He had been waiting for her, his eyes brilliant with fever. ‘My Lady,’ he murmured the instant she appeared in the doorway. She had to hasten to stop him from attempting to rise and bow.
‘Don’t. Grandfather of my heart, you are hurt, and I am not one to stand on ceremony. You honour me with your wounds, and your loyalty is beyond question.’ She knelt on a cushion by his side and broke protocol by taking his hand, holding it fiercely. ‘I have told Nacoya how I love her many times. I have never said so to you.’
The ghost of a smile tugged at Keyoke’s lips. He was pleased, but too much the Tsurani commander to show more than the glimmer of emotion. ‘Lady,’ he said gruffly, ‘Tasaio holds your death in his hands, in Dustari.’
So Lujan had told him; Mara swallowed against a clenching tide of tears. Most likely that had been what it took to make the old man agree to live.
Even ill, Keyoke read her. ‘No, Lady. I needed no coercion to serve the Acoma. I am honoured to become Adviser for War, never doubt.’ He paused, seeking words. ‘I prepared to die as a warrior because that was the only destiny I ever saw for a Force Commander grown too old for the field.’
Mara would not settle for this. ‘And the leg?’
Keyoke did smile, very fleetingly. ‘Papewaio is my teacher. If he could bear the black rag, I shall bear my crutch.’ An instant later he added, ‘Kevin suggested that the armourer make one that holds a concealed sword.’
‘You like that idea,’ Mara observed. She allowed herself to smile also. ‘Grandfather of my heart, I shall make your crutch your staff of office and see the armourers about a blade myself.’
She regarded his sweating face, too grey and gaunt, and against all his wishes showing tiredness. ‘You will train Lujan, and between us we will find a way to rout Tasaio’s desert men.’
Keyoke’s eyes flicked open wider, nailing her with their intensity. ‘Daughter of my heart, there is no strategy that will help you on treeless sand, except sheer numbers. That my wisdom cannot arrange.’
He sank back after that, exhausted beyond bone and sinew. His will was not enough, Mara saw; he was sincere in his gratitude for his new office, but the body was too battered. The Red God might not let him keep the life that had burned itself recklessly until news of the foray could be delivered.
‘Leave Dustari to Lujan and me,’ Mara murmured. ‘Ayaki is your last responsibility, and the natami in the sacred grove. Should all else fail, and the Minwanabi overrun our borders, you and one picked company can see the boy safe. Take refuge in the hive with the cho-ja Queen, and ensure the Acoma name survives.’
Keyoke lay with eyes closed. He did not speak, but the hand within Mara’s returned a light squeeze. She smoothed the fingers against the coverlet and noticed the fast, thready pulse that raced through the veins on his wrist. He was dying. The fact could not be denied.
‘Rest well, grandfather of my heart,’ Mara whispered. In a forced show of calm she arose and stepped to the doorway.
‘Get my runner slave, and every available messenger,’ she murmured to the servant outside. ‘I also want guild runners in Sulan-Qu.’
She spoke quickly, unaware of the rotund man in the smock who hurried down the corridor and stopped, quizzically, at her side. He carried a bulging bag of elixirs, and his person smelled fustily of herbs. ‘You will send for the priest of Hantukama?’ he asked, in a voice that was schooled to be mild.
Mara spun, noticed the presence of her personal healer, and returned a quick nod. ‘It is necessary, don’t you think?’
The healer sighed in sympathy. ‘Lady Mara, I doubt that your Adviser for War will remain conscious past the dawn, or breathe for two more days after that.’
‘He will live,’ Mara returned fiercely. ‘I will find him a priest, and pay for a prayer gate to have the magic of the god invoked for healing.’
The healer rubbed arched brows and looked weary. ‘Lady, the priests are not so easily moved. They are loyal to no one but their god, and they consider common villagers the equal of even the Emperor. If you do find a priest of Hantukama, and they are rare, no prayer gate will lure him to forsake the sick already in his care for the sake of a dying warrior.’
Mara regarded the man with his sacks of useless remedies and his unwelcome truths. Her eyes lacked even a spark of compassion. ‘We shall see, master healer. We shall see.’
Before that look the healer quailed, and ducked hastily into the sickroom. Mara’s voice pursued him, low and determined as a spear thrust. ‘Keep him alive and comfortable. That is all that need concern you.’