Warsong (Chronicles of the Warlands, #6)(31)

Hanstau reached for the boots, and quickly pulled them on. The cloak was for a much bigger man, and he was lost in its folds. The warrior frowned, pulling the hood up to cover Hanstau’s head. Satisfied, he grunted, and held the tent flap open.

Hanstau glanced at Reness.

“Be careful,” she said in Xyian. “Assume nothing.”

Hanstau nodded in the depths of the hood, and followed the warrior out of the tent.

It wasn’t far. Hanstau noticed for the first time the size of Antas’s tent, nearly as big as Simus’s. A warrior waited for him at the flap, she bowed him in, holding out her hands for the cloak.

“Greetings,” she said. “I am Catha, Token-bearer to Antas of the Boar.

The tent was warm, lit with braziers. It was set up the same as Simus’s had been, with a low wooden platform. A general meeting area, Hanstau remembered. Even the scent of leather, old kavage and sword oil was similar.

Antas stood before the platform, waiting for him.

Hanstau steadied himself, and walked toward his captor, looking him in the eye.

Antas watched him with lowered lids. “You speak our tongue?”

“A little,” Hanstau said. “Not too well.”

“Enough, though.” Antas gave a nod of satisfaction. “Come. We will eat, you and I. We will exchange truths. You understand?”

“Yes,” Hanstau said.

Antas walked toward another opening. Hanstau followed, only glancing back when he heard the chiming of bells. Catha was weaving a strip into the tent ties.

This was a smaller area of the tent, clearly Antas’s sleeping area. There were weapons and armor thrown about, piled on saddles and saddle bags. Against one wall of the tent was a raised pallet, large enough for two.

Off to the side, was something different. Hanstau stared in surprised at an actual table, with wooden stools.

“Sit.” Antas gestured, as he sat on one of the stools, adjusting his sword out of the way.

Hanstau sat, and Catha approached with water and cloths for the hand-washing ritual. Hanstau whispered a quick prayer to the God of the Sun for protection.

There was a small lamp on the table, with an open flame. Hanstau could clearly see that Antas was studying him. He lifted his chin ever so slightly.

Catha began to bring out food, and kavage. Antas seemed content to eat in silence, and Hanstau had no intention of trying to start a conversation. The food was normal camp fare. Flatbread, some kind of roasted roots, and grilled meat. Hanstau spotted the little red flakes on the meat, so he expected the explosion of spice on his tongue.

The food was good, the kavage was hot, but it all tasted like ash in his mouth. All he could think of was the brooding man across the table and the huge bed so close at hand. It felt like every breath he took; every move was being tested and weighed.

Catha was clearing the bowls when Antas spoke abruptly. “Do you know what ‘Warprize’ means?”

It was on the tip of his tongue to say something rude in Xyian, but he’d been warned. “I know of Queen Xylara,” he said carefully. “And the Warlord, Keir of the Cat.”

Antas nodded. “You and I,” he made a gesture toward Hanstau. “You are my Warprize.”

“No,” Hanstau said.

Antas considered him through narrowed eyes.

“I did not aid your people,” Hanstau said. “You did not take me from a battle.” His voice cracked a bit at the look in Antas’s eyes, but he kept on. “And between us, there is no… heat.”

Antas was silent for a long moment, then he gestured to the pallet. “You. Me. We share.”

“No,” Hanstau kept his eyes on Antas.

“No share?” Antas frowned.

“No man with man share,” Hanstau stumbled a bit. He’d known that this was common among Firelanders. The Queen, Master Eln, both had mentioned this, and been blunt as to its prevalence on the Plains. Hanstau really didn’t take issue if others wished to—

“Man with woman share?” Antas asked.

That caught Hanstau by surprise. He looked away as heat rose in his face.

Antas grunted, as if he’d learned something that pleased him. But then he glared at Hanstau. “You, my Warprize.”

“No,” Hanstau started, but Antas cut him off.

“Warprize,” he said, the threat clear. “If not—”

There was a jangle of bells, and then raised voices from the main tent.

Antas scowled, rising as Hail Storm came through the opening, Catha in his wake.

Antas and Hail Storm exchanged harsh words over Hanstau’s head. Hanstau shifted on his seat, not wanting his back to the warrior-priest.

Hail Storm still didn’t look well to Hanstau. There was a brightness to his eyes that spoke of a low-grade fever. But the stump of his arm looked much better, less swollen, and the redness had receded.

The two men snarled at one another, Catha hovering behind them. Hanstau couldn’t catch every word, but he got the gist. Hail Storm had broken the bells, pushed past the token-bearer, and Antas was taking him to task for it.

Hail Storm couldn’t have cared less. He seemed dismissive of Antas. “No matter,” he spat. “We must speak of the young.”

“We can do so later,” Antas growled.

Hail Storm’s eye flickered in Hanstau’s direction. “You can court your so-called Warprize later,” he said. “Order the theas to bring me their young warriors. Those that will go through the rites next year.”