Warcry (13 page)

The door to the sleeping chambers opened. Lara stepped into the room, her face radiant. She walked over to Othur and Anna and extended her hands to each of them. “Othur, Anna, you have been as parents to me. Would you stand in their place? Keir has a question he wishes to put to you.”

Anna stood, starting to cry as she hugged Lara.

“You are more than capable of giving yourself away, Lara,” Othur said as he stood. “But we would be proud and pleased to stand in their stead.”

Iain cleared his throat. “I can perform the ceremony here and now if you wish. It would take but a moment to—

“Oh no.” Anna scowled at the young man, her hands on her hips. “Over my dead body.”

CHAPTER 19

OTHUR CHUCKLED UNDER HIS BREATH AS HIS ladywife faced them all down.

“Lara is a Daughter of Xy and Queen, not some milkmaid brought to ruin by her lover. We’ll have a proper ceremony, tomorrow night in the throne room, conducted by the Archbishop himself. I’ll not have those nobles whispering that the deed was done in secrecy, with naught but friends as witnesses.”

“We’ll have Durst sign the certificate as witness,” Heath suggested, a malicious look on his face. “Lanfer as well.”

“We’ve time enough for dresses and flowers and true honor done to the bride,” Anna said with satisfaction.

“But the Justice . . . the babe . . .” Lara said.

“The Justice in the morning, bright and early,” Anna declared. “You can rest up as we prepare for the wedding. The babe will wait.”

“The babe wouldn’t dare emerge to face her,” Othur whispered to Heath.

Heath nodded.

“That’s settled then.” Anna lifted her head and gave them all a glare. “Since Keir is to ask his question at the dinner, we had best be about it. Marcsi and the others can serve without me. But we must dress, quickly!”

“Atira, Amyu, Yveni.” Lara reached for Keir’s hand. “It’s tradition that the couple be escorted to the ceremony by female friends and family. Will you escort me?”

Amyu looked at the others, startled to be included. “We’d be honored, Warprize,” Atira said, speaking for all of them.

“Ander, Rafe,” Keir spoke up. “Prest, Heath, Marcus. Will you escort me?”

Rafe laughed out loud. “Simus and Joden will dance in anger when they hear that they missed this! Yes, Warlord.”

Prest and Ander both nodded as well, but Marcus shook his head. “No, Warlord.”

“Marcus,” Lara said. “We owe you so much. Please.”

The scarred man focused his one eye on Lara, and Othur watched that harsh face soften. “I will watch, but no more. I would not offend our elements, or your gods, in any way.”

“The Sun God takes no offense in battle scars,” Iain said quietly.

“I will not risk it.” Marcus glared at the boy, even as Lara gave him a grateful glance. “Besides, there’s more than enough warm bodies for a ceremony.” He had to turn his head to see Keir. “Let me serve in the shadows, as I have for many a year now.”

“Enough talk!” Anna scolded. “Dinner!”

JUST AS THEY WERE LEAVING, HEATH RAISED AN eyebrow at Atira and nodded toward Iain.

Atira knew that look well. Heath had used it time and again when they’d hunted together—when he wanted her to move up and flank their prey.

Heath went out the door with the young man, but Atira waited just a step so as to be behind them.

“So . . .” Heath fell into step with Iain. “You could perform the marriage ceremony?”

“Of course,” Iain responded. “I am a full priest, in service to the castle. Of course, it would be presumptuous of me to do so for the royal family, since the Archbishop usually sees to their needs.”

“But you could,” Heath pressed, “if you didn’t receive instructions to the contrary.”

“True enough,” Iain agreed slowly. He looked back over his shoulder at Atira. “Why do I think this is more than idle speculation?”

“Say, if you sequestered yourself for a time,” Heath said, “where you might not be found for a few hours. Then—”

Iain stopped so abruptly that Atira almost ran into him. The young man gave her a sharp glance, as if suddenly aware that he was being stalked. Whether conscious or not, he shifted so that his back was to the wall. He crossed his arms over his chest and glared at Heath. “Subterfuge.”

“What?” Atira asked.

“Maybe.” Heath crossed his arms over his chest in response. “But tell me this—is there anything in the doctrines of our faith that would forbid the marriage of the Queen and the Overlord?”

Iain thought for a moment, then with a huff ran his fingers through his hair, which made the unruly mess of curls even more so. “No,” he said with a sigh. “There is not.”

“And if.” Heath raised a finger. “If, mind you, the Archbishop were to forbid such a marriage, the only reason would be his own personal feelings or those of the people influencing him, yes?”

“What would you have me do?” Iain said sharply. “I may be young and new to my post, but I am not stupid. You would manipulate the situation so that I never receive those instructions?”

“Yes,” Heath said. “In a heartbeat.”

“I cannot disobey the Archbishop,” Iain said slowly.

“If you were rushed into a room with a pregnant woman about to give birth, and her intended was frantic to make things right for the babe, would you marry them?” Heath asked.

“In a heartbeat,” Iain admitted ruefully.

Heath relaxed slightly. “I happen to know that when Xymund took the throne, he crated up a number of old books in his father’s chambers and had them stored.”

Iain looked at the floor for a moment, clearly thinking. Atira looked at Heath, but he shook his head at her. The young man seemed to come to a conclusion, because with a sigh, he shook his head, as if conceding defeat. “Old books?” Iain raised an eyebrow, interested despite his reservations. “How old?”

“I think a few date back to the time of Xyson. There may even be scrolls in there, for all I know,” Heath said, taking Iain’s elbow. “You know, Lara’s old room is still empty. It’s small, but with a nice hearth. I could arrange for the crate to be delivered there so that you could check the books, see if they’re damaged. A few may even be religious texts.”

“Do you know the names of the authors?” Iain asked as they moved down the corridor at a slightly faster pace. “Or titles? I’m especially interested in books of the time of Xyson. They speak of the monsters that attacked Xy, with wings said to blot out the sun—”

“I’ll have a guard at the door, and they can bring you whatever food and drink you need,” Heath said with a smile.

“How many books?” Iain walked even faster, taking the lead. “Tell them to have a care with the crate. It’s easy enough to damage them, especially if—”

Atira leaned over to Heath. “Do you think he will remember to eat?”

Heath grinned at her. “Let’s hurry,” he said softly. “I want him hidden away before the Archbishop arrives.”

OTHUR STOOD BEFORE HIS SEAT IN THE GREAT Hall and tried not to appear too pleased.

He had every reason to be, after all. Anna had enough warning that she’d unleashed a small army of servants to scrub the hall down and have the various banners and tapestries taken down, beaten, and rehung. The room glowed with light and color.

Behind the high seat, Anna had hung the tapestry that had been in the old King’s chambers for years. The weaving showed an airion, a winged horse-eagle, the old symbol of the House of Xy, fallen out of use during Xymund’s reign. But Xyron had been fond of the image, and Anna thought it only fitting that the banner be displayed again, along with the Sword of Xy. Othur had to admit, it looked impressive, hung behind the table where Lara and Keir would preside.

Othur sighed in pure satisfaction. The hall was also filled with the nobility, all in their finest, taking their positions at the tables and talking. No matter their political leanings, people were curious, and a chance to see and be seen was not to be missed.

Durst, grim as ever, was seated with his lady. The Herald had clustered Durst and his supporters together toward the center of the room. Although the old courtier would never admit it, Othur was fairly certain he’d done that on purpose.

A slight movement above, and Othur glanced at the balcony that surrounded the hall. Heath stepped into the light for a moment, then back into the shadows, probably checking the placement of the guards.

Pride swelled in his heart. Heath was a son to be proud of. Whether the boy realized it or not, he had the training to take Othur’s place in a few years. Heath had a sharp eye for security and the intelligence to run the castle well. The time he’d spent on the Plains had strengthened him even more.

Another movement caught his eye—a flash of blond hair and a glint off armor. Atira was up there as well, right by Heath’s side.

Sun God, his boy had it bad for her. Not a bad thing, to Othur’s way of thinking. He wanted his son to be as blessed as he was in his marriage.

Anna leaned over slightly and spoke under the noise in the hall. “The Archbishop is looking a bit ill.”

Othur glanced over to where the Archbishop was standing behind his chair, Eln beside him. “I’ll bet he is,” Othur said with a smile. “I’ll just bet he is.”

DURST STOOD BEHIND HIS ASSIGNED SEAT WITH A bitter taste in his mouth and watched Othur gloat.

Traitor. Worse than traitor, for cavorting and supporting the whore-queen and her Firelander lover. Durst’s fingers trembled on the back of his chair. That bastard still had a living son, and he had the audacity to stand and smile, like a fat, gloating worm.

He fought to control his rage. He took a deep breath and fought not to glare at the Archbishop. The fool was here, contrary to Browdus’s promises, seated in a position of honor. If he was challenged, he’d collapse like a new lamb. Damn Othur. Damn Browdus—he’d been supposed to prevent this.

Lanfer was at the end of the hall, his expression sour and angry. Durst could only hope the younger man would control his temper long enough to get through the meal. Although he wasn’t sure he’d be able to keep his own temper. And the hate in his bowels would make it impossible to eat.

Othur was still smiling, and Durst wanted nothing more than for the Sun God to strike him dead. Othur hadn’t lost two sons in this battle—the first against the Firelanders and the second in an ill-advised attack on Xylara. He hadn’t had to hold Beatrice as she’d wept her heart out in his arms, or face a future with no heir.

He glanced at his silent wife, standing behind her chair, her hands resting quietly on its back, her eyes cast down. Something had broken within her with the deaths of her boys. Then to have to nurse him through his own injury when the Warlord had attacked without warning or provocation . . . Durst took a deep breath as he looked at her bent head.

There would be other ways, other opportunities, even if the Archbishop bent with the wind. This wasn’t over.

But as the Sun God was his witness, he’d see Othur and his wife weeping over the dead body of their son. Lanfer would be more than willing. And more than able.

With that, Durst had to be satisfied. For now.

ATIRA CRANED FORWARD AS THE HERALD POUNDED his staff three times on the floor. “Lords and ladies—Xylara, Queen of Xy and the Overlord, Keir of the Cat.”

Everyone bowed as Lara and Keir made their way up the central aisle between the tables and took their places at the high table. Marcus and Amyu were waiting there, behind the seats. Prest, Rafe, Yveni, and Ander took up their positions around the table, making every effort to be seen. Atira nodded in satisfaction. The Warprize was well guarded, and should anyone try an attack, she had her bow at the ready.

Lara was wearing one of the oddly shaped Xyian dresses that seemed more like a large tent than a garment. Atira had never seen so much fabric to cover one woman before. It was a lovely blue color, like the sky in spring. Just for a moment, Atira wondered how many garments Lara had, and what it would feel like to have different clothing for every day.

Lara was waiting until the room settled, each person standing behind their chair. “Lord and ladies, my thanks for your welcome. I would take this opportunity to dedicate this feast to the memory of my father, Xyron, Warrior-King.” She raised a mug of kavage that Marcus handed to her. “To Xyron.”

“Xyron.” The hall echoed with the sound of raised voices as all drank.

With that, Lara sat, with Keir a heartbeat behind. Everyone in the room sat then, taking their seats with a murmur of talk.

“Devoted One, I am glad to see you.” Lara leaned forward to smile at the man. “I am glad to see that you were well enough to join us this evening. Would you bless this meal?”

Atira couldn’t see the man’s face, but she watched the back of his neck flush as he stood, pushing his chair back so abruptly it almost toppled over. “Your Majesty.” The man’s voice was thin and shaky. “Your Majesty, I fear . . . I would not offend the Overlord. His faith is not ours.”

“I take no offense.” Keir’s voice was a low pleasant rumble. “Please proceed.”

The Archbishop sagged a bit, and then seemed to gather strength from somewhere. He straightened up. “Your Majesty, I fear I am unable to offer a blessing for this meal.”

“No?” Lara asked, all innocence. “Why so, Devoted One?”

The man’s voice cracked. “Your Majesty . . .” He trembled in his robes. “Your Majesty, I cannot offer a blessing to a couple living in sin, outside of the bonds of holy matrimony.”

His words echoed through the silent room.

Lara looked pale, but her voice was calm. “Devoted One, the Overlord and I are bonded according to his beliefs and the customs of his people.”

“His people,” the Archbishop said. “Not ours. Our faith requires—”

Keir rose from his seat. “It seems I must deal with this.” He drew his sword and placed one hand on the table, leaping over it.

The Archbishop fainted dead away.

CHAPTER 20

OTHUR STRUGGLED TO KEEP HIS FACE IMPASSIVE as Eln and the castle guards caught the Archbishop and kept him on his feet. Served the man right.

Keir ignored the uproar, turning instead to face Othur and Anna. Keir knelt, in full view of the assemblage, presenting his blade, hilt up. He cut quite a figure in his black armor, his blue eyes bright.

Othur extended his hand to Anna as they rose from their chairs. Anna placed her hand on his wrist, tears already gathering in her eyes.

“Lord Othur, Seneschal of Water’s Fall, Warden of Xy. Lady Anna of Xy.” Keir’s voice rolled through the room, strong and confident. “I, Keir of the Cat, Warrior of the Plains, Overlord of Xy, do kneel before you in humble petition and ask permission to seek the hand of Xylara, Daughter of Xy in holy matrimony, in the traditions and under the laws of Xy. Will you say me aye?”

The gasps from around the room were loud as people craned to see what was happening.

“Keir of the Cat, Warrior of the Plains, Overlord of Xy.” Othur had to clear his throat before he could proceed. “Answer me this. Xylara is a true Daughter of Xy, the daughter of Xyron. She is not a daughter of our blood, but she is the daughter of our hearts. Would you cleave to her and her alone, forsaking all others, swearing your oath before the Sun God of Xy?”

“I would,” Keir said. “For all my days and beyond.”

Othur blinked to clear his eyes and then turned to his ladywife. Anna was smiling and weeping, tears running down her face. “How say you, my lady?”

Anna nodded with a smile, her chins jiggling, unable to speak.

Othur faced the room and boomed out his answer. “We grant your petition, Keir of the Cat, and offer our blessings on you and Xylara. May the Sun God and the Lady of the Moon and Stars bless your union, your lives, and your children.”

Keir stood, sheathed his sword, and turned to face the high table. Marcus and Amyu were helping Lara to rise. Othur caught his breath at the happiness that shone in her face.

“Xylara, Daughter of Xy, Queen, Warprize, and Master Healer,” Keir began, once again going to one knee. He placed one hand on his chest and bowed his head.

Lara’s smile grew even brighter, and tears formed in her eyes.

“I, Keir of the Cat, Overlord of Xy and Warrior of the Plains, kneel before you with a humble heart, and ask for your hand in marriage according to the traditions and laws of Xy.” Keir raised his head. “I offer you my hand, my heart, and my sword for all of our lives and beyond.”

“I will marry thee, Keir of the Cat, Overlord of Xy, and Warlord of the Plains.” Lara’s voice was clear. “I will accept your offer, and in return, I offer my hand, my heart, and my skills for all our lives and beyond.”

With one smooth movement, Keir once again leapt over the table to stand at Lara’s side. She offered her hands, and he kissed them both before kissing her full on the mouth.

A single cheer rose from the back of the room, to be joined with other voices. Othur scanned the faces, and the silent ones were no surprise. Except old Lord Sarrensan. Othur was certain that there was some softening in the old badger’s face. The man looked at his own wife and started cheering.

Well. Othur smiled and raised his voice in a cheer, as well, sharing a happy look with Anna. A bright day, this. A bright day, indeed. Nothing like a wedding to bring out the best in people.

And the worst, come to think on it.

As smooth as if they’d practiced, Lara and Keir broke their kiss and turned to face the Archbishop as the cheering stopped. “Devoted One,” Lara said sweetly. “Would you conduct the ceremony tomorrow at sunset, as tradition requires?”

HEATH LEANED FORWARD SLIGHTLY, LOOKING down at the Archbishop.

The man was visibly pulling himself together, thinking quickly. “Your Majesty, I mean no offense . . .” he said. Browdus was standing just behind him, readjusting the man’s robes and whispering in his ear. The Archbishop took a deep breath and straightened. “But . . . what does a Firelander know of our faith? Does the Overlord understand the vows being required of him?”

“The vows are almost the same to the words my bonded and I have already exchanged,” Keir said. “I have no reservations,” he continued. “I will take these vows in order to protect my wife.” Keir paused and narrowed his eyes. His voice was deeper. Intense. “And the child she bears.”

Heath nodded, appreciating the message and its delivery.

So did everyone in the hall. The slight whisperings faded away as they took in the Warlord’s message.

“I . . .” the Archbishop began, but then he seemed to sag as he stared at Keir. Browdus leaned closer, his whispers even more urgent.

The Archbishop glanced once more around the hall, took a breath, and waved Browdus silent. “Well, then, of course, Your Majesty. Tomorrow at sunset.”

Another cheer rose, louder than the first, echoing off the walls. Lara and Keir returned to their seats and signaled for the meal to begin.

The Archbishop plopped back into his chair, and Heath was fairly certain that the sick look on his face was not feigned this time.

“So, the wind blows in a new direction?” Atira leaned into him, keeping her voice low.

Heath drew a breath, enjoying the scent of her hair. “Apparently. But this isn’t over, Atira.” His gaze traveled down to where Lanfer was sitting.

Lanfer was staring at him, his eyes hot with hate.

Heath met the look and returned it, hard and implacable.

Lanfer looked away.

“That one’s hatred is his weakness,” Atira said. “As is yours.”

Heath shrugged, watching as Keir and Lara settled back into their chairs and everyone started to eat. The tensions in the room were easing, but Heath wasn’t fooled.

“Lara is happy,” Atira said. “It is good to see.” She shifted back, returning to the shadows of the balcony. “Why must the ceremony wait until sunset?”

“It is thought that the Sun God’s attention is upon his duties during the day,” Heath said as he moved next to her. “He gives his full attention to his people just before the sun rises and sets. So weddings, and the Sun God’s witnessing of the vows, usually take place at sunset.” He leaned against the wall and sighed. “Once the Justice is over and the ceremony is complete, we’ll lock Lara and Keir in their chambers with guards three deep around them until after the birth.”

Atira shivered. Heath gave her a questioning look, and she shook her head. “To be locked in . . . within stone walls, unable to feel the wind or the sun. It would be a kind of death.”

“There are windows in the chambers,” Heath protested, but his stomach sank as she grimaced. He’d set his hopes on her staying in Water’s Fall. What if—

“Captain.” A whisper from the next guard down.

There was a lad at one of the doors off the balcony. Heath summoned him with a nod of his head.

“Captain.” The boy was still breathing hard. “Message from the city walls. There’s a force of Firelan—” he caught a glimpse of Atira. “Of Plains warriors outside the gates. They sent me on ahead to tell you that the Warlord Liam of the Deer has arrived, and they’s escorting him to the castle. He’s coming right behind me.”

“Good.” Heath put a hand on his shoulder. “Let’s you and I get word of this to the Warlord.”

The lad’s eyes went big.

“THIS SOUP SMELLS FABULOUS, AND I BET IT TASTES even better,” Othur said. His wife didn’t respond, her gaze on the crowd and her lips pressed tight. “Anna?” he asked.

“Marcsi had best be after those serving girls,” Anna huffed. “That young Vona nearly spilled hers all over that table.” She gave him a smile though.

Othur chuckled and tucked in. Even the lords with sour faces were eating. Anna’s cooking was best when she was pleased, and she was well pleased this night.

Lara and Keir were still talking together but not yet eating. Marcus and Amyu were still waiting to see if there were any ill effects. Othur wasn’t sure that was truly necessary, but then again, he’d never seen so much hate as in Durst’s eyes. Best to take care, even if it meant cold meals.

Heath appeared then, quietly approaching Keir with one of the runner lads.

Keir turned his full attention to the boy, listening intently to what he had to say. The lad was speaking rapidly, gesturing toward the main doors.

Marcus was setting a plate down before the Warlord when he suddenly froze. Lara leaned forward, asking a question, and Amyu had a shocked look on her face.

Keir seemed to thank the boy. Heath sent him off toward the kitchens, probably for something to eat. Othur waited until Heath looked in his direction and then raised a questioning eyebrow.

Heath nodded toward the main door, even as Marcus retreated behind the high seat, retreating deeper into his cloak and hood.

The Herald stood at the door and pounded his staff three times in quick succession.

“The Warlord, Liam of the Deer.”

Ah, the warlord Keir had been expecting—the one that had announced that he would support Keir’s ideas and plans. Othur watched the man stride toward the high table, his long legs eating up the distance in no time. He was a tall man with long blond hair, silver mixed in with the gold. His eyes were hazel, his smile warm. His left ear sparkled with the same kind of decoration that Lara’s ear did—the symbol of a Plains bonding.

There were three warriors with him, but they remained by the door, looking about them with a studied casualness that was betrayed by their wide eyes. Othur looked, but none of the women had the bonding decoration. Odd, that—Keir had said that bonded couples rarely traveled apart.

Liam stopped before the high table and bowed his head to Lara. “Warprize, Warlord,” he greeted them in the language of the Plains. “It is good to see you.”

Liam lifted his head, scanning the area, and Othur sucked in a breath at the look in his eyes: haunted, like a man longing for something. Hungry. Thirsty. Desperate.

Then his eyes—hells, his entire face—lit up. Othur shifted his gaze to see Marcus, his face barely visible under the cloak, peering out, with the same hunger in his eyes.

The moment was gone in an instant. Marcus was serving Keir; Liam seemed as stoic as stone.

Othur glanced about to see if any others had caught it. But Anna was busy glaring at Vona, and the Archbishop had his eyes on his plate.

Othur dropped his gaze to the table and frowned at the hapless chicken laying there. Wild rumor had it that Firelanders were indiscriminate. They’d breed with anything on two legs or four. Othur hadn’t put much stock in the four-legged stories . . . but he’d listened when people spoke of other kinds of relationships.

Such things were considered sinful by the church. Othur had known some men of that kind when he’d served in the guard. Such couples stayed out of the public eye, keeping themselves to themselves. He hoped those of the Plains had the sense to do the same.

Lara and Keir had both caught the look and had exchanged one of their own. “Liam,” Keir said in the language of the Plains. “You are very welcome. Come join us. Sit here beside me.”

Othur winced inside. He’d need to talk to Keir about High Court etiquette.

Liam deliberately surveyed the room. “An odd feeling, Warprize. To enter a city without laying siege or people trying to kill me.” Liam arched an eyebrow in her direction. “This will take some getting used to.”

Lara laughed. The Plains warriors around the room chuckled at that; even Othur smiled at Liam’s dry delivery.

“I thank you, Warlord, for the courtesy,” Liam said. “But if someone will tell us where to set up our tents in this stone city of yours, I will see to my people first.”

Heath stepped forward. “I thought perhaps the palace gardens would be best. I’ll have my men show you where.”

“Excellent idea,” Lara said, as Amyu filled her goblet.

“What news of the Plains?” Keir asked.

“What little I have, I will share,” Liam spread his hands. “Simus and Joden are at the Heart. Confusion abounds, and the warrior-priests are of no help. They have gathered at the Heart in droves. It almost seems they are all there, but there is no way to know for certain. They have made every warrior leave the area of the Heart, and the winds have it that they forced Essa to move his tents.”

Keir frowned. “Have the spring challenges begun?”

“No,” Liam shook his head. “The warrior-priests have delayed them, with no reason why. Simus will send word as soon as he is able.”

Keir grunted, clearly concerned, as Marcus refilled his goblet.

“I issued a call for warriors,” Liam said. “So many came to my call that I decided not to wait for Simus to qualify as Warlord. He and I agreed it would be best if I came now, to prevent troubles. I left my main force at the border of Xy and the Plains, as we had discussed over the winter. But I came to greet you, and remind you, Warlord, and you, Warprize, of the price I placed on my aid.”

Othur frowned. What price were they talking about?

Marcus stiffened, the pitcher of kavage in his hand.

“We remember,” Keir said. “But recall, Liam—Marcus is his own man.”

“He is not,” Liam growled. “He is my bonded and I would—”

Marcus threw his pitcher. It shattered at Liam’s feet, sending shards and wine all over the floor. “I am no longer your bonded, fool. The elements have declared it, have they not?” With a savage gesture, Marcus yanked back his hood, showing his scars, and his ear burnt clean away.

So much for subtlety,
Othur thought.

Anna leaned over. “What are they arguing about?”

He blinked at her, then smiled. “Military tactics. Anna, my love, this chicken is fabulous. What did you stuff them with?”

“Dried cherries,” Anna said as she eyed the arguing men. “They take their tactics seriously, don’t they?”

“Oh yes,” Othur replied. “Is there any more bread?”