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,” Eln 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.”
“Decide?” Heath
asked.
“Lara needs a
seneschal,” Anna said quietly. “And I’ve reason to think she’ll ask
you to take on the task. There’s no one else with the training, the
knowledge of the castle and the lords. Worse, I fear, there is no
one else she and Keir trust to hold the position.”
A weight settled on
Heath’s shoulders. “I—”
Anna shook her head.
“My son, I won’t deny I want you here. But I want you wholly here,
in mind and heart.” She bit her lip. “If your heart is in the
Plains, it would be better for you to go. Do you
understand?”
Heath couldn’t speak.
He just nodded and rubbed her hand.
Anna sighed and
settled back. “The ceremony will take place tomorrow morning.
There’ll be a procession to the church, then back. Lara asked to
inter him with the kings in the vaults, and I agreed. It’s fitting
that he rest there. And there will be room for my bones when the
time comes.”
She caught her breath
and squeezed Heath’s hand. “The Firelanders have a saying: ‘To go
to the snows.’”
Heath
stiffened.
“How easy it would be
to die,” Anna whispered. “Not to have to live without
him.”
“Mama,” Heath
started, but his mother cut him off.
“No, child, have no
fear. That is not the way I was taught. I’ll bear my griefs and do
my duty, as the Goddess requires.” She eased her hand from Heath’s.
“But for now, I think I will stay with him for a
while.”
“I can stay for a
bit,” Heath said, putting his arm around her
shoulders.
“I’d like that,” she
said, putting her head on his shoulder. “Do you remember?” she
asked softly. “When you decided to sword fight in the Council
chamber and kicked the ink bottle all over the dynastic
charts?”
“There’s still a blue
stain on the table, along the edge.” Heath chuckled.
“Your father laughed
until he was sick,” Anna said. “And the scribes made things worse
by giving chase.”
“I barely escaped
with my life,” Heath said.
Anna smiled.
“Bursting into my kitchen, blue ink all over you, screaming at the
top of your lungs.”
Heath nodded. “Right
through the doors and out into the courtyard.”
“How did you get back
up to your room without us seeing you?” Anna asked.
“Well,” Heath said
softly. “There’s this tree . . .”
HEATH RETURNED TO HIS
ROOM A FEW HOURS later to find Atira propped up with pillows and
yawning madly. Eln had clearly come and gone, as well as
Marcsi.
Atira blinked at him
as he closed the door. “You didn’t tell me that . . . Othur . . .
your father died, Heath.”
“There wasn’t exactly
time,” Heath said quietly. He started to remove his armor and
weapons. “And you’ve slept most of the day. How’s the
shoulder?”
Atira shrugged.
“There is pain, but it is distant. The paste is good for pain, but
it leaves me . . .” Her voice faded, and she shrugged. “I do not
like it,” she added. “But Eln said another night of drugged sleep
would aid the healing, so I took it.”
“Best thing to do.”
Heath started to put his sword and dagger on the floor by his bed
roll. “Tomorrow is soon enough for our griefs.”
“No,” Atira
said.
He looked over his
shoulder. Atira had managed to get herself to the edge of the bed,
close to the wall. Bruised and battered, still she was trying to
hold up the blankets. “Sleep next to me, Heath.” Her words were
heavy, as she fought off sleep. “I need to feel your skin on
mine.”
His heart turned over
in his chest. She was so lovely, her hair all in disarray, her eyes
half-closed. He loved her so very, very much.
He’d been a fool. The
truth was that he was of Xy and she was of the Plains, and the very
idea that he could keep her in Xy had been a fool’s notion. He’d
demanded that she give up her ways, trying to turn her into
something she was not. Like the moment he’d seen her in that dress.
So very lovely, and so very wrong.
Atira was herself,
like no one else he knew, and he loved her desperately. Loved her
so much that he knew that he couldn’t entomb her in a stone tent,
far from the lands she loved.
“Come on,” Atira
grumbled, her eyelids drooping. “I’m cold.”
“As you wish.” Heath
hung his weapons at the head of the bed and slid between the covers
carefully, trying not to hurt her.
Atira snuggled next
to him as best she could without jarring her arm. With a quiet
murmur, she fell asleep.
Heath lay for a long
time, listening to her breathe.