Warcry

TO THIS.” DURST EASED BACK IN his chair and extended his leg.
    Beatrice knelt before him, her full skirts billowing around her, and pulled on his boot for him.
    With some effort, Durst pulled that leg back and extended the other one. “Lanfer says that all is in place, my love. The bribed castle guards, the sell-swords we’ve hired, the other lords who have offered their support. All is in readiness.”
    Beatrice’s face remained neutral, her expression bland, her eyes vague. As it had been since Degnan’s death. The only time Durst saw her eyes flicker with any emotion was when there was talk of vengeance.
    But she didn’t speak. Not anymore.
    Durst pointed his toe to aid her. “In some ways, I welcome this. It seems appropriate. When this tale is told, it will be a tale of a son avenged, and a kingdom saved.”
    Beatrice rose and walked slowly to the table to pick up his embroidered tunic, shaking out the wrinkles that were not there.
    “We tried reason, Beatrice.” Durst shifted to the edge of the chair and then used both hands to push off, pausing as he came upright. The weakness of his body was never more obvious than when he stood. “We tried talk. We tried appealing to her morals, her religious beliefs. So, let it be blades. Xy will be reborn in the blood shed this night.”
    Beatrice held out his garment, and Durst struggled into the sleeves. She came around to stand before him, her face placid and serene. She tugged at the tunic, then started to fasten it for him.
    “A son for a son, beloved,” Durst said softly. “The Firelanders will die this night. Lara will be our prisoner and live long enough to bear the child.” He raised his neck to allow her to adjust the collar. “We will tell the kingdom that she has died in childbirth.” He shrugged his shoulders, getting comfortable. “We’ll take the child from her body and raise it as a proper Xyian, won’t we, dear one?”
    Beatrice stood before him, the sheath of his bejeweled dagger across her palms, her eyes glittering with hate.
    “Thank you, my dear.” Durst kissed her cool and impassive cheek.

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