Warcry

rooms.
    He’d fought for his life even as the whore had forced the Council to see her crowned Queen. She’d tossed her crown in the Seneschal’s lap and chased after the Warlord like a two-copper whore, bare of foot, with her hair down.
    Shameless bitch.
    Oh yes, the best chambers. And Master Healer Eln had labored on his behalf. He’d lived, despite the unprovoked and unwarranted assault on his person. Oh, he’d survived, but he’d never regain his strength, never regain all that he’d lost.
    Othur had extended the courtesy of the chambers for as long as Durst wished to remain in Water’s Fall.
    Durst curled his lip in a silent snarl, then caught himself. “Wine, my dear.”
    Beatrice put her sewing aside and rose without a word. She walked slowly to one of the side tables and poured a goblet for him.
    Durst sighed as he watched her soft steps. Beatrice was a ghost of herself since their sons had died. The eldest in the war with the Firelanders, then Degnan’s death in a foolish attempt to—
    Durst’s throat closed as he fought off his grief.
    Beatrice came to his side, her soft scent filling the air. She handed him his cup, then settled back down, arranging the white cloth in her lap as she returned to her work.
    A knock at the door saved Durst from his tears. “Come,” he called out, his voice cracking. He took a sip of wine to ease his throat.
    Deacon Browdus entered, followed by Lanfer.
    Lord Durst used the cup to hide his distaste. Browdus looked his usual oily self, dressed in his clerical robes. Lanfer wore his fancy doublet and trous, but his face—
    “Idiot.” Durst’s rage surged up, replacing his sorrow. “You were supposed to deliver the message, not get into a fight.”
    “I did deliver the message,” Lanfer said, coming to stand by the fire. His nose was red and swollen, still crusted with blood. The bruises were starting to come out. His doublet had dried blood on it.
    Beatrice lifted her head and watched him, easing the white material away from Lanfer.
    “You should have cleaned up before you entered the castle.” Browdus produced a handcloth from his sleeve.
    “Why?” Lanfer rejected the offer with a gesture. “Everyone will assume that a Firelander hit me. No harm in that.”
    “It wasn’t?” Durst asked sharply. “Who, then?”
    Lanfer didn’t look at him.
    “Heath,” Durst hissed. “You assaulted the Seneschal’s son?”
    “He struck first,” Lanfer growled. “I—”
    “Because your tongue was loose, I warrant.” Durst rolled his eyes. “Your temper will destroy us.”
    “Look to your own,” Lanfer growled.
    “Peace,” Browdus said softly. “We need one another if our plans are to succeed.”
    Lanfer turned away from Durst and helped himself to the wine.
    “So they are close?” Durst asked.
    Lanfer nodded. “They will be here tomorrow.” He glanced at Durst. “She is pregnant. Huge, in fact.”
    Beatrice’s hands stilled.
    “The Archbishop is under control?” Durst asked Browdus.
    “He sees our position,” Browdus said calmly. “And he agrees with it.”
    “None of this would have been necessary if he hadn’t crowned Lara,” Durst spat. “If he’d refused—”
    “But he didn’t,” Lanfer cut him off. “No need to remind us.”
    Durst stared into his cup and wrestled his anger down. These men were not his first choice to aid him, but they had what he needed. Lanfer’s influence with the other nobles and their sons. Browdus’s influence within the church.
    Beatrice’s needle caught his eye as she resumed sewing, carefully crafting small, tight stitches.
    Durst relaxed. With careful planning . . .
    He cleared his throat. “Let us review. When Lara and her escort arrive . . .”

CHAPTER 6
     
    “WE WAIT HERE?” ATIRA WHISPERED.
    “Yes,” Heath whispered back from the depths of his hood. Atira couldn’t see his face in the shadows, but she caught a sparkle of laughter in his eyes.
    “By the privy,” Atira said.
    “Yes,” Heath whispered again, but this time she felt his body shake with repressed laughter. “Hush now. We are waiting.”
    Atira hushed.
    They’d left their horses close to the walls, under some thick pines. Heath had gotten them past the walls and into the city by going ways Atira had never dreamed of. It seemed every walled city had large ways and small ways of going to and fro that weren’t obvious to an invader, but were easily accessed by a local. Heath had guided her down alleys, and through posterns