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your—"
    I opened my mouth in a jaw-cracking yawn.
    Keir pulled back, looking into my eyes. I blinked at him, my vision suddenly blurry and tired. He shook his head, and then pulled me down to lay next to him, my head on his shoulder.
    "Sleep, Lara."
    "Keir, let's not waste this haven. I can sleep late—" Another yawn cut me off.
    "But you won't, and haven't, have you?" He stroked my back, rubbing circles softly on my skin. "Put your head down, and close your eyes, Lara. I'll be here, watching over you." I yawned again, the warmth of his body and my full stomach defeating me. Keir chuckled as I relaxed, and I felt him pull the blanket up over us, even as I drifted off to sleep. I woke to the odd feeling of something tugging my hair. Keir had spooned up behind me, and his arm was draped over my hip. The odd feeling was a robber jay, tugging on one of my curls that were spread over the blanket. I'd heard of them from my father, large grey birds that feared no one and nothing, and that stole whatever they could get their hands on. The bird tilted his head, looking at me, then jabbed at my curl again, trying to pull it away. Keir's hand flipped out, and the bird took flight, scolding us in the process. I felt Keir nuzzle my neck, and I hummed softly at the pleasure.
    Keir chuckled. "You smell wonderful."
    I turned slightly, smiling into his blue eyes. His hand drifted up to cup my breast and I groaned at that simple touch. "One stroke of your hand and I feel such wonderful things."
    "There's more," he whispered.
    I kissed him, ready and eager for more when there was an outburst beyond the bushes. Horses, a lot of them, pounding up, with warriors calling out for Keir.
    Keir sprang to his feet, with sword in hand. I fumbled for the blanket, pulling it to my chest to cover myself.
    "Warlord!" The voice that came from beyond the thick alders was high and tense. "I must report."
    "What news?" Keir sheathed his sword and grabbed for the rest of his gear.
    "Rebellion, Warlord!"
     

 

     
     

Chapter 3
     
    The tradition of the Plains is that the Warprize takes nothing except from the hands of the Warlord. This was not, as I'd originally thought, to keep the Warprize subservient and dependent on the Warlord. Rather, it was to allow the Warlord to demonstrate that he had the ability and strength to provide for the Warprize.
    This had resulted in some rather rigorous arguments with Marcus, self-appointed guardian of the tradition, once I'd returned to my Warlord's side. I had won on the issue of my healing equipment and supplies, since Marcus grudgingly acknowledged that Keir had purchased them for me while we'd been encamped.
    Marcus had won on the issue of clothing, since that scarred little man had worked miracles in providing me with tunics and trous, and even one memorable red dress. While the clothing he provided was plain, it was also comfortable.
    I'd won on the issue of undergarments.
    Keeping the blanket around me, I struggled into my breastband as fast as I could, listening to the sounds of warriors and horses moving around our shelter. The leaves somehow didn't seem as thick as they had been a few minutes ago. "Keir, it can't be my people." Keir grunted, reaching for his armor, called out in a strong voice. "Yers!"
    "Warlord?"
    "Call senel to hear the report. Warn Marcus, and find Joden as well. Summon the Warprize's guards."
    Yers's voice was raised beyond the thicket, carrying out his orders, even as Keir stopped speaking. Keir continued to dress, his movements as fast and precise as a cat's. "We'll know soon enough, Lara." His face was grim as he rearmed himself.
    I paused, my arms buried in my tunic, fear coursing through me. "And if it is?"
    "It will be answered," was his gruff response. He gestured for me to continue, and I pulled the tunic on over my head, fighting to pull my hair free.
    It had been one of my greatest fears. While I'd convinced Warren, the Lord Marshall, and the entire Council of the wisdom of