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.