But I had help.
Marcus came to offer me hot kavage. “Any luck?” I asked.
“Not so far. Isdra is trying to get closer, as is Rate. But they swear to me that it’s almost as if he knows what they are trying to do.”
Prest grunted. Yveni looked at him, then turned back to me. “Tell me again, why we are trying to see the Second’s arm?”
“Herself is curious.” Prest said.
I looked at him sharply, but his face was neutral. Some time after Yveni had won the combat, I’d found her with Keir, Rafe, Prest, Isdra and Marcus clustered together, their conversation serious and intent. They’d broke off their words as I approached, but I was certain that the quirks and foibles of one warprize had been discussed hi great detail.
“Ah.” Yveni nodded her understanding. “Do you wish me to try, Warprize?”
“Not yet.” I sat, watching Keir make his first move in the game. Oone was intent, but quick and the game seemed to move as fast as they could call out instructions to the ‘pieces and pawns’.
After a bit, Rafe and Isdra reported back, glum with their failure. I nodded, unworried. It stood to reason that Iften would know them, and anticipate their interest.
As Keir’s knight advanced to take one of Oone’s bishops, Cadr moved up beside me, and knelt, adjusting his boot. “I got a good look, Warprize.”
“And?”
“Not sure. He has his bracers strapped tight over his leather sleeve. He is using the hand, and flexing the fingers. I thought they looked a little swollen, but I saw no sign of pain.”
“Pity.” Isdra said.
I kept my attention on the game, and my voice soft. “My thanks, Cadr.”
He stood, and moved off into the crowd without looking back.
I settled back on my stump, and pondered what that might mean. Magical healing? I’d read about it in stories, but could the warrior-priests wield that power?
A wave of pure jealousy washed through me. To be able to heal everything with the touch of my hand. I’d give anything to be able to ease pain, mend wounds that way.
I was so lost in thought that I didn’t really see the game, until the crowd cheered, and I looked up to see that Keir and Oone had reached a draw. Oone studied her remaining pieces carefully. “I could offer you a warprize.”
Keir threw his head up, and glanced over in my direction. His eyes were bright, his smile so bright it took my breath. “Oh no, Oone. I have claimed my warprize, and will have no other.”
I blushed bright red, warmed to the tips of my toes.
Keir looked back at his opponent, over the heads of the joyful crowd. “Oone, I think instead that your warrior-priests would leave you in this instance. What say you?”
There was much commenting on this. I frowned, a bit puzzled. Oone still had bishops on the board at her command. Yet she was looking at them with distrust. And the warriors portraying them were standing with their arms crossed, glaring at all and sundry from beneath lowered brows.
Keir’s bishops had been taken from the board, long before this. Yet he didn’t have the ability to force a checkmate. It was clearly a draw. Why were they—
Oone nodded her agreement. “I concede the loss, Warlord. My warrior-priests are not to be trusted.”
Stunned, I watched as the crowd erupted into cheers and Keir raised his arms in victory. I didn’t understand what had just happened, but I knew somehow that it was important. What kind of power did the warrior-priests hold that they would refuse to support a leader?
Movement distracted me, as Keir was lifted on the shoulders of some of the warriors and carried high above the heads of the cheering crowd.
I cheered as well, but groaned mentally. There’d be no living with him now.
Keir had announced a mourning ceremony for the evening before we were to leave. There had been no new cases of the Sweat since Gils had died. A full forty days had passed, and we were free of our invisible enemy.
Free of the disease, but not free of its effects. These people had been changed profoundly by what had happened here, each marked in different ways by the experience. They had confronted something unknown to them, and learned new skills as a result. I knew that I too had been affected. Never again would I walk into a situation so sure that I had a solution. A loss of confidence, perhaps, or maybe more of facing the truth of my limitations that I hadn’t wanted to acknowledge before.
As the sun started to sink behind the mountains, everyone began to gather for the ceremony along the shore of the lake. This time, a minimal guard had been set, for all would mourn together. I watched the sun as I stood outside the command tent, wrapped in my cloak. The gathering warriors were bringing blankets to sit on, filling in the area, sitting close together, side by side.
Keir emerged from the tent with blankets and a bundle in his arms. He’d released my guards to join the grieving, and Marcus had indicated that he would remain in the command tent with Meara. Without a word, Keir took my hand, leading me toward the rise that overlooked the edge of the lake.
I saw Iften and the Warrior-Priest standing outside Iften’s tent. It almost looked as if they were hiding something, the way they looked about them as they talked. Iften threw open the tent flap and vanished inside. The Warrior-Priest walked off, disappearing behind the tent in the directions of the herds. I was surprised that they didn’t join in the ceremony, but it certainly didn’t bother me.
Keir stopped. I looked around to find that we weren’t far from our tent, and were really at the fringes of the crowd. “Aren’t we going to sit closer?” I asked.
Keir shook his head. “I think for this ceremony, we’d be better off here.” He shook out one of the blankets and spread it on the ground. “Besides, we are not the focus of this gathering. The dead are.”
I sat next to him, and he pulled me close, drawing an-other blanket over us. He leaned in, and spoke for my ear alone. “When you grow uncomfortable, we will leave.”
An odd statement. I would have questioned him, but a drummer had stepped out into the clear area at the lake’s edge. He sat, a large drum before him, and pounded sharply four times.
Everyone stopped talking.
Joden stepped forward, followed by four warriors, carrying small braziers. He faced the crowd, the warriors placing their burdens at the compass points around him, with Joden at the center.
Joden raised his right palm to the sky. “May the skies hear my voice. May the people remember.”
The response rose. “We will remember.”
Joden lowered his arm and spoke again. “Birth of fire, death of air.”
One of the warriors knelt, and blew on the coals within, feeding fuel that caused flames to leap up and dance.
“Birth of water, death of earth.”
The second warrior knelt, dipping her hands and letting the water trickle back into the brazier.
“Birth of earth, death of fire.”
The third warrior knelt, raised a lump of dirt, breaking it up to let the clods fall back into the brazier.
“Birth of air, death of water.”
The fourth warrior knelt. He too blew on coals, but the fuel he added caused a thin trail of smoke to rise up.
The four warriors stood, bowed to their elements, and melted back into the crowd.
“We gather tonight in remembrance of the dead.” Joden spoke again, his voice melodic and beautiful. In the silence, every word carried, clear and firm. “All life perishes. This we know. Our bodies arise from the elements, and return to them when we fall.”
The drummer started a beat then, a slow but steady pulse.
“But we are also more than our bodies. This we know. That which is within each of us, lives on. Our dead travel with us, until the snows.”
Joden paused, then continued. “How can we mourn then? How can we sorrow for what must be? If our dead are with us, and we will join with them when our bodies fail, how then do we weep?”