Elizabeth Vaughan - Warsworn

Just how could I tell anyone how miserable I was? Fire-landers already had a fairly low opinion of soft city folk, and if I started complaining it would only strengthen their beliefs.

I shifted my weight slightly and gripped Prest around the waist, trying to get comfortable. At least this much had improved. The first five days I’d ached so badly I’d thought to die. Spending day after day in the saddle had wearied my body in ways I didn’t think possible.

“Gurt?” Prest held up a soft pouch.

“No,” I replied softly, trying not to shudder as my stomach heaved. “Thank you.”

Prest grunted and popped a morsel in his mouth.

‘Gurt’ is a kind of dried cheese, apparently made from some kind of goat-like animal. It looks like a small white pebble, which can be chewed, dissolved in water to drink, or melted over meat. Firelanders eat it at every meal. It stores easily, and never seems to spoil. They all carry a pouch of the stuff with them. While I had gotten to enjoy the taste of their kavage, gurt was another matter. It’s horrid, bitter and dry, like a green apple in early spring. It was especially bad when they melted it over cooked meat.

An army on the move has a limited diet. At every meal, it was cooked meat, gurt, and fry bread. Small bits of the dough were thrown into a pan of fat. That wasn’t too terrible, but eating it day after day—well, I never really appreciated Anna for her skills. Or the marvels that Marcus prepared when we were in the camp outside of Water’s Fall.

But that had been a full camp. While we traveled, we made an overnight camp, which was a completely different thing. We no longer had the command tent, which was almost as big as some houses, and took a full day to erect. Now it was tiny little shelters that you crawled into to sleep. Or not sleep, as was my case. I’d lay alone in the small tent, wrapped in blankets, and stare at the covering around me. Every little sound, every step of a passing sentry, every snort of a horse, every lump in the hard ground under me had my eyes open for most of the night.

It wasn’t so bad when Keir was with me. For some reason I could sleep in his presence. Well, truth be told, I could sleep in his arms. But he had duties and had to travel from one end of his army to the other, and it spread out for miles. So there were some nights when he wasn’t in our shelter, and I had not seen him at all for the last two days.

Firelanders could sleep in the saddle. If I tried that, I got sick. Firelanders, in the saddle, could repair tack, or sharpen blades or argue or, Goddess help me, talk.

Which was another thing. We had horses in Xy. I’d been taught to ride as a child, and have ridden many times. But in the city I rarely bothered. By the time a groom had saddled one for me, I could be halfway to where I was going. You had to worry about tying them to things and leaving them for long periods. I’d never been really enamored of the beasts; they were a form of transportation and not much more.

But I’d learned fast that Firelanders had relationships with their animals. Horses were treated like small children, acknowledged and admired. One of the worst insults imaginable was ‘bragnect’ which meant ‘killer of foals’. Now that I knew what the word meant, I was much more careful about how I used it.

And just like proud parents are wont to do, they talk about horses. Constantly. Obsessively. They’d discuss the details of ears and mane and gaits until I wanted to scream. They had seventeen words for a male horse and could talk for hours about saddles. They loved to modify saddles with hooks and protrusions and supports, and talk out the advantages and disadvantages. Their world is very dependent on their animals and it was fascinating for about the first day. After that, I tired quickly of horses and horse talk.

And that was another thing. All this talk was out in the open where everyone could hear. They had no sense of modesty or privacy that I could see. I’d had one rider come up and start to discuss the state of his bowels without a qualm, in the middle of a moving mass of warriors. You couldn’t really talk to anyone without being overheard.

Ahead of us there was a shout. I peered around Prest’s shoulders to see one warrior launch himself at another, carrying him to the ground. The horses shied and shifted a bit, but everyone just kept moving as the two rolled on the ground, fighting. Their horses had moved off, to eat grass as their human riders resolved their differences.

Which was another thing. These people had such fiery tempers and they had no hesitation of attacking for any slight. It was only the exchange of a token that allowed safety for the speaker of offensive words. In Xy, challenge was made clear, with a chance to prepare. Not with these people.

So here I was, Warprize to the Warlord of the Plains, acclaimed before my people and his, praised and admired for my willingness to journey to a new and strange place, to be a bridge between his people and mine. What would they think, to find out that I was sick to my stomach, hungry, exhausted, dirty, alone and certain that the Warlord had lost interest in me?

I heaved a sigh, and tried to tell myself that I was being a soft city woman. That I had no right to complain over minor problems like this. That I was being foolish.

My stomach rolled over, and I focused my eyes off to the side, on the trees in the distance, and tried very hard not to cry.

Joden was broader than Prest, but not so tall. Once I was behind him, I propped my chin on his shoulder and looked ahead, which would help settle my stomach. Eventually.

“You look unwell, Warprize. Are you pregnant?”

Goddess, was every Firelander going to ask me that? “No,” I spoke, my tongue sharper than I intended. “I am fine, Joden.”

He was silent for a moment, then shook his head. “No, something troubles you, Warprize.” Joden’s deep voice seemed to resonate through his chest and right into my bones.

I sighed. This was the man who had helped me before, by explaining the meaning of my title. Perhaps he could help me again. “Joden, words spoken to a Singer are private, right?”

Joden turned his head, trying to see my face. “Yes, if told to a true Singer under the sky. You need to confide, Lara? Something private?”

I nodded. “Just between us. You wouldn’t tell anyone?”

He turned the other way, digging in the pocket of his saddle bag. “I am not yet a full Singer, Lara. But words between friends can be held as private.” He pulled out a small string of bells and reached forward to tie it in his horses’s mane. The soft bells rang with every step the horse took.

Without a word, the riders around us melted back and away, clearing a space around us. As I watched, I noticed that they didn’t seem alarmed, or even curious as to what we were doing. “What are those?”

“Privacy bells.” Joden seemed to understand my question. “For when you wish to talk or confide without being overheard. The bells are a request for privacy. Don’t you have such?”

“No.” I leaned forward and kept my voice down. “When we want privacy, we go off into a room alone and close the door.”

Joden snorted. “Alone is not easy in the Plains. There are few doors in the tents of my people. Fewer still in the winter shelters. If you hear bells, it’s because the person wants to be left alone or is speaking privately with someone.”

I frowned, thinking. “Keir didn’t use them in camp.”

“A command tent carries with it its own privacy, War-prize.” Joden seemed to settle in the saddle, as if making himself more comfortable. “Now, Lara, between friends, what is wrong?”

“Oh, Joden.” I blinked back tears. “This is so much harder than I thought it would be!”