and water-soaked hem, she bore herself with a regality and authority that outshone the stones in the women’s hair, sent even the proudest warrior to reexamine his masculinity, and cast a shadow over the entire message they were trying to present. By simply refusing to be intimidated, Marvi had changed the way this meeting would unfold, and she hadn’t said a single word. It helped that even in her old age, if a trifle rounder than it had been in her youth, she still wielded a stately beauty.
As she approached, Marvi took a quick minute to study the man. He was a newer Warlord, and she had not had much time to get to know anything about him. Her informants knew little. He was a younger man, perhaps not yet past his fortieth year. His skin was weathered and bore the leathery toughness of one who has spent his entire life toiling in the blistering heat. He wore a simple vest and loose pants, exposing hard muscles and an array of scars that crossed his chest. Marvi thought they looked like the marks a sandtiger’s claws might make. Only the bravest or most foolhardy warriors still hunted sandtigers.
His face was as weathered and hard as the rest of him, square nose, firm jaw, and thin lips, all set beneath dark blue eyes that shone with a shrewdness born of survival in a place where even the smallest of children played with death as they would a favored toy. Spikey tattoos lined his eyes.
Marvi was surprised to find that she liked him. He was even somewhat handsome when compared to her own homely husband. Maybe he could be of use after all. Marvi adjusted her plan in an instant, shifting her intent like the wind shifted the dunes.
“Greetings, Honored Warlord,” she said with a slight inclination of her head, a gesture that just barely covered the tenants of propriety. “May death’s shadow pass you by.”
Alarian returned the nod, the slight movement far more appropriate coming from him than it had from her.
She waited for him to say something, conscious of the fact that the rest of the Frierd clan had closed in behind her. She almost smiled, but that would have destroyed the effect she was trying to create.
He said nothing.
Fine .
“A troubling matter has been brought to my attention, noble Warlord,” she said. “One that concerns your cattle and our well.”
“Why would Frierd cattle be anywhere near a well maintained by the Sidena?” Alarian asked. His voice was deep and rich despite the yellowed teeth. She could look beyond that.
“Why indeed. Perhaps they were so parched from the excessive heat and dryness here that they were driven to drink wherever they could find a place to quench their thirst.” She was giving him a chance to get out of the situation before it became more than it was. Before it came to a test of honor. She knew it would be futile, but she had to offer him the chance.
“Or perhaps someone tried to lure them away from their rightful masters? Meat is scarce. The Migration took us all by surprise, and there is barely enough to go around. It would be understandable, if not forgivable, for a weaker, less honorable clan to attempt such a thing.” He was trying to provoke her, get her to react in anger and issue a challenge that would lead to a direct confrontation between their two clans.
She couldn’t risk that. The Sidena’s flight from the genesauri had already diminished their ranks enough—they couldn’t afford to lose any more, especially not with the clans all packed together here in the Oasis. It would be a massacre.
“Perhaps, but who would anger the clans by breaking the water oaths in such a way? Any form of provocation would be considered an act of war and would enact the full retribution of all the clans. That is not something anyone would want to face.”
Alarian shrugged, though she caught a glimpse of something in the set of his jaw, the glint of his eye. Agreement.
No one wanted to violate the water oaths. None of them could afford the losses after the
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