‘Keyoke,’ repeated the priest. His voice was tired but kindly. ‘Fear not. You walk in the warmth of my god, Hantukama the healer. Your Lady has petitioned for your health. If my god grants you life and restored health, how will you serve her?’
Keyoke’s eyes stared straight ahead, into the blazing net of healer’s spells. ‘I serve her, always, as a father does a daughter, for my heart knows her as the child I never had. Sezu I served for honour; his children I served out of love.’
The priest’s weariness fled. ‘Live, Keyoke, and heal by the grace of my god.’ He opened his hands, and the light flashed intolerably, blindingly bright; then it faded, leaving only the dying embers in the brazier, and the played-out smoke of burnt herbs.
On the mat, Keyoke lay quiet, his eyes closed, and his hands as still as before. But a faint flush of rose showed beneath his skin, and his breathing was long and deep, that of a man in sleep.
The priest sat carefully on the cushion Mara had used earlier for kneeling. ‘Fetch the Lady of the Acoma,’ he told his young assistant. ‘Tell her, with joy, that her warrior is an extraordinary man. Tell her that he will survive.’
The boy started up and ran to do the bidding of his master. By the time he returned with the Lady, the priest had packed up his brazier. The ashes and the coals were mysteriously disposed of, and the little man who had brought them the miracle was curled up in sleep upon the floor.
‘The healing was a difficult one,’ the boy assistant confided. Then, as Mara’s servants attended to the needs of his master and brought dishes of food for the boy, Mara went to the pallet and quietly regarded Keyoke.
‘He will sleep for several days, probably,’ the boy explained. ‘But his wounds will slowly close. Do not expect him to be on his feet too quickly.’
Mara smiled wryly. She could see the changes that indicated a return to vitality, and her heart sang inside with gratitude for the gift of the priest and his god. ‘We’re going to require a warrior of extraordinary strength and courage to tell this old campaigner that he must keep to his bed. For as I know Keyoke, he’s going to wake up asking for his sword.’
The days passed in a rushed flurry of activity. Factors arrived and departed at Jican’s direction, settling the sales of needra stock, and incoming shipments of supplies. The sheds that once housed breeding bulls were now half-filled with chests of new armour and swords. Acoma leather-workers stitched tents for barracks in the desert, and the potters fashioned clay hurricane lamps, pierced in patterns, to cradle oiled rags for torches. Dustari was a barren land, and devoid of trees; the woodworkers fired their ovens to make charcoal.
The bustle was not confined to the craftsmen’s compounds. The practice yard lay under a continual cloud of dust as Lujan drilled his soldiers and green, newly promoted officers. He staged manoeuvres in the fields, swamps, and woodlands and came back with chosen soldiers, to walk barefoot, their muddy war sandals in hand, through the main house to the chamber where Keyoke lay recovering. The Adviser for War reviewed their performance, criticized their weaknesses, and praised their strengths. He spent the hours in between poring over maps of the estate and working out strategies of defence; from his mat he held classes for officer training. For no one doubted that Tasaio of the Minwanabi had contrived the Dustari campaign for no other reason than to leave the Acoma vulnerable.
Mara herself was everywhere, overseeing all aspects of the endeavour that prepared her army for departure. On the morning that Nacoya finally contrived to overtake her, with Kevin absent and no servants or advisers at hand, the Lady was seated in her garden by the fountain under the ulo tree. She often used the place for informal meditation, but lately her free time had gone exclusively to her son. Nacoya peered surreptitiously at her Lady’s quiet pose, and the frown that faintly marked the skin between her brows; she measured the hands, which were still, and judged the moment propitious for talk.
Nacoya entered the garden and bowed before her mistress.
Mara bade her rise and sit on the cushions with her. She regarded her First Adviser with eyes that had circles under them and said, ‘I wrote the letter to Hokanu yesterday.’
The old woman nodded slowly. ‘That is well, but not my reason for seeking you.’
Mara’s frown deepened at the tone of her adviser’s voice. ‘What is it, mother of my heart?’