CHAPTER
27
HEATH STOOD IN THE
CORNER, HIS HAND ON THE hilt of his sword, and watched the throne
room fill with the nobility. The sun was near to setting, and the
sconces around the room had already been lit for the
ceremony.
Outside, trumpets
sounded, announcing the lords as they entered the hall to the
throne room. The Herald was in his element, standing just outside
the door with his staff of office, escorting people to their proper
places.
There were a few
warriors of the Plains scattered about, craning around and
watching, curious to see the ceremony. Most of the audience would
be made up of Xyian lords and the craftmasters who wished to
witness the event. They were all dressed in their finest, and a few
had their ladies on their arms, escorting them within.
Some of the lords had
adopted the style of the Plains, wearing armor and weapons. Heath
noted their positions about the room.
Lord Durst arrived
without his lady, wearing an embroidered tunic and a dagger on his
belt.
Heath forced himself
to draw a long, slow breath to ease his jangling
nerves.
Lara was already
waiting in the antechamber with Atira, Amyu, and Yveni. They’d
tucked themselves in there early, talking and laughing with one
another. All had been fully cloaked, concealing their finery until
the moment they walked into the throne room. Heath had been pleased
to see the flush of happiness on Lara’s cheeks. She’d given him a
teasing smile as she’d retreated into their all-female refuge. They
were up to something, that was sure. But with guards on both doors,
they’d be safe enough until the ceremony started.
As soon as Lara was
safe within the antechamber, Rafe and Prest trotted to the throne,
taking up positions on either side, just at the back. Like Heath,
they stood unmoving, arms at their sides, trying to disappear in
the minds of the crowd.
Keir was still up in
the chambers, waiting for the ceremony to begin. The Warlord had
frowned at the idea of being separated from Lara, but the weight of
Xyian tradition held him prisoner to a certain extent. Keir had
wanted to prowl the halls like a stalking cat, but Othur had talked
him into remaining sequestered. So he remained behind, no doubt
pacing back and forth, waiting to be summoned to the
ceremony.
“The Warlord, Liam of
the Deer,” boomed the Herald, and Heath watched as the tall Plains
warrior stalked into the room. The Herald tried to guide him to a
position at the front, but Liam shook his head. “ . . . tall enough
to see . . .” Liam said, so the Herald placed him toward the rear
of the room.
Anna had wanted to
use Aurora and Meara as the Sun God’s children, letting them
scatter wheat kernels before the bride. Heath had stopped that, and
Othur had supported him. “Lara has already proved that she’s
fertile,” Othur had whispered to his wife. “Let’s not draw any more
attention to it than we must.”
Anna had agreed, to
Heath’s relief. He wanted no children underfoot.
The Castle Guard was
well placed around the room. Heath had put as many guards as he
could fit in the throne room. He’d placed even more outside in the
hall and the outer courtyard. Detros had courtyard duty, keeping a
canny eye out for trouble.
Eln had insisted that
he be in the throne room, in case Lara had a need for his services.
As a Master Healer, he was more than entitled, but Heath had made
sure he sat in the very front, just in case.
All the arrangements
were made, all the participants knew their places. It was just a
matter of starting the ceremony now—which couldn’t happen fast
enough for Heath. As important as this ceremony was, Heath just
wanted it done and over.
He stood unmoving and
silently urged the nobles to a faster pace.
Finally, the trumpets
sounded a fanfare of long notes, and the Archbishop appeared in the
doorway, resplendent in white-and-gold robes. With his tall, white
hat emblazoned with the sun motif, and the golden staff topped with
the image of a blazing sun, he glittered in the light.
A hush came over the
room and heads turned. The Archbishop stood calmly, taking in the
attention as his just due.
The Herald bowed and
then pounded the floor three times with his staff. “The Devoted
One, Drizin, Archbishop of Xy.”
The trumpets sounded
again, and the Archbishop started forward with his entourage.
Browdus was right behind him, incense burner swinging from a silver
chain, and two acolytes walked behind him. They were all wearing
their clerical robes, and it wasn’t possible to see if they had
weapons concealed within.
Heath decided to
assume that they did, just on the off-chance.
The Archbishop
mounted the dais to stand before the throne and turned to face the
room. Browdus stood at his shoulder, a step behind. The other two
priests knelt on the step, facing him.
The Herald hurried
two final lords into position, then returned to his place at the
door. The man took his time getting into position, giving the crowd
a chance to settle. Once he was satisfied, he drew a breath and
thumped his staff down three times. “Lord Othur, Seneschal of
Water’s Fall, Warden of the Kingdom of Xy, and Lady
Anna.”
Heath’s father and
mother appeared in the doorway.
Love and pride surged
through Heath, catching him by surprise. He loved his parents, and
it pleased him to see them both so happy and proud. Anna was in her
newest dress, his father in a fine, embroidered tunic with his
badges of office, the Crystal Sword of Xy at his side.
The trumpets sounded
again as they moved forward, Anna’s skirts brushing against the
legs of those standing along their path.
Heath pressed his
belt pouch, feeling through the leather to see if the rings were
still there.
They
were.
Othur and Anna had
reached the dais. They bowed and curtsied to the Archbishop and
took their positions off to the right. As Othur escorted Anna to
their place, Heath saw Browdus lean forward to whisper urgently in
the Archbishop’s ear. Probably trying one last time to change his
mind.
To Heath’s relief,
the Archbishop shrugged Browdus off.
The Herald pounded
his staff again and called out, his voice resounding above
everyone’s head. “Lords and ladies, the Queen’s
escort.”
Heath’s gaze returned
to the doorway to see Atira standing there, cloaked, her hair up
over her head in a mass of curls, with a white ribbon woven
through. Behind her stood Yveni and Amyu, each with white ribbons
and cloaks.
Atira stood there for
just a breath, and then all three women reached up, unfastened
their cloaks, and let them fall.
Heath’s mouth went
dry. By all the gods above, they were all lovely. But Atira . . .
she was gorgeous.
Atira stood tall, her
tanned skin glowing in the torchlight. The Xyian dress was of blue,
with a bodice laced tight and a long, flowing skirt.
Yveni and Amyu wore
the same dress, their skin glowing. Amyu was slighter than either
of the other two, but her curves were more pronounced.
Heath sucked in a
breath as Atira walked forward. The dress seemed to flow around her
as she moved smoothly toward him.
The room remained
quiet as the three women advanced, every eye glued to
them.
Heath’s body reacted,
his blood rushing to his groin. He growled under his breath,
cursing the woman as he shifted his body, certain she’d planned
this from the start.
Atira’s mouth quirked
in the corner.
She drew closer, and
Heath realized that this was the first time he’d seen her without a
weapon. It shocked him somehow, the contrast between Atira as
warrior and Atira as a woman of Xy. It seemed wrong . . . and he
frowned slightly at the thought.
But when she stepped
up onto the dais, he caught a glimpse of a sheath, and he
understood. They had slit the skirts, she and the other women, and
hidden weapons beneath them. At least they’d had that much sense.
The dress wasn’t going to protect Atira from much of anything,
should the worst happen.
And when the ceremony
was over, if all went well, he’d be the one to untie those
lacings.
OTHUR MADE DAMN SURE
HIS GAZE WAS ANYWHERE else other than on the Plains women. Anna
would kill him, otherwise.
The women floated
down the aisle, Atira in the lead, and they moved to stand in a row
on the left side of the throne. Atira turned her back on Heath
pointedly. Othur caught a glimpse of his son’s face. Heath’s skin
looked hot enough to burn.
Although perhaps it
wasn’t anger that fueled that flame.
Othur smiled and
adjusted the sash of the Sword of Xy. His son was a smart man. He’d
figure things out.
“Lords and ladies of
Xy, and warriors of the Plains, Xylara, Daughter of Xy, Queen, and
Warprize.”
Lara stood in the
doorway.
She wore a flowing
dress of white, and on her shoulders was the mantle of Xy, the
ermine framing her body. Her hair was up in tousled curls with both
white and gold ribbons wound through. Her blue eyes were bright
with joy as she paused, then started toward the
throne.
The crowd knelt as
she approached, rising only after she passed. Lara didn’t
acknowledge them, as was proper. She kept her pace steady, her face
to the front. The long train of the mantle rustled as it passed
over the marble floor, stretching out behind her.
Othur’s eyes grew
misty. She’d been such a tiny child, running through the gardens
with his son, her brown curls flying. Grown right before his eyes,
in the blink of an eye. So stubborn and insistent that she learn
the skills of healing, even if she was a Daughter of the Blood.
Until that terrible day that Xymund demanded that she sacrifice
herself for Xy. That terrible, wonderful day.
Anna had tears
running down her cheeks and chins, and Othur lifted her hand and
kissed it.
Lara continued
forward and moved to stand before her escort. The three women knelt
to help her with the train, then rose to stand behind her. Othur
averted his gaze.
Once again, the
Herald pounded with his staff. Othur had to suppress a grin—old
Kendrick was enjoying his duties more than seemed right for a man
of his age. His voice was almost youthful as it rang out, “Lord and
ladies of Xy, warriors of the Plains, I give you Keir of the Cat,
Overlord of Xy.”
Keir didn’t bother to
stand in the doorway. He just came stalking up toward the throne,
making it more than halfway before anyone even knew he was there.
He was wearing those black leathers and chain armor, and the
combination was dark and fierce. Othur noted the two swords
strapped to his back and the dagger at his side. The message the
Overlord was sending to the Xyian nobles was obvious.
Keir approached the
dais and stood there, facing the Archbishop. But he only had eyes
for Lara.
“Keir of the Cat,
Overlord of Xy, you stand before me, the earthly representative of
the Sun God, he who blesses and preserves the Kingdom of Xy. What
would you have of me?” the Archbishop asked.
“Devoted One.” Keir’s
voice was deep and clear. “I would take Xylara, Daughter of Xy to
be my wife, to pledge my marriage vows to her before the Sun God
and these witnesses. By my own free will and hand.”
“How say you, Xylara,
Daughter of Xy?” the Archbishop asked.
“That I would take
Keir of the Cat to be my husband, to pledge my marriage vows to him
before the Sun God and these witnesses. By my own free will and
hand.”
“Who represents the
House of Xy in this matter?” the Archbishop said.
Othur took a deep
breath. “We do, Devoted One, who stand in the place of Xylara’s
parents. We consent to the marriage of Xylara and Keir before the
Sun God and these witnesses.” Othur looked at Anna, and they spoke
together, “By our own free will and hand.”
“So it has been said
and declared.” The Archbishop’s voice shook slightly. “Are the
witnesses satisfied?”
Othur held his
breath.
“We are,” was the
scattered response of the crowd, but one man stood forth to stand
in the center of the aisle.
“No,” Lord Durst
said.