Lords of Grass and Thunder by Curt Benjamin

promised the lady. When he thought he had control over his features, he lifted his head to meet the Prince’s gaze with a gravely sincere one of his own. “You have bought my life with the force of your arm, and I would be first to repay that service.”
    Jumal was listening attentively, his skinning knife poised but not moving. “This is my spear,” he noted, his voice neutral. “I carved this device in it myself, for luck.”
     
     
     
    “we eneeded it,” Tayy acknowledged, thinking of the spear itself, but also the luck carved into its shaft. “It delayed the bear’s attack until I could steady a killing shot.”
    A stray question troubled his thoughts, though. Why Jumal’s spear, when Qutula had a perfectly good weapon of his own? It seemed petty to remark upon the pilfering of a trifle when that trifle had done as much as the arrow to save his cousin’s life, however. Or he thought it had. Qutula was looking decidedly unwell.
    “You said you were unhurt!” he accused his cousin as a drop of blood welled from the corner of his eye. Qutula had paled suddenly; Tayy saw him flinch in spite of his effort to hide his weakness.
    “You are hurt!” Bekter took a solicitous step toward his brother.
    “No—”
    Qutula toppled over.
    “ ’Tula!” Bekter fell to his knees, his ear pressed to his brother’s chest.
    “How is he?” Tayy asked. He should have known sooner. Had known something was wrong, and had dismissed it when he saw no blood. But there was blood now, leaking from Qutula’s nose, and from the corners of his eyes. The last time the prince had seen blood like that from a man with no visible wounds, he had died, murdered by the bite of the venomous Lady Chaiujin in demon form, the emerald green bamboo snake.
    “He’s breathing—” Bekter shook his head. “I can’t find a wound on him, but he’s burning up with fever. No. Wait. He’s coming round—”
    “What happened?” Dislodging his brother, Qutula rested a hand over his heart, as if it ached there. His eyes were still cloudy with pain, or the memory of a fading misery.
    “I thought for a moment you had died,” Tayy answered. He was still shaky, old memories fueling new fears for his cousin.
    “I assure you, my lord prince, that I’m not dead. I fainted, that’s all, making more of a fool of myself than I had already.”
    “No fool,” Tayy insisted, “but wounded in some way we cannot see. Do you need a litter?”
    “I need nothing but my prince’s good opinion and the help of my brother’s arm to regain my feet,” he said.
    “Then I’ll get out of your way.” Tayy stepped aside, making room for Bekter who held out his arm to his brother.
    “When you feel better, you’ll have to tell me everything,” Bekter insisted. “I’ll make a song about the hunt. The great Prince Tayyichiut will be the hero, and you will be his strong right arm, just as you say.”
    Tayy could see the effort he was making to sound normal, just as he saw the worry that creased the round soft face.
    “As for the fainting business, it must have been the dying curse of the bear, which is only now releasing you as the bear’s spirit departs. You’ll have to talk to Mother about a charm to protect you until we’re certain the danger has passed, but it’ll make a wonderful song.”
    “Don’t be foolish.” Qutula brushed off his brother’s praise, but Bekter could not be stopped so easily.
    “Are you well enough to ride?”
    “Well enough, though I may die of shame if you say another word.” He seemed to be feeling more himself. Bekter must have thought so, too, because he did what he was told for a change.
    Tayy refused to let it go at that. “Sometimes even heroes need help,” he said.
    Qutula seemed on the point of making a sharp retort, but then he shrugged a shoulder, dismissing whatever objection he had planned to make. “And sometimes the only hurt is to their pride. I am no hero, though I doubt we can stop Bekter from composing