Warcry

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