Warprize (24 page)

“That is your word, not ours. We are of the Plains.”

The Herald blinked madly for a moment, then cleared his throat. “Lord and Ladies, all hail Keir, Warlord of the Plains, Overlord of Xy.” He looked at Keir, who gave him a nod. The Herald seemed to relax, until he spotted me, but years of training kept his voice steady. Without hesitation he continued, “… and Xylara, Warprize.”

Keir advanced into the room, every step strong and confident. I walked at his side and one step behind. The throne room overflowed, with people crammed into every nook and cranny. There were as many of Keir’s men as there were nobles. All bowed as we crossed and rose as we passed. The murmurs started at once, reacting to the presence of the Warlord, and his slave walking right behind him. I stared straight ahead. A second, smaller chair had been placed to the right side of the throne. Keir stepped to the throne, turned and faced the room. I made a move to the left, to stand at his side. Keir gave me a quick glance, then gestured to the smaller chair. My eyes widened, but I obeyed. Behind me, I heard the Herald announce Xymund.

Who now had no place to sit.

The crowd reacted when I turned to face them, displaying the dress in all its crimson glory. I ignored it, because as he walked across the room, I saw the exact moment Xymund realized what had happened. I dropped my eyes, unwilling to see the look in his as he drew closer. Keir must have made a gesture of some kind, because Xymund went to stand to the left of the throne. I heard the Herald announcing Lord Marshall Warren and the members of the Council, who followed him in and went to stand along the left side, ranging out from Xymund.

Once all were in position, Keir sat. I waited a pause, then sat as well. Everyone else remained standing.

Archbishop Drizen, followed by two acolytes appeared before us, bowed before the Warlord, and began the ceremony. The ancient chants flowed over me, a somber and bittersweet prayer for the dead. The incense smoked from the censers held by the two priests who swung them in slow arcs. Frankly, they could have paraded naked and rubbed dung on their bodies for all the attention I gave it. Instead, my thoughts lingered on Xymund and the insult Keir had just given him. Xymund was not dumb, he would not jeopardize the peace. I hoped. But to place a slave in precedence above the King…

I risked a glance at the Warlord, who sat on the throne with a confidence that I had never seen in Xymund. I tore my eyes away from that profile and tried to concentrate on the priests. I could not see Xymund from where I sat, but I could just imagine his expression.

I suspected that he would not be inviting us for a drink after the ceremony.

The Archbishop had concluded the prayer and bowed before Keir. The lords and ladies seemed to think this the end of the ceremony, but Keir motioned with his hand, and Joden emerged from the crowd. His round face held a somber look, and he was dressed in his finest armor and weapons. He approached the throne and bowed. Keir nodded in return. “Joden, you grace our ceremony.” He glanced about the room. “Our tradition is to lament the dead with song. Joden has agreed to sing for us.”

Joden raised his right palm to the sky. He spoke in his language. “May the skies hear my voice. May the people remember.”

The response rose from those who understood him. “We will remember.”

Joden lowered his hand, took a deep breath, and began to sing.

His voice sounded richer and far deeper than I expected. It filled the room and brought the small rustles and murmurs to a halt. Somehow, the sound of his voice pulled us all in, let us share his pain, and for a brief moment, be as one within it. Language didn’t seem to be a barrier. For those who understood, the words spoke of a loved one that would never see the sky again, nor share the sweetness of a glass of wine. Or the joy of a laugh. It spoke of an emptiness at the table, at the fireside, and in the heart. My eyes filled as I thought of my father, and the warrior who had died giving me his blessing. I lowered my head and tried not to give in to my grief.

Others were moved as well. A glance showed me Keir’s hand clenched on his knee, knuckles white.

The song changed then. Joden’s voice rang with the hope of reuniting, riding again under endless skies, sharing wines not yet tasted. I managed to lift my head at that and looked at Joden as the last notes hovered in the air. As I wiped at my eyes and snuffled my nose, I noticed others doing the same.

The last notes faded. Joden lifted his palm again. “May the people remember.”

Again, the response came. “We will remember.”

Keir echoed the words, then continued, “My thanks, Joden. You honor us.”

Joden bowed, and moved back into the crowd.

The Archbishop came forward, prepared to give the traditional blessing of the monarch. With an uneasy glance in Xymund’s direction, he stood before Keir, bowed, and recited the blessing. Keir nodded deeply to him at the conclusion.

Without further thought, the Archbishop turned toward me, and I saw his eyes widen when he realized what he had done. Tradition required a blessing for the Queen as well, hardly appropriate for a warprize. The poor man seemed quite flustered for a moment, then elected to nod his head in my direction. I returned the nod. I doubt he even realized the sigh of relief that he gave as he turned to render the benediction to the crowd.

Even before he stopped speaking, Keir stood. I waited but he extended a hand to help me rise, so I joined him at his side. We walked toward the antechamber in silence.

The crowd, a mixture of Xyian and Firelander, had filled in the space before the door, and they parted to allow us though. The Xyians were unsure as to the courtesies to extend, whether to bow or curtsey and to whom. The Firelanders had no such problem. They remained tall and upright, with solemn looks. As we moved closer to the door, I saw many familiar faces, including Lord Durst. Scowling, he stepped back as if to avoid touching me, his lip curled in a snarl. He craned his head forward, having caught my eye. “Whore.”

Durst spoke forcefully, his voice low, but it carried. I flushed and looked away, mortified. I barely registered that Keir dropped my hand. There was a sound of drawn steel and a flash of movement. I looked back to see Keir’s sword buried deep in Durst’s chest.

In endless time, the man’s eyes bulged and he sank slowly to the floor. Keir pulled the weapon out of Durst’s body and flicked it, sending blood onto the clothes of those nearby. Durst made an odd huffing noise as his hands clutched at the wound. People stepped back to allow Durst to fall at their feet, then the screaming began as they jostled both to escape and to get a better view.

“Silence.” Keir’s command rang out, even as he pulled out a cloth to wipe the blade clean. The room watched in horrified silence as he dropped the bloody cloth and sheathed his sword in a ring that hung from his belt. The sound of metal on metal almost did more to grab everyone’s attention than his voice. “The insult is avenged.” The quiet grew even deeper, but to my horror, Xyian nobles started to place their hands on their swords, eyeing the Firelanders around us.

“Warprize.”

My eyes snapped up to see Keir standing there, his hand held out for mine, the hand that had slain Lord Durst in an instant. The same hand that had saved my life in the market.

Everyone was frozen, focused on that hand, and I knew that the peace, in that instant, was balanced on the edge of a sword. Reject that hand, kneel to aid Durst, and there’d be those who’d use it as an excuse to draw their swords.

Mindful of my status, mindful of my obligation, and mindful of the dead still being buried beyond these walls, I placed my hand in Keir’s and allowed myself to be led from the throne room.

Xymund followed, along with Lord Warren. The voices rose behind us, only to be cut off as the door to the antechamber shut.

We stood in silence for a moment, then Keir moved to the fireplace. “The ceremony went well.” His voice was as calm as if nothing had happened. As if a man had not died in the throne room. As if I had not left him lying in a pool of his own blood.

Xymund did not respond. Warren cleared his throat. “Thoughtful of you to include our priests. It is appreciated.” He too was ignoring what had happened.

Keir tilted his head. “We honor the dead of both sides.” He gave Warren an appraising eye. “We haven’t spoken outside the confines of negotiations or parley. I would welcome an opportunity to talk with you about your strategies, especially your use of the river.”

Warren’s mouth curled in a wry smile. “I would welcome that.”

“Tomorrow? At the nooning. Bring your officers and we will dine.”

Numb, I watched as they talked of nothing, as if all were well and fine, as if Keir hadn’t just killed a man for a simple insult. My heart drammed in my chest and the air in the room seemed close and over-warm.

Keir pulled his cloak off the chair where he’d thrown it before the ceremony. “I wish to see the castle.”

Xymund’s voice grated. “Othur will show you the building.”

“No,” Keir interrupted. “I wish to see it through the eyes of the warprize.”

Xymund’s jaw clenched. Never had I seen him so angry and so afraid. His right eye seemed to twitch very slightly, his hands clenched in fists. I held my breath, waiting to see which emotion would win out.

Xymund’s hands relaxed. His head jerked as if to nod, and he went to the door. With a resigned look, Warren made to follow.

“I will need to know the extent of that lord’s holdings.” Keir’s voice came as a low purr. Xymund stopped dead in the doorway. Keir continued, “I will need to appoint a new lord as soon as possible.”

Warren half-turned toward Keir. “Warlord, our tradition is that a man’s son inherits his father’s holdings. Durst’s son, Degnan, is his heir.”

“Is this Degnan capable?”

Warren shrugged, clearly at a loss. He looked to Xymund for support, but none came. Finally, he looked back at Keir. “He is the heir, Warlord.”

“I will consider this.” Keir lifted an eyebrow. “You are excused.”

Goddess, was he deliberately provoking Xymund?

Xymund said nothing and left. Warren followed.

I released the breath I had been holding. Didn’t he understand, didn’t they know what a horrible thing had happened? To slay a man without warning, for a slur? Bad enough to insult Xymund’s pride, to humiliate him before the Court. The Warlord had made very clear that his token was not for me to use, I had no protections from the consequences of my words, but if the peace were to last past the dawn someone had to voice this truth.

“Rafe, I want company for our tour. Ask Joden, Yers, Oxna, Senbar and Uzania to join us. I saw Epor and Isdra in the crowd, ask them as well. Tell the rest to return to camp. In a group, no stops. Tell them to be alert.”

“Your sword, Warlord?” Rafe paused by the door. “Do you wish me to see to it?”

“It’s well enough. I will see to it myself.”

Rafe nodded and slipped out.

Keir watched the fire. I moved closer, licked my lips and drew in a breath. He glanced my way. “You wish to point out my mistake.”

I closed my mouth. His blue eyes glittered in the light of the fire and I waited for that temper to flare. Instead he gave me a rueful smile. “So much for my talk of change, eh?”

I didn’t understand, and would have asked, but a knock at the door brought Rafe into the room with the others, talking quietly among themselves.

The moment was lost. I might risk the truth in private, but not in front of others. As Keir stepped away, I looked for a friendly face and found it in Joden. “You have a wonderful voice, Joden.”

His smile was wide and a relief to see. “My thanks, Warprize.”

“Come,” Keir gestured us to the door. “Show us this stone tent of yours.”

I took them to the highest point, in the tallest turret, to start. The young guard at the top almost dropped his spear, startled to find himself hosting the Warlord when normally his only company were the bees that buzzed in and out of the skeps that Anna kept on the heights. The sun was down, but in the fading twilight, we could still see.

The battlements fascinated Keir. The views from this height allowed one to look clear into the valley below, and even beyond their camp. Keir, Rafe, and the others pressed themselves against the outer wall, trying to look down as far as they could. The breeze that always blew at this height whistled past, catching at our hair and clothing. Prest, on the other hand, pressed himself against the opposite wall by the door, his eyes wide, the whites showing, his dark complexion turning ashen. He seemed quite grateful when I pulled them away from the views and we headed back down.

They asked question after question about the building, about how I could stand to be surrounded by walls all the time. Some of the narrow corridors made them nervous, and I’d see them all looking up, as if searching for the sky. Some of their questions I knew the answer to, some I didn’t. They admired the thick walls, wrinkled their noses at the privies with their small holes, and mock fought on the circular staircases. I showed them the places where old kings had started building, and young kings had built on. Impressed as they were with its age and fortifications, I gathered that Keir did not care for the length of time it had taken for the castle to rise to its current heights.

The halls and corridors were strangely quiet as we proceeded, empty of the normal traffic of servants and nobles. It made me uneasy even as I led them into the castle chapel.

The room was lit with hundreds of candles, and behind the altar, the white marble statute of the Goddess gleamed brightly. She was lovely, her arms holding a basket of herbs and flowers, her face serene and peaceful. I paused in the center aisle and smiled.

“So it’s true. You worship people.” Surprised, I turned to see Joden standing behind me, looking around in amazement.

“This chapel is dedicated to the worship of the Goddess, The Lady of the Moon and Stars.” I fumbled around for the right words. “She is more than a ‘person.’”

“He means no offense,” Keir spoke softly as the others gathered around us, gaping and gawking. There was a general sense of disapproval. “It’s odd to see, that’s all.” Keir waved his hand to encompass the room. “Another difference between us.”