Book 1 of the Zygradon Chronicles:
The one with the crest of a leaping, blue battlecat on his overtunic gestured at the shelving. "She has enough medicine in this room alone to tend half the villages on Moerta for a year. It just isn't right."
"What isn't right?" The man who had stood with his back to Mrillis, studying a tapestry on the far wall, turned around.
He wore a closely trimmed beard in dark gold and his skin was the color of freshly forged bronze. He wore the wings-spread crest of the Warhawk across the chest of his overtunic. He couldn't be the Warhawk, high king of the Noveni; Mrillis knew Afron Warhawk was a man in his late thirties, and this man was perhaps in his early twenties.
"The Queen of Snows willingly shares all the Rey'kil healing powers and knowledge with our people. All we have to do is ask. How many healers has she sent to the sufferers on Moerta this year alone?" he continued. He walked across the room and settled down in one of the low-backed chairs hung with thick woolen blankets, which sat in front of Le'esha's worktable.
"We shouldn't have to ask," the first growled. "The Rey'kil owe the Noveni. We shed our blood daily to fight off the warriors of the Nameless One--a rebel Rey'kil. He's their problem, not ours. Why should we fight for Lygroes?"
"Perhaps because the Noveni are refugees in Lygroes, and defending Rey'kil land keeps us safe as well?" the third man asked in a lazy drawl. He sat down and put his still-wet boots up on the edge of Le'esha's table.
Mrillis nearly darted out from behind the shelves, to knock the intruder's feet back to the floor. The prickle of discomfort up his spine, which warned him when Le'esha's visitors were dangerous, warned him now to keep silent. He glanced at Ceera, asleep with her thumb in her mouth. He knew his first duty was to protect the little girl.