Free The Eunuch's Heir by Elaine Isaak

protruding, and he quickly turned back to his charge. The dark inhabitants of the camp scattered before them; the few women turned their faces away, and the men retreated, heads bowed. In this sea of dark-skinned, bowing figures one woman stood conspicuously tall, making her way back toward the gate.
    “You!” Fionvar shouted. He crossed toward her in longstrides, leaving Dylan with his father. “What are you doing here?”
    “I don’t see that my business concerns you, Lord Protector,” Asenith answered, starting to brush by.
    Fionvar caught her elbow and spun her toward him, her face looming dangerously near. He could see the age lines she sought to hide with powders and paints—she looked like an artwork in need of restoration. At least the child would be beautiful. “I am the Lord Protector, as you say, my lady,” he said, giving her a smile, “and you may be carrying the future heir to the kingdom. That makes your safety my business. What are you doing here, and where are the guards assigned to defend you?”
    “Defend me?” She jerked away. “Spy on me is what you had in mind! It didn’t take much to addle them, did it? And I’ll thank you to keep your hands off me!”
    “Considering your recent occupation, my lady, I can’t imagine you have much objection to being touched.” A sound beside him distracted him, and he found that Dylan had come up, his mouth curled into a frown beneath the bandages. “Sorry,” said Fionvar, “I thought Gwythym was with you.”
    Bandages muffled Dylan’s voice, giving it a nasal whine. “Better things to do, I guess.”
    “Fare you well, sir,” Asenith spat, gathering her skirts to sprint out of reach.
    Nearly colliding with Asenith, Gwythym trotted up, hand on his sword, his face red. “Thought I’d lost you, lad. All over again.”
    “Bury it,” Fionvar muttered, watching Asenith’s escape. He turned to look where she’d come from, but could see no difference between those tents and any others, except that area looked even more dirty. He recalled his sister’s remarks, linking Asenith with her old friend Faedre, a native of Hemijrai herself. Faedre had escaped justice for her attempt upon their king, and none knew where she’d gone after that. Fionvar shook off the past and studied the present. A group of men squatted outside a small, well-made pavilion, dirtyhands dangling toward their laps as if they had tried farming recently. One of them even held a small shovel. What if they had been burying their dead? Fionvar didn’t mind the refugees sheltering so close to the funeral ground; after all, the Lady’s mercy and kindness should extend to them as well, but they shouldn’t be profaning Finistrel with burials so close to Her temple. “I need to talk to these men, Gwythym, I’ll be right back.”
    Fionvar started purposefully toward them, but the little group scrambled away, bowing their heads. He pursued them through the twisting lanes of tents until he came up against the curtains closing off a large area. Women’s voices could be heard within. They had built a special place for the women, protected by a row of armed and dangerous-looking men. Fionvar nodded to them, and they stared back with an insolence he found disturbing in a displaced people. Quietly, he took his leave.
    When he had returned to Gwythym and his son, he found them exchanging greetings with a small, lithe Hemijrani. The clothes he wore were faded but of fine fabrics, and the tattoos on his feet formed the intricate patterns reserved to priests. He turned toward Fionvar as he approached, revealing sharp features, the flash of gold in his smile as he bowed over his hands. His long hair was piled atop his head in a style more suited to women, but held in place with slender knives. The medallion at his neck showed their god and goddess entwined in love, and Fionvar winced, averting his eyes from the heathen display. He recalled the man from one of Brianna’s recent