Chapter Two
Amari lost track of the hours as they fled through the rain, the dark, and the cold. With her babe strapped to her chest, she was free to focus on staying close to the marcus. She didn’t question when he led her out of the camp, squelching through mud, the drizzle falling on her oiled cloak. She didn’t question when they hid in trees as he scouted the way; her thoughts were constantly on the babes, hoping they would stay warm and dry and quiet. Thanks be to the Hearth that they slept.
Time blurred as she followed and obeyed. Stopping and hiding at the man’s merest gesture, moving on when the vore nudged at her with its snout.
Ancestors, that creature was huge. It moved silently in and out of the darkness, but she did not fear it.
She was too numb for fear.
She didn’t question when the vore left them, or how the marcus somehow managed to get them into the city, didn’t question when he led her through dark and winding alleyways. She simply kept putting one foot in front of the other and didn’t let herself think on what she had seen, what had happened in a scant few days.
She didn’t question when he led her up three flights of a wooden staircase, pausing for a moment while he picked the lock of a simple wooden door.
It wasn’t until Amari found herself standing in the warmth of a strange kitchen, lit by a small night lantern, that questions even occurred to her, that fear began to creep into her very breath. She almost couldn’t move when the marcus urged her to a seat by the stone hearth. Every muscle in her body sang with the urge to flee; they weren’t ready to accept the idea of safety.
“Take him,” the marcus whispered as he handed her Dalan. Amari let him tuck Dalan under her cloak, eased her boy into the crook of her arm. Lara was swaddled close to her already—she and the marcus had switched off, letting her take Lara’s smaller weight—and the marcus pulled Amari’s cloak closed over all three of them.
“I’ll return in a moment,” the marcus whispered, and then he was gone, leaving her in the dark, her heart still racing.
Dullness and weariness washed over her. Her damp shoes felt cold against her feet and every bone ached. Amari welcomed the exhaustion. The fog muted her fear and made it hard to think, hard to understand all that had happened in a few short hours.
Dimly they tugged at her heart, the grief and sorrow, waiting for her to see, to feel. But she couldn’t let herself think on that. Not yet. For now, she would sit in the quiet shadows, huddle within the shelter of her cloak and hood, and wait.
What pierced her fog was the gurgle of a fussing babe. Dalan was rooting, turning his cheek toward her, eyes closed and mouth moving.
Alive. Her son was alive and warm, and they were safe, and relief started to creep under her skin, but she dare not trust it. She stared down at his sweet face and took in his heat, his scent. Alive, blessedly alive. Tears welled, but she couldn’t let herself feel joy.
Not yet.
Her gaze was drawn to the smaller bundle, where she could see Xylara’s tiny, sleeping face, so innocent, so small, so very precious.
Amari leaned back in the chair, looking around. She couldn’t see much. There was a high, small window, rain pelting against the leaded glass. The place smelled musty, of dust and old paper. There was warmth, but no proper hearth, just an oven with metal doors set in the stones. A wooden table, chairs, and were those dishes stacked about?
Now that her breathing had slowed, she could hear the faint sounds of music and laughter below her, and a rhythmic pounding that didn’t seem to be drums.
Dalan shifted against her side. He’d wake soon, both of them would, and they’d need tending. She blinked against her tiredness, determined not to sleep, and tightened her hold on the babes. The marcus hadn’t said they were safe, and if the need came, she’d rise and flee again.
So long as he was willing to lead to safety, she would follow.
“Two babes? A wet nurse? Why in the name of all the gods did you bring them here, Vren?” Orval pushed back his blankets, shifted to sit on the edge of his bed and stared at the marcus in horror. The light of the small bedside lantern pooled around them, leaving the rest of his bedchamber in shadows. “This city is the first place the Wyverns will come, to secure the throne.”
“They need shelter and warmth,” Vren said as he shook his head. “The Wyverns will not think to look here for a babe.” His voice was an urgent plea. “You are a known bachelor, distant cousin to both sides of the conflict, not often at court and—” he hesitated.
“A cripple,” Orval finished for him bitterly. He ran his hand through his curls and over his face. “Vren, I have known you for years, and you have honored me with your name, but I have to say this is not the smartest thing you have ever done.”
“Needs must, when the snows come.” Vren sighed, his weariness showing on his face. Orval reached for his bed-coat at the foot of the bed and struggled into it. “You’re sure that King Xywellan and Queen Kara are dead?” Orval asked gruffly, really not wanting to know.
“It’s possible that they triumphed,” the marcus said. “But even so—” He paused. “Queen Kara gave me her blood memories.”
Orval closed his eyes in grief as it washed over him. He and Wellan and Kara hadn’t been close; but they had been family. “They might take the child, raise it as their own.”
Vren gave him a pitying look. “Orval, you fostered with Xyrath. Do you really think he would tolerate a rival for the crown?”
“Our fosterage overlapped, ‘tis true, but thankfully, not for long.” Orval grimaced. “And no, he would not. They will kill the child.” He ran his hand through his curls. “Where are they?”
“The kitchen,” Vren said. He paused. “Your servants. They are loyal?”
“Now you think of that?” Orval said harshly, then regretted it when fear flashed over the marcus’s face. “Forgive me, old friend.” he grumbled. “I am not at my best, roused in the middle of the night. I had to release my servants months ago. I hated to; they’d served my sister before—” His throat closed with fresh pain. Orval took a breath and pushed past the sorrow. “My Crown stipend was cut.”
“Forgive me,” Vren said. “I’m—”
“Forgiven.” Orval took a breath, then eased to his feet, wincing at the cramps which spidered through his withered leg. “Of course I will shelter them until better is found. Is Dust with you?”
“No.” Vren picked up the small copper lantern to lead the way. “She is laying a false trail toward Swift’s Port. Besides,” he flashed a grin, “she does not do well in cities.”
Orval grunted his understanding as he reached for the bed post to steady himself. “I suppose you picked my lock,” he asked, knowing full well the answer.
Vren flashed another grin.
Orval shook his head. “At least tell me you didn’t break it.”
Vren lifted the lantern. “Of course not,” he said, taking mock offense.
Orval took his first painful step, knowing the cramping would ease as he moved. He gestured for Vren to take the lead, then followed as quickly as his leg would allow. It dragged worse when he was tired. The floor was cool beneath his bare feet and he could hear rain striking the windows. It was no night to be out.
Vren lifted the lantern as he walked, taking care to avoid the piles of books and papers. “Bad enough your rooms are a warren,” Vren said. “One day you will be buried in these piles of history, biography, philosophy, etcetera, etcetera.”
Orval snorted. “I know where everything is,” he muttered as they made for the kitchen. An old, familiar, and oddly comforting argument. “How much time do we—”
The city bells started pealing, reverberating through the stone walls.
“Never mind.” Orval said, clutching his bed-coat tighter. The marcus brushed against a pile of scrolls on one of the side tables and knocked a few over. “But have a care,” Orval snapped.
“Sorry,” Vren murmured.
Even before they reached the kitchen, the deeper church bells had joined in.
“Figures the Holy Matriarch would be quick to support the victor,” Orval snorted.
“Aye,” Vren agreed quietly as he opened the door to the kitchen. “All the more reason to protect them.”
The light of the bed lantern joined that of the one kept burning in the kitchen. Shadows fell from the bulky cloaked figure by the hearth.
“It’s safe,” Vren said.
Orval stepped in as the figure pulled back its hood. He sucked in more air than he knew he could hold.
She was glorious.
Golden-brown skin, dotted with dark freckles just under her eyes. Tousled, black, tightly curled hair, pulled back with a simple cloth band, framed her face. Deep, dark brown eyes focused on him warily from beneath black velvet lashes.
Orval stepped forward and walked into his own table, sending dishes rattling.
A small cry came from beneath the cloak.
Those lovely eyes dropped to her burden. Orval took a breath at the lines of exhaustion there, the circles under her tight, weary eyes. The mud caked to her shoes and skirts. The wet cloak.
“This is Orval.” Vren sat the lantern down on the mantel. “He is a cousin to Xywellan and an honored scholar. He is trusted. You can shelter here.”
Those eyes rose again, and Orval was lost. “I,” he stumbled, “I,” the words caught in his throat. “You are welcome, lady.”
“Amari,” came her husky whisper, with the faintest trace of an accent. “I am Amari, lord.”
“No, no,” Orval straightened. “I’m no lord. A distant cousin, no more. A fourth cousin, once removed, in point of fact. No title, that is certain.” Flushed, embarrassed, he cleared his throat again. “I, er—”
Vren, all the elements bless him, moved. “Let me help you,” he said. “Perhaps something warm to drink,” he suggested as he drew a bundle out of Amari’s arms.
“Of course, of course,” Orval moved then, to open his oven doors. Heat and steam billowed into his face as he used the sleeve of his robe to pull out the kettle. “There are clean mugs someplace…” Orval glanced around at the shelves and reached for a mug that didn’t seem quite as dusty as the others.
Vren held a babe in one arm and he cleared old dishes off the table. Amari was untying her blouse with one hand.
Orval averted his eyes. “We’ll get you warm, not a kav drinker myself, too expensive for my purse, but I’ve tea and some honey here somewhere.” He could hear himself babbling and forced himself to take a breath and set the tea brewing.
A thin cry drew his attention and he looked back at Amari to see her cradling a tiny babe with a shock of black, silky hair.
“Is that her?” Orval asked.
Amari looked up and nodded. “This is Xylara. Could you take her for a moment?”
“Oh, I—” Orval put the tea down and wiped his hands on his robe. “If you are sure,” he said, nervous. “I’m not much for babies—”
Amari rose, graceful and lovely, and put the babe into his arms. “You won’t break her,” she said.
“Oh,” Orval said softly as the infant yawned and blinked up at him. She had Wellan’s hair and fey blue eyes, a true Daughter of the Blood. So small, so new, born into a rough and dangerous world. A world where even a tiny babe could be deemed a threat.
Tears welled up. Orval blinked them away as he remembered the ancient pledge, the words spilling from him in a joyous flood. “My hand to yours. Bless you, Xylara, Daughter of the Airion House of Xy, Daughter of Xywellan and Kara, Warrior Queen.”
He looked up to find Amari looking at him, something in those deep pools of brown that had not been there before.
Hope.