Marcus entered with Prest, carrying food. He glanced at Gils and nodded as he set the kavage down. “Good for him, to get some rest.” Prest took his food outside, but Marcus handed me a mug of kavage, and a bowl of soup, and pointed to the stump. I sat, and started to eat, looking at Gils sleeping so soundly. He looked even younger, his tousled red curls falling about his face. My gaze wandered about the tent, coming to rest on the large basket under one of the tables.
Meara’s basket.
The soup in my mouth turned to ashes, and I choked it down as I remembered. How could I have forgotten?
Marcus followed my gaze, and sighed when he saw the basket. He reached under the table and pulled it out. “I should have said. She is fine, Warprize.”
“You were just as exhausted, Marcus.”
He grunted, pulling the blankets from the basket. “Eat something, then we will go and check on her.” His tone was gruff, but I noticed that he smiled gently as he folded and smoothed the small blankets as he removed them from the basket. A few pieces of dried lavender fell to the ground, and I gathered the dried flowers up, and held them to my nose. The scent was sweet, and I put them aside. We could use them to freshen the clean swaddles.
A noise made both Marcus and I look at the entrance. Prest was standing just inside the tent, his face grim.
“Prest?”
“You must come, Warprize.”
“Who’s—”
“The Warlord.”
Chapter 9
“Keir?”
My heart in my throat, I entered our sleeping area, blinking to adjust to the cool darkness within. Marcus had followed me, and he paused behind me as well, trying to catch his breath.
Keir was seated on the bed, head hanging down, bracing himself with his hands on his knees.
I jerked to a stop, my stomach clenching. Keir looked up, and gave me a weak smile, a fine sheen of sweat on his forehead and cheeks. I forced myself to slow my breathing, and calmly moved to sit next to him on the bed. My nose picked up the familiar stink and I placed my hand on Keir’s forehead. “How long?”
“Not long.” Keir answered.
“You think.” Marcus knelt and started to unlace Keir’s boot. He pulled off the boot with a jerk, letting Keir’s foot fall to the floor. “You’ve been working yourself ragged for days. Who’s to say how long?”
Prest spoke from behind us. “I’ll wake Gils.”
“Iften must be told as well.” Keir’s voice was rough. I looked at him in horror, but he frowned at me. “With Simus gone, he is Second. He will have command.”
With a nod, Prest left the tent.
“Should have killed him when he challenged.” Marcus grumbled, working at the other boot.
“Who’s to say that would have been best?” Keir sighed and closed his eyes. I moved closer and placed my hand on his shoulder. He looked up at me. “Lara, I heard. About the babe.” His eyes crinkled slightly in the corners. “So now you raise the dead?”
I shook my head, choking on my tears. How could he jest when—
Keir continued, clearing his throat, trying to strengthen his voice. “We must discuss what happens in the event that—”
“Nothing is going to happen to you.” I snapped, cutting him off. “If Meara can live through this, you can.”
Keir chuckled at that, but I wasn’t laughing. My fingers trembled as I unbuckled his armor.
“The best of warlords plan for all possibilities.” He paused for a moment, gathering strength. “I will plan for the worst, yes? Then it will not happen.”
I pulled his tunic over his head. His head emerged, that dark hair all rumpled and mussed. I ran my fingers through it, feeling the heat of his damp scalp. He grabbed my hand and held it to his cheek. “If it turns to the worst, I want you to leave this camp before I draw my last breath.”
“I will not leave you.” I whispered.
“Stubborn. So very stubborn.” He closed his eyes for a moment, rubbing his cheek against my palm.
“Your head hurts.” I leaned forward, seeing the pain in the lines etched on his face. He murmured agreement softly.
“We’ll get you into bed and get you some sleepease. It will help with the headache.”
“Not until I have spoken with Iften and Isdra.” Keir tried to raise himself up, to help Marcus remove his trous, but his arms trembled with the effort. Marcus made no comment, merely went about his business. When all was done, I lifted the bedding and Keir settled back, his hands reaching to place his weapons at hand.
Before I could say anything, Marcus covered Keir’s hand with his own. Keir’s face held a particular look of pain as he realized what had to be done. Marcus murmured something I didn’t catch, and Keir seemed reassured, pulling his hand away from the swords. Those blue eyes, cloudy with fever, watched as Marcus left the tent.
Keir looked at me with a grimace. “You must restrain me.”
I sat at the side of the bed, and put the back of my hand against his forehead. The heat was starting to rise. “Not just yet, Keir.”
Keir brought one bare arm out from under the covers and curled it around me, trying to pull me down onto his chest. I went willingly, taking comfort from his closeness.
“So. You are cursed.”
The smug voice came from behind us. I turned my head to see Iften standing there behind me, Isdra and Gils just visible behind him. Isdra was glaring at the back of Iften’s head, and Gils did not appear to be pleased with him either. I stood slowly, feeling uneasy with my back to the man. Iften stood there and oozed his glee, making no secret of his pleasure at Keir’s condition.
Keir had his eyes closed, his hair plastered to his head. He didn’t bother to open his eyes. “Iften. You have command until I am through this.”
“But not the tent.” Marcus growled as he entered from his quarters, bring a bucket of cold water, and cloths.
Iften shot him a hateful look. “As if I need the tent, crip—” He cut himself off, then—pasted a satisfied smile on his face. “Have no fear, Warlord. I will summon the warleaders and inform them of this.” He turned, and moved to push past Isdra.
“Hold, Iften.” I snapped. How dare he treat Keir that way?
Iften stopped, then turned slowly. “Yes?”
“You may summon them, but I will speak to them for Keir.”
Iften’s brown eyes flashed. “I am Second.”
I drew myself up straight, and gave him a glare right back. “I am the Warprize, Iften.”
Iften’s eyes were filled with hate, but he bowed his head, turned and left, pushing past the others.
“May the elements afflict him.” Marcus muttered.
Isdra nodded her agreement as she and Gils entered. Gils was fumbling in his satchel, pulling out the items that we would need.
“This is not an affliction. Or a curse.” I reminded him gently. “It’s an illness.” The cold cloth in my hand, I sat back down and began to wipe Keir’s brow.
Keir turned his head and opened his eyes to look at me, catching my hand. “Singers will praise my Warprize for a thousand years to come.” His eyes were shining with the fever.
Guilt rose in my breast. It was more likely I’d be known as the woman who killed an entire village and army with her arrogance and pride. “No. No, they won’t.”
Gils handed me the cup with the dose of sleepease, but Keir pushed it away, and turned to Isdra. “I have no right to ask this of you, but I am going to. Not as Warlord, but as a friend. Please—”
“There is no need to ask.” Isdra cut him off, putting her hand on her sword hilt. “I will see her safe before I go to the snows.”
“As will I.” Marcus added.