“Have you talked to Lara? She and Keir need to—”
“How can a babe be less than a babe?” Atira asked, puzzled. “Unless it is crippled or born dead.”
“I’ve spoken with Lara,” Othur said. “She will not discuss it with Keir. She believes that she can convince enough of the lords—”
“Discuss what?” Atira asked.
“What?” Heath said. “That is crazy. It’s too late after the birth. The matter must be dealt with before—”
“She commanded me to remain silent,” Othur said.
Atira glanced at Heath, and they both looked back at Othur.
“The Warprize does not silence truths,” Atira said.
“She did this one,” Othur said. “Flat-out commanded me to be silent. She was trembling and teary, and given her condition, I closed my mouth and obeyed.”
“That doesn’t sound like the Lara I know,” Heath said.
“She is bearing life,” Atira said. “Of course she is not herself.”
“When was this?” Heath demanded. He started to pace before the desk.
“As we walked back from the council chamber to her quarters. Keir was waiting for her, and she was exhausted.” Othur ran his hand over his head. “I thought I’d try again later.”
“Why won’t she talk to him?” Heath asked.
Atira leaned against Othur’s desk and watched Heath walk back and forth. “Please explain legitimate.”
Heath drew a deep breath. “Lara and Keir are bonded under your ways, not ours. If they are not married in the church, the child is illegitimate.” He continued his movement back and forth.
“Worse,” Othur said. “Tradition demands that only the Archbishop can wed the royal couple.”
“How can the actions of the life-bearer make a child any less of a baby?” Atira asked patiently.
“Not less of a baby,” Heath started, but Othur interrupted.
“Oh, yes it is. An illegitimate child has less rights in its—”
Heath held up a hand. “Let’s keep this simple.” He looked at Atira. “On the Plains, the children go through a rite of ascension, yes? In order to be adults?”
“Yes,” Atira said.
“In Xy, the life-bearer and the father must go through certain religious rites so that the child has a certain status when it’s born.”
“And if they do not?” Atira asked.
“The child is forever barred from that status,” Othur said.
Atira looked at both of them, then folded her arms over her chest. “I would ask for both your tokens.”
“You can tell us how stupid it is later.” Heath gave her a wry smile. “For now,” he turned to his father, “why won’t Lara talk to Keir?”
“Something to do with the reactions of the Plains people to our beliefs.” Othur shook his head. “Lara is like a daughter to me, but the Sun God knows she’s stubborn.”
Heath looked at Atira, and she gave him a shrug. “You worship people,” she explained. “It is . . . odd.”
“No odder than some of your customs seem to us,” Heath pointed out.
“So if they do not perform this rite, the babe can’t take the throne?” Atira asked. “So?”
“No, you don’t see all the pieces,” Heath said. “Without a legitimate heir, Durst will be able to start trying to undermine Lara. And the only heirs would be her cousins.” Heath rolled his eyes. “No one wants the cousins.”
“Why not?” Atira asked.
“They are fanatics,” Heath grimaced. “They take sun worship to its extremes.”
“Many of our people have accepted Keir because of the pregnancy and the continuation of the House of Xy. But it’s not a fatal problem.” Othur shrugged. “There will be other babes, no doubt, and one of them might be an heir.”
“What if something happens to Lara in the meantime?” Heath demanded.
“We must make sure that doesn’t happen,” Othur said, then sighed heavily. “But Lara seemed so adamant. I don’t know if—”
“Has anyone explained this to the Warlord?” Atira asked.
Othur spread his hands. “I can’t.”
“I can,” Atira said. She pushed herself away from the desk. “Is there anything in this rite—this marriage pledge—that would dishonor the Warlord? Or the elements?”
“Er . . .” Heath started to flush up. “I really don’t—”
Atira looked at Othur, who shook his head with a smile. “The day I married Anna, I was so nervous I could barely talk. I can’t think of anything that would be a problem, but Cleric Iain has duty in the Chapel of the Goddess. He’ll be able to answer any questions.”
“Well enough,” Atira said. “Let us go and find the Warlord.” She headed for the door.
“I did take one step though,” Othur added. “The Archbishop will be at the High Court feast tonight. If the Queen would not address the issue, I thought the Archbishop’s presence might bring this all to a boil.”
“He’s avoided the Court so far,” Heath said. “What makes you think he will appear tonight?”
Othur smiled. “Oh, he’ll be there.”
THE TABLE IN THE ARCHBISHOP’S PRIVATE QUARTERS was spread with his favorites. Pork roasted in milk and garlic. Crusty white bread. Vegetable pie with eggs, cheese, and greens.
Archbishop Drizin spread his napkin over his lap and picked up his knife, licking his lips. The cooks had outdone themselves, and he blessed them for it. His stomach rumbled in happy anticipation.
There was a pounding at the outer chamber door. He ignored it as he cut into the pie, breaking the golden crust so that the savory steam rose. He breathed in the scent with great pleasure.
There were voices now, in the outer chamber. Protests. He scowled at the door as it opened and his servant slid within. “Beg pardon, Devoted One. But there’s a messenger from the Seneschal, Lord Othur.”
“Have Browdus see to it.” Drizin waved him off. “I am dining.”
“Devoted One,” the servant pleaded. “Deacon Browdus is not here. And the messengers are—”
“Well, then tell them that I am at prayer and cannot be interrupt—”
“Uff,” the servant grunted as he was pushed aside and the door opened the rest of the way. Master Healer Eln walked in, with guards following behind.
Drizin stiffened. “Master Healer Eln, what brings you here?”
“The news of your ill health, Devoted One,” Eln said dryly. “Lord Othur was concerned that you had not yet appeared at the castle. He asked me to convey that your presence and wisdom have been sorely missed.”
“Well,” Drizin smoothed down the front of his robes. “Those are very kind words, but . . .” he frowned, suddenly remembering the position he was in. “My illness is not of a fatal nature. More a difficulty than anything else.”
Master Healer Eln’s eyes flickered over the groaning table.
“I was just going to try to force down a bite to eat,” Drizin added hastily. “To see if it would settle.”
“So I see,” Eln said. “But if your bowels are in an ill humor, adding heavy foods is not the answer.”
“Indeed,” Drizin said with regret, looking at the pork.
“I have a new remedy that seems to work wonders, Devoted One,” Eln said. “An herbal mixture.”
“A drink?” Drizin said, his nose wrinkling in anticipation of the taste.
“Oh no, Devoted One,” Eln assured him. “I will use it to flush out your bowels.”
The Archbishop stared at him with dawning horror.
“There may be some mild cramping,” Eln continued. “But you should be feeling much better almost immediately. In time to attend the Queen’s High Court feast this evening. I understand that Lady Anna is trying a new way of preparing chicken.”
“I—” Drizin started, for the first time taking in the Master Healer’s guards. They were Plains warriors, all of which had very grim looks.
Drizin swallowed hard. “Actually, Master Eln, I am feeling s
omewhat better.” He arose as fast as dignity would allow. “Perhaps if I tried again in the closet, I would feel more my old self.”
“As you wish,” Eln said. “We can wait here, to see how things go. So to speak.”
“Of course,” Drizin said. “Perhaps your guard could wait out in the—”
“No,” said one of them. “We stay.”
“Of course, Master Healer, you need not stay.” Drizin backed toward his sleeping quarters. “I am sure you wish to attend to the Queen. Due any day, I understand.”
“True enough,” Eln said. “Only one thing could take me from her side.” The man focused his sharp grey eyes on Drizin.
“Really?”
“Concern for your health, Devoted One.” Eln pulled out one of the heavy chairs and settled into it. “In fact, we will wait and escort you.”
“I am indeed blessed,” Archbishop Drizin said, fleeing the room.
CHAPTER 18
OTHUR SMILED AS IAIN, THE YOUNG PRIEST ASSIGNED to the castle chapel, stood his ground before the hardened Plains warriors. Keir sat before the hearth, and the other warriors clustered around, their faces intent and questioning.
“No,” Iain said firmly. “We do not worship people.”
Othur had to give the lad credit. Although learned, Iain was barely out of his initiate, and he was a thin rail of a lad compared to the Plains warriors. He was pale, with a shock of curly, red-brown hair that seemed to rise straight up off his head. Othur had thought Iain would pass out when he’d entered the room and the Warlord had asked for his token. But Iain had stood straight and firm under the eyes of the Warlord and his people and told them they were wrong.
Of course, only Othur could see that his hands were clenched white and trembling behind his back.
“But there are people in the chapel,” Atira said. “I have seen the statue of the woman there and—”
“No,” Iain replied, shaking his head. He took a breath and tucked his hands up into the sleeve of his white-and-gold robes. “We worship the Sun God, who is the god of purity and strength, and the Goddess, the Lady of the Moon and Stars, who is the goddess of healing and mercy.” He held up a thin, pale hand. “Yes, we personify them in pictures, glass, and statuary, but in truth, that is more to offer reassurance than the powers that control our lives . . .” Iain blinked. “Well, that’s probably more than you need at the moment.”
“We do not turn the elements into people,” Prest said.
“Nor do we.” Iain paused, staring at the floor for a moment. “Perhaps a better way to understand it is . . .” His voice trailed off for a moment.
To Othur’s surprise, the Plains warriors waited quietly, respectfully, even.
Iain nodded to himself and looked up at Keir. “When a child starts to learn, we give the child lessons about our faith. We teach them about the Sun God and the Goddess, the Lady of the Moon and Stars. We start simply, with simple images. You understand?”
“The wind makes the grass dance,” Prest said suddenly.
The other Plains warriors started to nod.
“A child’s song,” Keir explained. “One of the first they are taught about the elements.”
“So,” Iain said. “As we grow and learn, our understanding grows as well. And as our understanding grows larger and deeper, so does the Sun God. Grows beyond the pictures, the images.” Iain stopped and flushed a bit. “Perhaps I am not explaining this well, but—”
“No,” Keir said slowly. “I think I understand better.”
“Still, it is . . . unsettling,” Atira said.
Iain nodded. “Each has his own way. Who is to say which one is right?”
“The Archbishop,” Othur said.
Iain glanced his way. “True,” he said. “The church establishes our doctrines, and every faith has its rituals. I’ve been reading some older texts in the chapel archives, and I’m learning fascinating things about—”
“The ceremony,” Keir interrupted with an apologetic smile. “Can you tell me of the marriage ceremony?”
The lad drew a deep breath and went through the marriage ceremony word for word, with Keir listening intently.
Finally, Keir leaned back in his chair. “Those pledges seem little different to me than any promise between a bonded couple.”
“What words are spoken in your ceremony?” Iain asked.
There was some stiffening at that question. But Keir raised a hand at the silent protest. “The words of a bonded couple are private. Not to be shared easily with others.”
“I understand your desire for privacy,” Iain said. “But if you wish to be certain that there is no conflict, I’d ask to hear that pledge before making a final decision.” He hesitated for a moment. “I would treat those words as if I heard them while bells were ringing,” Iain said slowly, in the language of the Plains.
That brought muffled laughter and an outright smile from the Warlord. “Under the bells,” Keir corrected the young man.
“Ah,” Iain nodded, then continued in Xyian. “For now, let us assume that the promises are the same.”
“Except that they are said in a stone tent and witnessed by people,” Atira pointed out, the laughter gone from her face. “What matter the ceremony? The pledge is between two. Their words are enough between them.”
“There are reasons, good reasons, for a marriage to be sanctified by the church, beyond the binding of two souls,” Iain asserted. “Among our people, it establishes the rights of the offspring and aids in the determination of property and inheritance. Further, we track our bloodlines through the male line, with the distaff a secondary consideration.” Iain continued, “To some, the emotional considerations of marriage are outweighed by the legal considerations. In this time, it seems almost more of a contractual method of doing business than the bringing together of two souls. This has not always been the case.”
Othur watched as a few pairs of eyes got a glazed look.
“The role of the church in our world is an important one. The church is a source of learning and education,” Iain continued. “We clerics have the time to seek out and preserve knowledge. Not to mention that the church deals with many of the problems of the poor, the sick, and the aged.” Iain was warming to his theme. “We foster a sense of charity to those less fortunate. And we encourage a sense of community by our—”
“Do all clerics feel as you do?” Keir’s eyes narrowed. “Or are there those that abuse their positions?”
Iain drew himself up and stared right at the Warlord. “Do all of the Plains think with one mind and heart?”
“No,” Keir said ruefully.
“We are no more and no less than you,” Iain answered plainly, his face solemn and very earnest.
Good for you, lad, Othur thought, as Keir slowly smiled.
“If one who is not of our faith wishes to marry one of the faithful, this can be done,” Iain said. “There is no bar, and no need to convert. Not in the church proper, mind.” Iain shrugged. “But traditionally, royal marriages have taken place in the throne room, so that is not an issue.”
“Unless the Archbishop makes it one,” Heath spoke from the far corner where he’d planted himself.
Iain sighed. “I would like to believe that the Devoted One would not be swayed by others in this matter.”
“But,” Keir said.
“But,” Iain sighed, “although he is the representative of the Sun God, he is also human.”
“So if a marriage is not performed, the child suffers? Is punished for something over which it had no control?” Atira asked. “We do not do that.”
“Yes, we do.” Amyu’s voice was soft and bitter.
“If the Archbishop forbids the marriage, would you perform the ceremony?” Heath asked bluntly.
Othur caught his breath.
“I have made my own oaths,” Iain said simply, tucking his hands back into his sleeves. “And one of them is obedience.”
Keir nodded and stood. “I thank you for your truths, Cl
eric.” He held out the leather book that Iain had used as a token. Keir looked at Othur. “I just wish that Lara had spoken to me of this sooner.”
“Spoken of what?” Lara stood in the bedroom doorway, rumpled from her nap and looking about in confusion.
ATIRA WATCHED AS LARA LOOKED AT THEM WITH growing confusion and concern, and Atira’s heart went out to her. The Warprize had dealt with much in the time since she had met Keir. Going to his bed without an initiator, dealing with the Council of Elders, and now life-bearing without a thea to aid and advise her.
Some took life-bearing in their stride, popping out their babes with ease. But Atira remembered all too well the emotional side, like riding an unwilling horse. One moment weepy, the next furious. Oh, the Warprize was a healer, that was true, and Lara thought she knew the ways of bearing. But experience is a hard teacher, and Atira remembered all too well that until a babe was pressing on your bladder, or your belly extended so far that you moved like an ehat, you didn’t really know how your body or mind would respond.
And the males were no help, that was certain.
Keir moved toward Lara, reaching to turn her slightly so that he could pull her into his arms. “We were discussing the fact that Durst wishes to use our lack of a Xyian bonding against us and the child you bear.”
Lara shot Othur an angry glare, but the older man shook his head and raised his hands in defense.
Atira moved then, to kneel before the Warlord and Warprize. “Warprize, I was the one that told the Warlord of this. Heath explained it to me, and I decided that the Warlord must know.”
The anger drained from Lara’s face, and she started to cry. She pressed her face into Keir’s chest.
“Why not speak of this to me, beloved?” Keir’s voice was the barest whisper.
Lara lifted her face to look at him, with eyes filled with tears and fear. “I was afraid, beloved. Your pledge to me as my bonded is all I ever need. But our faith . . . and yours . . . I—”