Warcry

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