CHAPTER
17
ATIRA WAS STARING AT
HIM WITH WIDE BROWN eyes, but she stayed silent, letting him
think.
“We can’t see all the
pieces, can we?” Heath said slowly.
“Well,” Atira said
softly, “we can see Lanfer now.” She paused, focused on him. “We
can see the threat he represents. And you and your father know the
lords and their loyalties—”
“No,” Heath said.
“There’s a piece missing from the board.” He let his gaze fall on
the kavage in his hand, thinking.
He felt Atira move
slightly, scanning the courtyard. The sounds of the guard’s
practice, the kitchen maids, gossiping as they plucked
feathers—they all faded as he ran through the events of the last
few days.
“The Archbishop
hasn’t made an appearance, has he? He isn’t on the board.” Heath
kept his voice low. “He sent word through Browdus that he was ill,
but not so ill that a healer was needed.”
“Is that unusual?”
Atira asked, her voice just as low. “Isn’t it normal for Xyians to
get sick?”
“That man loves his
own importance,” Heath said. “The entire city and all of the
nobility knew when Lara would enter Water’s Fall. So sick that he
couldn’t attend a moment of such great importance?”
“Like a
warrior-priest, more concerned about status than anything,” Atira
said. “Is the Archbishop a clever man?”
“No,” Heath shook his
head. “He’s pompous and always looking out for himself. Easily
swayed to a position. Lara ran right over him in her haste to be
crowned and follow Keir. She talked to him privately for a short
time just before she convinced the Council to let her have her
way.” Heath looked at Atira and gave her a grin. “I wonder what she
said.”
Atira rolled her
eyes. “When the Warprize wants something, she is like the
wind.”
Heath laughed. “I
once overheard Xyron, Lara’s father, tell my father that the
pennants and the Archbishop move with the breeze.”
“Maybe he doesn’t
wish to be seen as unable to decide?” Atira offered.
“Or maybe someone is
afraid that he will waver if he sees Lara,” Heath smiled. “I—oh
hells.” The truth flashed before him like lightning.
“What?” Atira
demanded.
Heath put his mug
down on the bench. “I know why Durst wanted that language change. I
didn’t see it before, and Father hasn’t seen it, or he’d have said
something. We are all idiots.”
He stood, adjusting
his sword-belt.
“What?” Atira reached
out, her hand on his arm. “What is it?”
“When is a child not
an heir?” Heath asked her.
“How would I know?”
Atira stood as well, giving him a scowl.
“Come on,” Heath
said. “Let’s go see my father.” He grabbed her hand and pulled her
with him.
She pulled her hand
away, but she stayed at his side as he trotted toward the castle.
Detros hailed them as they passed the practice circle.
“Atira,” Detros’s
voice boomed out. He was grinning from ear to ear. “I hear you
knocked Lanfer on his backside. Good for you!”
“How did you know?”
Heath asked as they moved past him.
“It’s all over the
castle, lad!” Detros turned back to his charges. “Ack, Ward, you
hit like a girl! Put some muscle into it!”
Atira frowned and
slowed, but Heath laughed and pulled her on.
ATIRA KEPT PACE AS
HEATH TROTTED THROUGH the castle halls. He asked a quick question
of one of the guards, who told him that his father was in his
office. Heath headed off in that direction and Atira followed,
curious as she could be.
There were two guards
posted at the doors, and one reached over and opened the door for
them so that they sailed right through. Othur looked up with a
smile that faded to a look of concern. “What’s wrong?”
“Father.” Heath came
to a stop in front of his table covered in papers. “Father, when is
a child not an heir?”
“When it’s not
legitimate,” Othur replied.
“Eh?” Atira stood
next to Heath.
“Oh.” Heath sounded
disappointed. “You knew.”
Othur nodded.
“Shortly after we left the Council chambers with the signed
document.” The older man sighed. “I should have seen it earlier. It
was a mistake to agree to the change of the wording.” But then he
gave his son a sharp glance. “I’m impressed that you saw it. You
are starting to think like a—”
“Have you talked to
Lara? She and Keir need to—”
“How can a babe be
less than a babe?” Atira asked, puzzled. “Unless it is crippled or
born dead.”
“I’ve spoken with
Lara,” Othur said. “She will not discuss it with Keir. She believes
that she can convince enough of the lords—”
“Discuss what?” Atira
asked.
“What?” Heath said.
“That is crazy. It’s too late after the birth. The matter must be
dealt with before—”
“She commanded me to
remain silent,” Othur said.
Atira glanced at
Heath, and they both looked back at Othur.
“The Warprize does
not silence truths,” Atira said.
“She did this one,”
Othur said. “Flat-out commanded me to be silent. She was trembling
and teary, and given her condition, I closed my mouth and
obeyed.”
“That doesn’t sound
like the Lara I know,” Heath said.
“She is bearing
life,” Atira said. “Of course she is not herself.”
“When was this?”
Heath demanded. He started to pace before the desk.
“As we walked back
from the council chamber to her quarters. Keir was waiting for her,
and she was exhausted.” Othur ran his hand over his head. “I
thought I’d try again later.”
“Why won’t she talk
to him?” Heath asked.
Atira leaned against
Othur’s desk and watched Heath walk back and forth. “Please explain
legitimate.”
Heath drew a deep
breath. “Lara and Keir are bonded under your ways, not ours. If
they are not married in the church, the child is illegitimate.” He
continued his movement back and forth.
“Worse,” Othur said.
“Tradition demands that only the Archbishop can wed the royal
couple.”
“How can the actions
of the life-bearer make a child any less of a baby?” Atira asked
patiently.
“Not less of a baby,”
Heath started, but Othur interrupted.
“Oh, yes it is. An
illegitimate child has less rights in its—”
Heath held up a hand.
“Let’s keep this simple.” He looked at Atira. “On the Plains, the
children go through a rite of ascension, yes? In order to be
adults?”
“Yes,” Atira
said.
“In Xy, the
life-bearer and the father must go through certain religious rites
so that the child has a certain status when it’s
born.”
“And if they do not?”
Atira asked.
“The child is forever
barred from that status,” Othur said.
Atira looked at both
of them, then folded her arms over her chest. “I would ask for both
your tokens.”
“You can tell us how
stupid it is later.” Heath gave her a wry smile. “For now,” he
turned to his father, “why won’t Lara talk to Keir?”
“Something to do with
the reactions of the Plains people to our beliefs.” Othur shook his
head. “Lara is like a daughter to me, but the Sun God knows she’s
stubborn.”
Heath looked at
Atira, and she gave him a shrug. “You worship people,” she
explained. “It is . . . odd.”
“No odder than some
of your customs seem to us,” Heath pointed out.
“So if they do not
perform this rite, the babe can’t take the throne?” Atira asked.
“So?”
“No, you don’t see
all the pieces,” Heath said. “Without a legitimate heir, Durst will
be able to start trying to undermine Lara. And the only heirs would
be her cousins.” Heath rolled his eyes. “No one wants the
cousins.”
“Why not?” Atira
asked.
“They are fanatics,”
Heath grimaced. “They take sun worship to its
extremes.”
“Many of our people
have accepted Keir because of the pregnancy and the continuation of
the House of Xy. But it’s not a fatal problem.” Othur shrugged.
“There will be other babes, no doubt, and one of them might be an
heir.”
“What if something
happens to Lara in the meantime?” Heath demanded.
“We must make sure
that doesn’t happen,” Othur said, then sighed heavily. “But Lara
seemed so adamant. I don’t know if—”
“Has anyone explained
this to the Warlord?” Atira asked.
Othur spread his
hands. “I can’t.”
“I can,” Atira said.
She pushed herself away from the desk. “Is there anything in this
rite—this marriage pledge—that would dishonor the Warlord? Or the
elements?”
“Er . . .” Heath
started to flush up. “I really don’t—”
Atira looked at
Othur, who shook his head with a smile. “The day I married Anna, I
was so nervous I could barely talk. I can’t think of anything that
would be a problem, but Cleric Iain has duty in the Chapel of the
Goddess. He’ll be able to answer any questions.”
“Well enough,” Atira
said. “Let us go and find the Warlord.” She headed for the
door.
“I did take one step
though,” Othur added. “The Archbishop will be at the High Court
feast tonight. If the Queen would not address the issue, I thought
the Archbishop’s presence might bring this all to a
boil.”
“He’s avoided the
Court so far,” Heath said. “What makes you think he will appear
tonight?”
Othur smiled. “Oh,
he’ll be there.”
THE TABLE IN THE
ARCHBISHOP’S PRIVATE QUARTERS was spread with his favorites. Pork
roasted in milk and garlic. Crusty white bread. Vegetable pie with
eggs, cheese, and greens.
Archbishop Drizin
spread his napkin over his lap and picked up his knife, licking his
lips. The cooks had outdone themselves, and he blessed them for it.
His stomach rumbled in happy anticipation.
There was a pounding
at the outer chamber door. He ignored it as he cut into the pie,
breaking the golden crust so that the savory steam rose. He
breathed in the scent with great pleasure.
There were voices
now, in the outer chamber. Protests. He scowled at the door as it
opened and his servant slid within. “Beg pardon, Devoted One. But
there’s a messenger from the Seneschal, Lord Othur.”
“Have Browdus see to
it.” Drizin waved him off. “I am dining.”
“Devoted One,” the
servant pleaded. “Deacon Browdus is not here. And the messengers
are—”
“Well, then tell them
that I am at prayer and cannot be interrupt—”
“Uff,” the servant
grunted as he was pushed aside and the door opened the rest of the
way. Master Healer Eln walked in, with guards following
behind.
Drizin stiffened.
“Master Healer Eln, what brings you here?”
“The news of your ill
health, Devoted One,” Eln said dryly. “Lord Othur was concerned
that you had not yet appeared at the castle. He asked me to convey
that your presence and wisdom have been sorely
missed.”
“Well,” Drizin
smoothed down the front of his robes. “Those are very kind words,
but . . .” he frowned, suddenly remembering the position he was in.
“My illness is not of a fatal nature. More a difficulty than
anything else.”
Master Healer Eln’s
eyes flickered over the groaning table.
“I was just going to
try to force down a bite to eat,” Drizin added hastily. “To see if
it would settle.”
“So I see,” Eln said.
“But if your bowels are in an ill humor, adding heavy foods is not
the answer.”
“Indeed,” Drizin said
with regret, looking at the pork.
“I have a new remedy
that seems to work wonders, Devoted One,” Eln said. “An herbal
mixture.”
“A drink?” Drizin
said, his nose wrinkling in anticipation of the taste.
“Oh no, Devoted One,”
Eln assured him. “I will use it to flush out your
bowels.”
The Archbishop stared
at him with dawning horror.
“There may be some
mild cramping,” Eln continued. “But you should be feeling much
better almost immediately. In time to attend the Queen’s High Court
feast this evening. I understand that Lady Anna is trying a new way
of preparing chicken.”
“I—” Drizin started,
for the first time taking in the Master Healer’s guards. They were
Plains warriors, all of which had very grim looks.
Drizin swallowed
hard. “Actually, Master Eln, I am feeling somewhat better.” He
arose as fast as dignity would allow. “Perhaps if I tried again in
the closet, I would feel more my old self.”
“As you wish,” Eln
said. “We can wait here, to see how things go. So to
speak.”
“Of course,” Drizin
said. “Perhaps your guard could wait out in the—”
“No,” said one of
them. “We stay.”
“Of course, Master
Healer, you need not stay.” Drizin backed toward his sleeping
quarters. “I am sure you wish to attend to the Queen. Due any day,
I understand.”
“True enough,” Eln
said. “Only one thing could take me from her side.” The man focused
his sharp grey eyes on Drizin.
“Really?”
“Concern for your
health, Devoted One.” Eln pulled out one of the heavy chairs and
settled into it. “In fact, we will wait and escort
you.”
“I am indeed
blessed,” Archbishop Drizin said, fleeing the room.