“Here,” she said firmly, in what had to be her ‘mother’ voice. “Come here.” she took his arms and pulled him down to her pallet, urging him to stretch out. She pulled over blankets, covering them both, even though the tent was warm. She crooned to him as one does to a babe, and Hanstau let her. Undignified, but a comfort.
He lay face up, staring at the tent above them. Reness put her hand on his heart, and her head by his. Hanstau closed his eyes, and felt the tremors slowly fade.
“Better?” she asked.
Hanstau let out a breath under the shelter of the soft wool, and breathed in the spicy scent of gurtle wool. He let it out slowly, nodding.
“Tell me,” she commanded.
He did, from the start. In Xyian, in a muffled whisper.
Reness listened, stopping him only once in a while to have him explain a word.
At the mention of the young ones, her hand pressed on his heart. And stayed that way as he described Antas’s threats.
The re-telling brought a quaver back to his voice, much to his shame.
Reness didn’t seem to notice. She listened to the end, and then considered for long moments while Hanstau focused on breathing. On warmth and blankets and the feel of her next to him. Pulling every ounce of comfort he could from his surroundings.
“He would teach children his ways.” Reness’s voice was flat.
Hanstau turned his head to look at her. “Wild Winds called it blood magic. I do not know details, but whatever his source of power, the Plains hate it. And hate the wielder, or so Wild Winds said.”
“And Antas would allow it,” she said, her tone dark.
“He said he would speak to the theas, that he couldn’t force them.” Hanstau shifted his head to get a better look at Reness. “Is that tradition?” he asked.
“More than tradition,” Reness replied, but continued without explanation. “You said a Singer was here?”
Hanstau nodded. “They said ‘Quartis’. From the eldest Elder Singer.”
“Well.” Reness shifted her head closer to Hanstau’s. “That’s a saddle that will rub him raw.”
“Why?”
“He is not following our ways,” she explained. “If you are indeed his Warprize, he should be affording you the respect and courtesy that you are entitled to.”
“Such as?” Hanstau asked.
“Have you been presented to his warriors? Offered a guardian? Have you been courted by other Warlords?” Reness shook her head against his shoulder. “At the very least, you must be offered a chance to leave the Plains and return to your people. He has not.”
“He will not.” Hanstau realized with a sickening feeling. “Not until he controls me.”
“Which he will not do,” Reness said with more confidence than Hanstau felt. “He can’t publicly claim you as Warprize without giving you certain rights. We can use that against him.”
“Reness,” Hanstau looked at her doubtfully. “I am not sure Antas is someone you can finesse.”
Reness rose up on her elbow, looking down at him. “What is ‘finesse’?”
Hanstau sighed.
Chapter Eleven
Joden shielded his face against the fierce gale blowing snow and ice into his eyes.
He walked against the wind, unable to see, leaning in against the storm in order to stay on his feet. The winds howled, and battered him back. Where had the storm come from?
He’d been singing, or at least, he thought he’d been singing. He’d been struggling against the wind for so long he’d lost all track of time. There’d been people, and flames and bare earth. Now there was only the thick snow against his bare legs, the harsh blasts, and the cold.
