The Warrior's Scholar

“Yes, daralinta.”

Her speed had not been eroded by the past ten years. Suddenly, she had his hair in her fist, and was growling into his face. “What did you call me?”

It took him a few moments to control himself, as his fear warred with desire, always a problem for him when she chose this position to chastise him. He kept his eyes lowered, as was the custom. “F-forgive me, field-general. It was not intended to be an insult, but a slip.”

Bringing her face closer to his, she snarled, “What did you mean, if it is not an insult?”

The fear her sudden movement brought up in him drained away, for she rarely punished him physically anymore, not for the past few years. With her grabbing the hair at the back of his head, the conversation could turn to punishment or pleasure. As he felt his face heat at that thought, he kept his gaze fixed on her cheek. Whether it merited either direction would be her choice. “In the culture of my mother, it is an... an endearment.” It was no longer his culture, as he viewed it, having belonged to her by the laws of her people for ten years. He had come to consider himself hers in all ways for the past several years, but had not voiced it. Forcing himself to breathe, he did not tense as he made the admission, because if she took offense, he felt he deserved it.

Her face scowled, even as her eyes showed confusion. “You would call me by the name of a delicate flower?”

“A flower that can be a healing balm or a deadly poison, depending on how it is applied; a most powerful herb.” His murmur was calm, and forthright. “Steep the leaves and blossoms, it distills a tisane to wash wounds and help them heal, but crush and grind the roots, and applying the paste on a blade or arrow would make any scratch fatal.”

The hand in his hair tightened a fraction. “Why compare me to such?”

A thread of calm supported him, as he told her, “Because my heart spoke first, before my brain could step in.” This was the one thing he had kept from her all these years. “You are deadly on the field, a powerful warrior, but you also have the wisdom to offer counsel to your leaders when it is best to negotiate, rather than fight.” The words began to tumble from his lips as his gaze met her eyes, openly. “You are kind enough to wish to do the least damage to civilian targets, and smart enough to know how to manage it. You are tough with the children when it is your turn to train them, but not out of brutality, only out of care for them, to make them the best warriors they can possibly be when they grow into their own. You are strength and cunning and beauty and there is no one else I would give my life to but you.”

She slowly released his hair, and backed away from him, shaking her head. “No, do not swear that.”

He nodded, slowly. “It is why I have tried to learn all that I could of the medicine here. You lead from in front of the shieldwall, inspiring your troops. Though it tears at my heart to see you there, I know you could not be anywhere else and still be you.”

“You do not trust my skill?” She surged back at him.

“I trust your skill, but I also trust the reputation your skill has created! Such a fearsome warrior, all it takes is a whisper that you will be on the field to cause your opponents to assign thirty more fighters to oppose your unit, with their only orders being to bring you down.” He stood firm, knowing if he cowered, she would not listen to him. “Your skill will bring you home, but then I will use every skill I have to make sure you die of so advanced an age that you will see your great-granddaughters leading the armies.” The tremor in his voice would not be controlled, now. “Every scrap of useful information I can find when we are in the field, I bring to you so you know as much as anyone can about your foes before you use your experience and skill to decide where the put the battle lines. I know what they say about you when we travel. I listen, read, work, study - all to make sure you outlive me, because I do not want to know any other life than with you.”

“DON’T SAY THAT!” She gripped his upper arms, shaking him once, before reflexively releasing and gripping his arms. “Don’t say that. Not again, not ever, not where anyone can hear you, not... not where someone can report it to the Matriarchy.”

“Yes. I know. It would put me on your funeral pyre.” Since confessing, he had been wrapped in a serene peace. “I will not say it again. But if you think you are leaving this world without me, do not worry. I will make sure the house is clean, first.”

“That’s not funny!” Her voice was harsh, but barely above a whisper, “With you gone, no one will remember me.”

“Your daughters...”

“I have no children, not even boys sent to their father’s people.” She let go of his arms, and turned to lean on her desk. “Before I got you, I didn’t have enough seniority for pregnancy. Since my promotions, there hasn’t been enough time between campaigns to consider it.”

“Which is why you have been taking all offered assignments, for the experience,” he said, at once horrified and admiring. “You need to be promoted to the council, and off the battlefield, before your fertile years are gone...” He began to pace, considering the problem.

She watched him in shock, “The council staff, maybe! I have as much chance to reach a seat on the council  as I would have of holding a star in my hand!”

“It is not so far away as you think, considering the current makeup. Councillor Damara is the eldest of the elders, but she will be there long after we are all dust, of course. The only way her seat would come open is if she is promoted, and there is only one seat higher. I do not think any of us wants that, including her.” He paused to bow in respect for even the oblique reference to the Queen. “The three youngest appointees have been from the temple and the scholae, so the next appointee will likely be from the military. Of the three military seats, Councillor Phoena is the eldest.”

“Well... yes. There’s always rumors that Phoena is about to step down, but those are started by her staff, gauging her status, seeing if the time is right for some of her more radical proposals,” she crossed her arms and continued to watch him pace.

“Yes, but you may also consider that she is not in the best of health. She has not been to any but the required festival events. One hopes that she will be able step down to emerita status, and write her memoirs in a climate that will ease her bone aches while she can still enjoy visits from her granddaughters.” He shook his head, still pacing. “The rigors of twenty years on the council after a previous twenty on the battlefield take their toll, and if the agora rumors are true, she is to be a great-grandmother before the year is out.” He paused, then continued slowly, “I think the best possible option would be if she stepped down in three or four years and named you as her protégée.”

“I have had words with her before, but nothing more than passing comments at festivals. Though we do have similar public goals, I know nothing of her other than what is in the official ephemera and unofficial cookfire gossip.” She was also now in deep thought, “Though I will have occasion to speak in passing again at the next academy graduation.”

“Ahh...” he nodded, tapping his chin, “That may be a good time for a well-placed favorable comment on her northern trade plan, with a hedging comment about the need to patrol the sea routes. Your reputation concerning your success in friendly ports will bolster the review of your opinion, if my theories hold true.”

She put her hand on his arm to stop him pacing, “Wait, how do you know about the trade debates?”

“I can read, and even if I do not openly stop and listen to the lecturers at the temple, the vendor with the best pomegranates and apples is near the political science hall.” He shrugged, opening his hands to her, palms up. “Every trip to the agora brings more than the military news. I never mentioned it, because you had not intimated you were interested in anything else.”

She took a few moments to study him. “Ten years. I have been squandering the majority of a resource for ten years...” Pulling him to face her squarely at arm’s length, “What’s in this for you?”

He sighed, realizing that his pale complexion was coloring up again. “I want to make you happy. If it is bringing you public opinion of the military, reporting the news in the agora, or even recounting the myths that drive the barbarians to seek out certain springs in the foothills, then that is what I will do. Anything I can do for you, I will.”

She released his arms, letting her hands drop to her side. “Why?”

“It is not so much about this,” he touched the medallion on the leather thong around his neck that bore her mark, “as this...” Placing his hand over his heart, he then cupped it, and offered his hand to her. It was not a common gesture here, but it spoke to the earlier part of their conversation.  

There was a pause, then to his surprise, she closed her hand over his and drew him close, their joined hands between their chests. “You have to promise me,” she murmured in his ear, “If I die without daughters, you will go back to your mother’s people and tell the stories.”

“I...” he paused, but knew that he could not deny her this wish. “Yes, I shall do as you ask.” He lightly rested his forehead in the curve of  her collarbone,  “If I die without meeting your daughters, I only ask that you send a copy of my writing to my mother’s people.”

The tug on the back of his head was gentler, this time. “Why wait? You should be writing to her anyway,” she scowled at him, but then put his head back on her shoulder.

He chuckled, then murmured, “yes, daralinta.”