.”
Iften raised his sword and shield, almost as if he were offering them. “What says our singer to my challenge?”
Joden took two steps out and stood with his arms crossed over his chest. “I have not heard your protests in senel, Iften. I have not heard you raise these truths with Keir’s token in your hand. I hear only your challenge, out of season, and against your oaths. I’m not yet a Singer.” Joden continued, his voice resonant and firm. “But were I the Singer of singers and standing at the Heart of the Plains, still I would call you Oathbreaker.”
The crowd responded to those words with a buzz. To my eyes it seemed that Iften shrank a little when he heard Joden’s words. Still, he remained standing at the center of the field.
Keir stood. The crowd grew silent. “A new pattern is hard to dance, and we are all in need of practice. There have been mistakes made, and I acknowledge that. This is also a mistake, Iften. Withdraw your challenge. These matters can be discussed in senel, and if your concerns cannot be satisfied, I will release your oath in the spring.” Keir shifted his stance slightly, taking a more threatening posture. “Or repeat your challenge without my token and die.”