Warprize

deep breath, and began to sing.
    His voice sounded richer and far deeper than I expected. It filled the room and brought the small rustles and murmurs to a halt. Somehow, the sound of his voice pulled us all in, let us share his pain, and for a brief moment, be as one within it. Language didn’t seem to be a barrier. For those who understood, the words spoke of a loved one that would never see the sky again, nor share the sweetness of a glass of wine. Or the joy of a laugh. It spoke of an emptiness at the table, at the fireside, and in the heart. My eyes filled as I thought of my father, and the warrior who had died giving me his blessing. I lowered my head and tried not to give in to my grief.
    Others were moved as well. A glance showed me Keir’s hand clenched on his knee, knuckles white. The song changed then. Joden’s voice rang with the hope of reuniting, riding again under endless skies, sharing wines not yet tasted. I managed to lift my head at that and looked at Joden as the last notes hovered in the air. As I wiped at my eyes and snuffled my nose, I noticed others doing the same. The last notes faded. Joden lifted his palm again. “May the people remember.”
    Again, the response came. “We will remember.”
    Keir echoed the words, then continued, “My thanks, Joden. You honor us.”
    Joden bowed, and moved back into the crowd.
    The Archbishop came forward, prepared to give the traditional blessing of the monarch. With an uneasy glance in Xy-mund’s direction, he stood before Keir, bowed, and recited the blessing. Keir nodded deeply to him at the conclusion.
    Without further thought, the Archbishop turned toward me, and I saw his eyes widen when he realized what he had done. Tradition required a blessing for the Queen as well, hardly appropriate for a warprize. The poor man seemed quite flustered for a moment, then elected to nod his head in my direction. I returned the nod. I doubt he even realized the sigh of relief that he gave as he turned to render the benediction to the crowd.
    Even before he stopped speaking, Keir stood. I waited but he extended a hand to help me rise, so I joined him at his side. We walked toward the antechamber in silence. The crowd, a mixture of Xyian and Firelander, had filled in the space before the door, and they parted to allow us though. The Xyians were unsure as to the courtesies to extend, whether to bow or curtsey and to whom. The Firelanders had no such problem. They remained tall and upright, with solemn looks. As we moved closer to the door, I saw many familiar faces, including Lord Durst. Scowling, he stepped back as if to avoid touching me, his lip curled in a snarl. He craned his head forward, having caught my eye. “Whore.”
    Durst spoke forcefully, his voice low, but it carried. I flushed and looked away, mortified. I barely registered that Keir dropped my hand. There was a sound of drawn steel and a flash of movement. I looked back to see Keir’s sword buried deep in Durst’s chest.
    In endless time, the man’s eyes bulged and he sank slowly to the floor. Keir pulled the weapon out of Durst’s body and flicked it, sending blood onto the clothes of those nearby. Durst made an odd huffing noise as his hands clutched at the wound. People stepped back to allow Durst to fall at their feet, then the screaming began as they jostled both to escape and to get a better view.
    “Silence.” Keir’s command rang out, even as he pulled out a cloth to wipe the blade clean. The room watched in horrified silence as he dropped the bloody cloth and sheathed his sword in a ring that hung from his belt. The sound of metal on metal almost did more to grab everyone’s attention than his voice. “
    The insult is avenged.” The quiet grew even deeper, but to my horror, Xyian nobles started to place their hands on their swords, eyeing the Firelanders around us.
    “Warprize.”
    My eyes snapped up to see Keir standing there, his hand held out for mine, the hand that had slain Lord Durst in an instant. The same hand that had saved my life in the market. Everyone was frozen, focused on that hand, and I knew that the peace, in that instant, was balanced on the edge of a sword. Reject that hand, kneel to aid Durst, and there’d be those who’d use it as an excuse to draw their swords.
    Mindful of my status, mindful of my obligation, and mindful of the dead still being buried beyond these walls, I placed my hand in Keir’s and allowed myself to be led from the throne room.