There had to be another way to keep a Warlord busy.

“This is a playing board.”

“The squares?”

“Yes.” I set the board by his side and sat on the edge of the bed. Keir curled onto his side, studying the board. I held out a piece in my hand. “This is the King. He is the tallest piece on the board. He moves one square in any direction.”

Keir studied the piece of wood. “There are two kings.”

“Yes. Yours and mine.” I positioned the kings on the board. “They start here.”

“Always?”

“Yes.”

Keir grunted. “So. A war.”

I nodded as I reached for the next piece. “The smallest pieces are the pawns. They go here, forming a line.” Keir reached out to help me place the small black and white river stones that I’d gathered. Black for him and white for me.

Slowly, I took him through each piece, their names, how they moved, what power they had. I explained the board and the colors. The problem occurred when we reached the bishop. I tried to explain their role in the church, but all I got for my trouble was a grim look of doubt. “So. They are warrior-priests.”

A brief vision of the florid face of Archbishop Drizen covered in tattoos had me speechless for a moment. “No, not exactly.”

“But these bishops, they act to protect their king? Their people?”

“Yes, of course.” I bit my lip, re-thinking my words. “Well, some care more for their status than their people, but the good ones—”

“Ah.” Keir nodded. “Warrior-priests.” His tone was one of disdain as he clutched the stone tight in his hand.

I reached over, and touched his fist, gently pulling the piece from his fingers. “You hate them, don’t you? Because of Marcus?”

His jaw clenched, and there was a pause before he answered. “It goes beyond Marcus, though that alone was enough. I will see them broken and destroyed.”

“Keir,” There was so much I didn’t understand. “If they are as powerful as you say they are—”

He gave me a tight smile, and shook his head. “That is for another day, Lara. This piece here, this ‘castle’. Castles do not move.” Keir frowned at the piece on the board. “Why do they move?”

“They just do.” I sighed, resigned to the change of subject.

“It should be called something else.” Keir looked at me intently.

“Whose game is this, anyway?” I asked. “Let’s go over the moves one more time.” With his memory, it took no time at all. Once he had them down, he looked at me expectantly.

“The best way to learn is to play.” I moved one of my center pawns out.

Keir gave the board a close look, and then lifted an eyebrow at me, his eyes sparkling for the first time since he’d gotten sick. Father had taught me chess long ago, and we’d played many games during his illness. I knew myself to be a fair player. Father usually won, since he’d had an uncanny knack of holding all the possible moves in his head well in advance of the actual turns. I knew that once Keir learned the strategies behind the moves, I’d never be able to beat him. Best to take full advantage while I could.

Keir made his first move carefully. I reached out and advanced another piece, and then watched as he committed a classic beginner’s mistake.

A few more moves and I had him. “Checkmate.”

“What?” Keir frowned, glaring at the pieces. “What did I do wrong?”

I stood up. “When you figure it out, call me, and we’ll play another game.”

He was muttering under his breath as I left the tent.

I was doomed.

It had taken most of a day for Keir to pick up the basics. I’d gone about my business at the stilltent, returning when Keir would bellow, make my move, smile and then leave to let him contemplate the possibilities. This frustrated him to no end. But once he learned to avoid the basic mistakes, he started to take great childish glee in seizing my pieces and hiding them in the rumpled bedding, chuckling over my pending defeat. I spent the next morning barely avoiding the capture of my king. I hadn’t lost to him yet, but it was only a matter of time.

Keir was gaining strength, but he was still weak. He’d manage a trip to the privy area, and then I’d insist that he return to the bed. He made a token protest, but he leaned heavily on Marcus for the few steps back to the bed.

But he felt and I agreed that he was strong enough to receive the reports of his warleaders. So there was a great deal of coming and going as the warleaders prepared to make their reports to their Warlord. For Keir needed to see and hear as much if not more than to be seen and heard. The warleaders needed the reassurance that he had survived the illness.

I could feel the burden of command lift from my shoulders as we crammed into the sleeping area, even Sal, looking thinner and weaker, but determined to participate. Iften stood by Keir’s bed, shooting fairly nervous glances in my direction.

No one had the strength to talk long, so all kept their words short. Keir listened intently, asking few questions, sometimes only grunting in satisfaction. Yers’s report took the longest, as Keir questioned him as to the minds of the warriors. Keir’s eyes flickered with surprise when Yers began to speak, and his gaze traveled over the room before settling back on Yers, concentrating on his words. I suspected that Joden’s absence had been noted.

My heart lifted as Gils stood confidently under the scrutiny of his superiors and reported that the number of the newly ill had fallen off dramatically. As proud as I was of Gils, I also felt a guilty sense of relief at his words. Relief, that it was almost over. Guilt, because so very many were dead, and I still had my Warlord.

Gils’s report put new strength into everyone. Keir gave Sal permission to range the hunting parties further afield, and resolved a few other issues before his strength started to wane. And not just his—the others were tired as well. The warleaders departed quickly, with Iften in the lead.

Keir reached for the chess board, but I beat him to it, removing it from his grasp. “Sleep, Keir.”

He sighed dramatically, but the effect was spoiled when it changed to a yawn.

Marcus had put together a meal of fry bread, kavage, and gurt. As tired as I had grown of those foods while on the march, they were a welcome change from the soups and stews that we had been eating. Isdra and Gils joined us in the stilltent, and we all dug in, eating in silence.

It was only after we were full to bursting that Gils spoke up. “Warprize, I’s thinking that Iften is saying that the illness was spread on purpose by the Xyians.”

Isdra muttered something under her breath, and Marcus gave her a sharp look. “Careful, warrior. Iften is Second, and earned that rank through challenge. Twice your size, and the better warrior.”

I stiffened, surprised to hear Marcus say something like that without a token, but Isdra merely shrugged. Marcus scowled, and opened his mouth for a blistering comment, but there was a noise outside the tent. Isdra took advantage of the interruption. “That’s Pisila, returning with Meara.” She left the tent.

I looked after her, but Marcus shook his head. “Young’un, you at least listen to me, yes?”

Gils nodded. “I’s staying out of his way.” Gils also stood, grabbing for his satchel. “There’s all that fever’s foe that we might not be needing. Maybe Sal will have wax for the sealing, Warprize.”

I nodded. “Keep track of the new cases, Gils. We have to stay isolated for forty days from the last case.”

He nodded, looking serious. “I’s remember, Warprize. Forty days.”

Voices rose outside, Isdra’s the loudest, with a sharp exclamation of anger. We all rose and went out to find Is-dra yelling at Pisila, a younger girl, of fair skin and a serious look on her face. “Isdra, I did no wrong. She had to be marked!”

“You had no right to make the decision without the Warprize’s approval!” Isdra was outraged, her hands on her hips.