Warprize

“Warlord?”
    His eyes flickered over to Xymund standing behind him. “Your place is here, beside me.”
    I gaped at him. The rest of the room quieted, recognizing a power struggle when they saw one. That blue-eyed gaze stayed calm and confident. My eyes darted to Xymund, who was clearly struggling with his temper.
    “Here.” Keir spoke again, indicating the place beside him.
    I moved, to Keir’s side. “Yes, Warlord.” He looked down at me, scrutinizing me closely. I could feel Xymund’s eyes like daggers on my back.
    Othur had been watching the action, and had maintained a neutral face. Keir gestured for him to open the double doors. He did so and stepped out into the throne room. The Herald, standing there in full uniform, pounded the floor with his staff three times. “Lord and Ladies, all hail Keir, Warlord of the Firelanders
    —”
    “No.” Keir’s voice rang out over that of the Herald’s, causing a stir in the throne room. The poor man’s eyes bugged out of his head. “Warlord?”
    “That is your word, not ours. We are of the Plains.”
    The Herald blinked madly for a moment, then cleared his throat. “Lord and Ladies, all hail Keir, Warlord of the Plains, Overlord of Xy.” He looked at Keir, who gave him a nod. The Herald seemed to relax, until he spotted me, but years of training kept his voice steady. Without hesitation he continued, “… and Xylara, Warprize.”
    Keir advanced into the room, every step strong and confident. I walked at his side and one step behind. The throne room overflowed, with people crammed into every nook and cranny. There were as many of Keir’s men as there were nobles. All bowed as we crossed and rose as we passed. The murmurs started at once, reacting to the presence of the Warlord, and his slave walking right behind him. I stared straight ahead. A second, smaller chair had been placed to the right side of the throne. Keir stepped to the throne, turned and faced the room. I made a move to the left, to stand at his side. Keir gave me a quick glance, then gestured to the smaller chair. My eyes widened, but I obeyed. Behind me, I heard the Herald announce Xymund.
    Who now had no place to sit.
    The crowd reacted when I turned to face them, displaying the dress in all its crimson glory. I ignored it, because as he walked across the room, I saw the exact moment Xymund realized what had happened. I dropped my eyes, unwilling to see the look in his as he drew closer. Keir must have made a gesture of some kind, because Xymund went to stand to the left of the throne. I heard the Herald announcing Lord Marshall Warren and the members of the Council, who followed him in and went to stand along the left side, ranging out from Xymund.
    Once all were in position, Keir sat. I waited a pause, then sat as well. Everyone else remained standing. Archbishop Drizen, followed by two acolytes appeared before us, bowed before the Warlord, and began the ceremony. The ancient chants flowed over me, a somber and bittersweet prayer for the dead. The incense smoked from the censers held by the two priests who swung them in slow arcs. Frankly, they could have paraded naked and rubbed dung on their bodies for all the attention I gave it. Instead, my thoughts lingered on Xymund and the insult Keir had just given him. Xymund was not dumb, he would not jeopardize the peace. I hoped. But to place a slave in precedence above the King…
    I risked a glance at the Warlord, who sat on the throne with a confidence that I had never seen in Xymund. I tore my eyes away from that profile and tried to concentrate on the priests. I could not see Xymund from where I sat, but I could just imagine his expression.
    I suspected that he would not be inviting us for a drink after the ceremony. The Archbishop had concluded the prayer and bowed before Keir. The lords and ladies seemed to think this the end of the ceremony, but Keir motioned with his hand, and Joden emerged from the crowd. His round face held a somber look, and he was dressed in his finest armor and weapons. He ap-proached the throne and bowed. Keir nodded in return. “Jo-den, you grace our ceremony.” He glanced about the room. “Our tradition is to lament the dead with song. Joden has agreed to sing for us.”
    Joden raised his right palm to the sky. He spoke in his language. “May the skies hear my voice. May the people remember.”
    The response rose from those who understood him. “We will remember.”
    Joden lowered his hand, took a