Warcry

by Elizabeth Vaughan

  She hiccupped and sagged in his arms.

  The love in Keir’s face was so powerful that Atira had to look away. She dropped her gaze to the floor and stayed, unmoving, unwilling to interrupt the moment between them.

  “Flame of my heart.” The words were a soft rumble in Keir’s chest. “The words we pledged between us were enough for us. But you marked yourself for my people—can I do any less for yours?” He ran a soft finger over the wires woven into Lara’s ear.

  Lara wrapped her arms around Keir’s neck and kissed him through her tears.

  Iain coughed. Atira glanced back to see the young man blushing, his own gaze on the floor.

  “Your Majesty,” Iain said. “The Warlord has inquired about the nature of our ceremonies. If you are willing, I am the cleric responsible for the castle chapel and charged with the spiritual needs of those who live within these walls. If you wish, I would offer you and your intended counsel.”

  Lara gave him a wobbly smile and nodded.

  “Well then,” Marcus huffed. “Go within and talk. We will know that you speak under the bells and will not interrupt.”

  Keir turned Lara toward the sleeping chamber. Lara resisted for a moment, pausing to lay a hand on Atira’s shoulder. “Thank you,” Lara whispered.

  “Warprize,” Atira gave her a smile, feeling her own eyes go misty. “It is nothing to what I owe you.”

  Lara shook her head as if to deny Atira’s words, but she let Keir pull her away without protest. Iain followed them, and Atira rose and pulled the door shut.

  She caught a quick glimpse of Keir and Lara as the door closed. They were standing together, their arms around each other, their heads together.

  A pain lanced through Atira’s heart. A shaft of pure envy . . . or perhaps longing was a better word. To have that certainty in another . . . to love and trust and bond. As much as she wished to deny it, she longed for that with every bone in her body.

  And to leave the Plains? What else was there for one such as she? Or was that what she really feared?

  Atira pulled the door shut with a click and turned to see Heath staring at her.

  She looked away, confused, then angry at herself. What had she to fear? He was a city-dweller, born and bred, and she was of the Plains. There was no way—

  She heard his step then, and looked up to see him rise and stalk toward her, a look of pure stubbornness on his face. As if—

  The door opened and Anna walked in, balancing a bundle of clothing and two pitchers of kavage in her arms. Amyu went to take the kavage from her.

  “What’s this?” Anna looked about the room. “The feast is about ready, and you stand about like ninnys. Where’s Lara? Othur, you haven’t dressed yet? Heath, you need to comb your hair.” She stopped in the middle of the room and glared at them all. “Where is Lara? Still abed?”

  Marcus had taken the kavage from Amyu. “You made this?” he asked of Anna.

  Anna nodded. “I ground the beans and drew the water. No one would dare try to poison food in my kitchen,” Anna said. “There’s no need to taste everything.”

  “Mayhap,” Marcus said. “But if I am seen tasting, there will also be no temptation to try. We take no chances, as we agreed.”

  “Come sit with me, ladywife.” Othur patted the bench next to him. “Lara and Keir are talking to Iain.”

  Anna’s eyes went wide. “Really? About—”

  “Yes, yes,” Othur said. “Come sit and wait with us.”

  Anna sighed and sat next to him. “Not for long, I trust. I’d not have that chicken overcooked.”

  Yveni nudged Ander with a grin. “What’s this I hear, Amyu? About you and those cackling women?”

  Amyu flushed but lifted her chin. “They waylaid me in the hall, taunting me about my hair. They seemed to think it was not suitable, for reasons I could not understand. I tried to take no offense, but they were . . . annoying.”

  “I heard you put them to flight.” Yveni laughed.

  “I pulled out a dagger and offered to trim their hair like mine. They scattered like gurtles, screaming, in all directions.” Amyu darted a glance at Anna. “I might have done wrong in this, but I do not apologize.”

  Anna shook her head. “No need to explain it to me, girl. Those flighty feathers have never been my favorites. All flounce and giggles when their hearts are as hard as diamonds. They hunt in their own way, trust me, and they use clothing and hair as weapons.”

  “Really?” Atira asked.

  “No, no,” Heath laughed. “Not really.”

  “Hunting for what?” Amyu asked.

  “Husbands,” Othur said.

  “Othur,” Anna scolded, but then she turned to Amyu. “They do little more each day than needlework and sewing, so their lives are measured in how they look and present themselves. And yes, their goal is a marriage. They mock you out of fear, and maybe out of jealousy.” She shook her head, setting her chins shaking. “It will cause a problem for the Queen, with the lords, that a Firelander threatened their daughters.”

  “We’ll manage,” Othur took up Anna’s hand and kissed it. “You’ll sit with me in the hall, ladywife? Protect me from the likes of lords and ladies wishing to talk my ear off? The staff can see to the serving, just this once?”

  “Pah, I’ll be needed in the kitchens,” Anna said. Then she laughed at the pleading expression on his face. “Maybe once the meal starts. Now, off with you to wash and dress. You need to be within the hall soon enough, and there’s no time for this nonsense.”

  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, War
lord.”

  “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 Firelande
rs 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.”