Warcry

by Elizabeth Vaughan

  “They are perfect,” Keir said in awe. “But she needs a name, Lara.”

  “Kayla for the girl,” Lara said, easing back onto the pillows to finish the business. “Her name is Xykayla.”

  Atira watched as Keir was overcome, tears forming in his eyes.

  One of the women offered to take the babes, but Keir was having none of that. He took the children over to Anna, and together, they started to clean them.

  Atira stifled a sob, sorrow welling up within her, remembering all too well performing her duties for the tribe. One did not speak of the pain that life-bearers carried, except for. . .

  Keir and Anna were placing the babes on Lara’s chest, letting her touch them and exclaim in delight. The Warprize had made it clear from the very start that she would not follow the ways of the Plains in this. She would nurse and rear her own children, according to Xyian custom. Those of the Plains would guard and aid, but she would be as thea to them.

  As mother to them.

  It was too much. Atira dropped her eyes, unable to watch.

  Amyu’s head was down as well.

  Grief shared is halved. Atira reached over and touched the back of Amyu’s hand. “We are the life-givers. Life-bearers of the Plains.” Atira whispered the words that were chanted at every birth on the Plains. “This is our burden. This is our pain.”

  Amyu stiffened. Her sorrow was of a different kind, she who was unable to bear. How many births had she witnessed; births of babes that she alone could not bring forth. But she nodded, acknowledging the shared grief. “The tribe has grown. The tribe has flourished,” she responded, her voice meant for Atira’s ears alone. “This is our burden, this is our pain.”

  “Our babes are taken. Our arms are empty.” Atira’s throat closed at the memory. “This is our burden, this is our pain.”

  Amyu finished the chant. “This is the price of our freedom.”

  Lara yawned as Eln declared himself finished with his task. “You need sleep, Daughter of Xy,” Eln continued, starting to wash his hands.

  “We must present the babes to the witness and have them blessed,” Anna said. “Lara, close your eyes for a bit. We’ll get you cleaned up shortly. Amyu, we’ll need more water for washing.”

  Amyu got up and followed Anna and Keir out the door. Eln was right behind them, a cloth-wrapped burden in his hands. The afterbirth, no doubt. The other two women had some of the dirty linens in their hands as they followed him, laughing and happy. Atira could hear the shouts of happiness and surprise as the door closed behind them.

  Lara sighed, her eyes already drifting shut.

  Atira yawned as well. It seemed like forever since—

  A noise brought her back. The sound of a door being barred.

  Atira opened her eyes. One of the ladies in white was still in the room, moving around to the head of the bed. Atira glanced at the door. It was barred.

  She frowned. That was wrong. Why would she bar the door?

  The woman had a pillow pressed over Lara’s face.

  Lara was struggling, but she couldn’t seem to reach the woman. Atira pushed herself to her feet and staggered toward the bed. “Stop,” she rasped, the room spinning widely.

  A pounding at the door, with voices raised outside. Keir’s was loudest. Then the doors seemed to bulge as the men began to ram something against them.

  “This whore killed my son.” The woman looked at Atira, her eyes filled with madness. “Women die in childbirth all the time.”

  Beatrice. Durst’s bonded. Atira remembered seeing her, a shadow next to her lord. There was no sanity there, no reason. The winds had taken her wits as sure as the sun rose. Atira staggered over, grasped the pillow, and yanked it out of the woman’s grasp.

  That was her intent, at least. But the woman hung on with both hands, and they tugged it between themselves.

  Lara heaved in deep breaths, clutching at the bed with her hands, staring wildly about the room.

  Atira’s grip was with a single hand, but Beatrice used both. So Atira tugged hard, and when Beatrice struggled harder, she released the pillow, sending the woman staggering back from the bed. Atira placed herself between Lara and the madwoman and reached for her dagger.

  Her fist grasped empty air.

  Atira cursed. No armor, no weapons. Never again would she wear a cursed dress.

  Beatrice had Eln’s knife. She stood there, framed in the window, held the blade high, and laughed. “I’ll cut her head off, just like the Warlord cut off Degnan’s.” Beatrice waved the blade at Atira.

  The door boomed again, the bar starting to splinter. Lara was sliding off the bed on the opposite side. She went to the floor, dragging bedding with her.

  “Then the babes, I’ll kill the babes. Children die, so young, so precious. They die so easily—”

  “Enough,” Atira growled. There was no choice. If the woman managed to take her down, Lara would be an easy kill.

  Beatrice attacked, slashing with great sweeps of her arm.

  Atira dodged the blade and rammed the woman in the chest, forcing her back, back—back once more, and Atira rammed her hard enough to force her over the sill and out the window.

  Beatrice never stopped laughing as she fell.

  Atira put her back to the wall and closed her eyes.

  “Atira?” Lara asked. “Atira?”

  The door burst open and Keir and Heath ran into the room.

  Lara peeked her head up from the side of the bed, her curls in total disarray. Atira smiled at her as she let herself slide down the wall. The pain was calling, and she really wanted to go into it for just a little while.

  Heath’s arms enfolded her, his voice in her ear asking questions. She didn’t even try to hear the words. She just enjoyed his touch and the sound of his love.

  “Go ahead,” he whispered. His arms tightened around her, supporting her. “I’m here. I have you.”

  That was right, wasn’t it? He was always there, supporting her, standing with her. What would it be like if he was always there for her? And her for him?

  She smiled at the thought as she lay her head on his shoulder and slipped away into sweet oblivion.

  CHAPTER 33

  HEATH CARRIED ATIRA, HER HEAD ON HIS SHOULDER, all the way to his room. A cadre of guards lit the way, carrying torches ahead and behind him. Just in case.

  Eln was beside him as well, his healing kit with him.

  “You sure Lara can spare you?” Heath asked again.

  “Yes,” Eln said firmly. “Lara is fine, with many hands to aid her.”

  “The babes,” Heath started, but Eln cut him off.

  “Atira saved the life of the Queen. The very least I can do is see her set for the night,” Eln said. “Ah, here we go.”

  Heath’s door was wide open, with guards checking the room. A fire crackled in the hearth, lighting every corner.

  Marcsi was waiting with buckets of warm water and cloths. “Word came to the kitchens,” she said, giving Atira a worried look. “What else do you need?”

  “I’ve some herb compresses,” Eln said. “And willowbark tea, I think. The orchid root will last her for a while, but we’ll see if we can get some tea in her now. It will help when she wakes.”

  Heath lowered Atira down onto the bed, and his heart clenched as her head rolled to the side. “Eln—” he started.

  “That’s to be expected,” Eln said. “I gave her a large dose of the drug before I set the joint back in place. Heath, if you would . . .”

  Heath stayed by the bed. Atira looked so pale, so limp. “I don’t want to—”

  “I’m not asking you to leave,” Eln said patiently. “Just give us room to work.”

  Heath stepped to the side.

  The guards had left and closed the door behind them. The room warmed quickly as Eln and Marcsi stripped Atira out of her ruined dress. “Nothing but to burn it,” Marcsi muttered as she gathered the shreds. “Pity. It was so pretty.”

  “Let’s get her cleaned up,” E
ln said. “Then we’ll see to the wounds.”

  Heath watched, waiting for Atira to awaken and protest as they bathed her. But her face remained still and pale.

  “Where’s her sleeping gown?” Marcsi asked.

  Heath blinked, but Eln came to his rescue. “Those of the Plains sleep naked.”

  Marcsi’s eyebrows flew up. “Oh, well. That’s rather convenient this time, isn’t it?”

  Heath could have hugged her.

  Once she was clean and dry, Marcsi bundled the dirty linens together. “I’ll be back with that tea,” she murmured, and off she went.

  “Now, let’s you and I see to the wounds, shall we?” Eln asked.

  Heath moved in, acting as another pair of hands for the healer as Eln went over Atira carefully. There were cuts and bruises, but it seemed the worst was her shoulder, which was almost black with bruises.

  Eln calmly cleaned and dressed each wound methodically, letting Heath help. Heath’s heart stopped racing as he saw for his own eyes that Atira would be fine.

  “That’s that, then,” Eln said, and he turned and forced Heath to sit on his clothes press. “She’s fine, and you are about to collapse on your feet. Let’s see to you, then.”

  Heath gave him a startled look but submitted to Eln’s ministering. He hadn’t realized he’d been injured as well. Nothing major really. Not like . . .

  “Drink this,” Eln commanded, pouring out a cup of tea when Marcsi returned.

  Heath sighed and obediently drank the foul stuff as Marcsi set the pot by the fire.

  Eln applied an ointment to Atira’s shoulder, then he and Marcsi rolled blankets and arranged pillows to support Atira before covering her in a warm blanket. “That should do,” Eln said, wiping his hand on a cloth. “I doubt she’ll stir at all. But just in case.” Eln arched an eyebrow.

  “I’ll sleep here,” Heath said. “On the floor.” He gestured to Atira’s bedroll.

  “The floor!” Marcsi protested, but Eln shushed her.

  “That would be best,” Eln agreed, pushing Marcsi out the door. “Call for me when you wake, or if you have any problems in the night. And don’t spend the night moon-calfing over her, Heath.”

  “I won’t,” Heath said, but he didn’t mean it.

  “You’re right,” Eln said just as he closed the door. “I laced your tea with sleep-ease. Best you crawl into that bed before you fall into it.” He closed the door behind him.

  Heath sighed and bolted the door and shutters. He stripped quickly, watching Atira as he did so. But he was losing the battle to sleep. He crawled into the bedroll and managed a quick prayer of thanks before sleep claimed him.

  THE AFTERNOON SUN FILTERING THROUGH THE shutters woke Heath.

  He lay on his side, under gurtle blankets, and just breathed for a while, orienting himself to the stone floor beneath him, the ceiling up above. His room was still safe and secure, shutters and door closed and bolted.

  He could hear Atira breathing and knew she was still asleep on the bed, even if he couldn’t see her.

  Heath tried to slip back into sleep, but once the memories and sorrows pressed down on him, he started to move. Stiff and sore, he pushed back his blankets and forced himself up.

  Grief could wait. He had work to do.

  Atira hadn’t shifted in the night, still in the position Eln and Marcsi had placed her in.

  Her poor face was livid and bruised, her lip swollen. She was still fast asleep. She would hurt when she woke, that was certain.

  He watched her for a few moments, then stifled his own groans as he stood and set about dressing as quietly as he could.

  There were a guard and a runner waiting outside his door as he slipped into the corridor. The guard didn’t speak until Heath eased the door almost closed, leaving it open a crack.

  “What time is it?” Heath asked.

  “Well past the mid-meal.” The guard kept his voice low. “She still sleeps?” At Heath’s nod, he continued. “Detros said to send word to him when you woke. Master Eln said the same, but for her.”

  “Tell Detros I’ll be in the kitchens,” Heath said. “Then let Eln know I am awake, and that Atira is still sleeping.” As the boy took off, Heath turned back to the guard. “All’s well?”

  “Aye,” the guard said. “Nice and quiet.”

  “The Queen?” Heath asked.

  The guard’s face split with a wide grin. “She’s in her chambers with the babes and the Overlord. Two heirs, milord. She done good by us.”

  Heath nodded. “Send word to me if Atira stirs.”

  “Aye to that.” The man settled back down in his chair. “I’ll see to her, milord.”

  Heath headed for the kitchens.

  Marcsi was there, and she took his arm and pulled him over to the table at the center of the kitchen. “You need food before anything else.”

  Heath settled down. He hadn’t been hungry until he’d gotten a whiff of the pig roasting on the spit.

  “I’ve oats, if you wish?” Marcsi hustled about, bringing him a mug, a pitcher in her hand. “And you drink this foul stuff, yes?” she said as she poured kavage for him.

  Heath took the mug with thanks and savored the first sip.

  “So, oats or meat or—”

  Heath’s stomach rumbled.

  Marcsi chuckled. “Or both. Give me but a minute.” She hustled off, calling for one of the kitchen maids to aid her.

  Detros walked in and settled by Heath as he was working his way through his second plate. Heath had his mouth full, so he just cocked an eyebrow at the older man.

  “All’s well,” Detros said, taking a mug of tea from Marcsi’s hand. “The castle’s secure, the Queen and the Overlord are with their babes, and Warren’s on his way back. I sent the prisoners to the army barracks. Got them away from the castle. Queen can decide what she wants done with them later.”

  Heath nodded, taking another sip of kavage to clear his throat. “How did that bitch get in the birthing room?” he asked, keeping his voice low.

  Detros ran a hand over his balding head. “Heath, lad, if you remember, things was a mite confused about then. We think she sewed her own outfit to match the others and just slipped in during the haste and confusion. Your ma never saw her . . . and given events, no one’s blaming her.”

  “She was good at blending in, that’s certain.” Heath nodded.

  “The Archbishop said he’d deal with the bodies. See to the burying and all,” Detros said. “He’s a good lad, that Iain.”

  Heath nodded as he tore off some more bread.

  “Your ma’s with your da,” Detros said abruptly. “The Queen ordered that he be honored as royalty. Laid out in state in the throne room, right and proper. Ordered a full honor watch, too.”

  Heath stopped chewing, the food suddenly dry in his mouth. The grief welled up in his throat, threatening to choke him. He reached for the kavage, unable to speak.

  Detros was looking at the fire, seemingly admiring the roasting pig. “I’ll walk ya there. When you’re ready.”

  THE HALL TO THE THRONE ROOM WAS LIT WITH torches; the palace guards on honor watch glittered in all their finery. One of them gave Heath a nod. “Lady Anna asked for a bit of privacy, Lord.”

  Heath took a breath, and the guard opened the door. He stepped inside, then paused as the doors were closed behind him.

  Othur lay in state before the throne, resting on a bier. His father could almost have been asleep, his hands together over his massive chest, clasping the hilt of the Sword of Xy. A flag with the ancient Xyian crest lay over his chest and legs. The airion’s expression was fierce, its talons sharp, as if to protect the sleeper.

  For a heartbeat, Heath waited for his father to look over, throw back the cloth, and rise up laughing.

  But no. His father’s face was still and silent. He’d never hear his laugh again.

  His mother was seated by his father’s head, on a bench set close by. She was stroking the cloth, smoothing it out, speaking softly. She
was dressed in a very plain black dress, a black shawl next to her on the bench.

  “I knew this day would come, as it must come to us all,” she said, turning toward Heath. “But I’d thought to have a few more years. We go day to day, thinking each sunrise will bring more of the same. Until it doesn’t. But this . . . it should not be. Not here. Not now.”

  “It shouldn’t have happened at all,” Heath said, fighting back his emotions. “I should have stopped—”

  “Heath,” his mother chided him. She lifted her shawl to her lap. “Come sit.”

  Heath went to her, and she took his hand. “You couldn’t have stopped your father from offering peace to Durst. You know that.”

  “Mama.” Heath rejected her words. “I could have lunged—”

  “Struck the first blow?” Anna gave him a sad look. “No, my son. Othur died as he would have wished, serving the House of Xy with his last breath. Be at peace.”

  The tears that Heath had managed to suppress came forth, running down his cheek.

  “He loved my cakes, you know,” Anna said softly, putting her arm around Heath’s shoulders. “When he first came to serve Xylara’s father, he would sneak down into the kitchens and tease me for sweets. It’s how we met.”

  Heath laughed weakly, wiping his face with his free hand. “I didn’t know that.”

  Anna sighed. “My mother didn’t approve. She thought he wasn’t any good. Just a noble who pushed documents, not a craftmaster . . . no real skills. The second son of a second son; no more than a clerk, really.” Anna looked at Othur. “She could be so hateful sometimes, my mother. Making nasty, snide comments, even after we’d been married. Othur . . . he’d just laugh and say that she couldn’t forgive that he’d gotten the best of the bargain by winning my hand.”

  Anna sighed and then shifted on the bench to fully face Heath. “My son, I am so sorry. I should have opened my arms and heart to the one you loved. Not rejected her without giving her a chance.”

  “Oh, Mama.” Heath shook his head. “I—”

  “No.” Anna shook her head. “I need to tell you . . . I need you to know this before we speak of other things. You and Atira have my . . . our . . . blessings. I’ll be honest enough to say that I’d wish for a traditional ceremony, but . . . you are my beloved son. You have a right to live your life and make your decisions as you wish. And whatever you decide, I will support you.”