His eyes blazed bright blue. He leaned down, and I lifted my mouth, and we kissed again. I reached up to pull him close when there was movement at the entrance.
The tent flap moved.
Keir snarled, pulled a dagger and lunged, placing himself between me and—
Amyu, holding two buckets of steaming water. She looked up, then dropped to her knees, the buckets sloshing over as they thumped down. Amyu lowered her head, showing the back of her neck.
"Keir," I cried out, afraid that he'd kill her. But Keir managed to stop, and stood over the poor girl. A soft snort, and Marcus stepped in with a tray. He raised that eyebrow of his as he stepped past Amyu to set the tray on the bed. "Foolish child." Marcus carefully pushed the tray close to me. "You serve a warlord now, not a warrior. Never sneak up on a warlord. Always give warning, to let him know where you are and what you are doing."
"Forgive me, Warlord." Amyu spoke carefully. She remained on her knees, her head down. Keir sheathed his dagger.
"Hisself is even more on edge than normal, given events," Marcus scolded Amyu as she rose to her feet.
"You should know better. Fetch drying cloths now."
Amyu left as fast as she could.
"Marcus." I eyed the tray next to me, with two bowls of stew, a pile of bread, and two mugs of kavage.
"There is enough here to feed an army."
Marcus snorted. "Eat what you can. You were wasting away on the slop the warrior-priests were feeding you, no doubt, if you ate at all."
There was a cough from outside, and Amyu's hands pushed through the flap, filled with cloths. Marcus ac cepted the bundle, and Amyu's hands disappeared. Marcus shook his head, and placed them at the foot of the bed. He then eyed Keir, who had not moved. "Simus has the watch. Rafe and Prest are outside. My daggers are sharp, as are Amyu's."
Keir drew in a deep breath, then gave a quick nod. He started to shrug out of the mail shirt, and Marcus moved to help him.
"I'll see to this," Marcus offered, as he placed the heavy mail over his arm. "You'll see to your own blades, before they are all over with rust?"
Keir nodded.
"I'll bring what you need, then. Call if you need anything else."
"Thank you, Marcus." I smiled at him.
He paused, then reached out to cup my cheek with his hand, a rare gesture from this man. "Sleep well, Lara."
I turned my attention to Keir as Marcus left. My Warlord was standing there, in his leather trous and thick quilted tunic he wore under the chainmail. His face was grim as he looked at me.
"Keir," I started, but he shook his head. He hefted a bucket and moved it close, then grabbed up one of the drying cloths. "Why did you say you could not command them?"
"Let me see to your hands." He knelt before me, and soaked one end of a cloth in the warm water. I held out my hands, palms up, and he lightly stroked the wet cloth over them.
I looked at his head, his black hair shining in the light from the brazier. But he was focused on his task, so I could drink in the sight of him. It seemed forever since I'd seen him last, although I knew it had been only days.
"What has happened?" I asked softly.
Keir sighed. "A warlord is responsible for the lives of the warriors that follow him, Lara." He kept his eyes on his work. "Those lives are dear, and are not to be wasted. Death in battle is honorable and expected. Death from affliction is a horror."
"The Council held you responsible for the plague?" I asked.
"For the deaths," Keir continued, his voice soft. "I am stripped of my title, Lara. No longer a warlord of the Plains. No army at my command."
I sucked in a quick breath.
Keir paused, and looked at me with tired eyes. "You may wish to claim another, Warprize." I glared at him. "I did not come all this way, Keir of the Cat, to claim another. You are my chosen Warlord."
"Lara, this changes—"
