Chapter Seventeen
“Go,” Orval told Amari. He kept his smile firmly in place, determined not to let his nervousness show. “We’ll be fine.” He held Dalan to his shoulder, patting his back.
“You’re sure?” Amari’s forehead puckered. She stood in the kitchen, resisting Winter’s efforts to wrap her in Orval’s warmest cloak. “We could get one of the laundresses, or one of Winter’s—”
“Orval will be fine,” Winter said firmly. “The twins are both fed and Lara’s already asleep. Orval will watch over them. We’ll not be gone that long.”
“I’ll change Dalan and put him down,” Orval said, ignoring the flutter in his stomach and assuming all the competence he could muster. “You’ll be back before they wake, if you leave now.”
Amari clutched her cloak and looked at him with anxious eyes. “But—”
“You need something nice for the Walk to the Well,” Orval said. “And we’ve coin enough. Winter knows where to go and drives a hard bargain.”
“And you’ve not been out of this hovel since you arrived.” Winter said.
“Hovel?” Orval sputtered at his landlady, which made Amari smile, as he intended. “I’d point out it’s a hovel we rent from you, madam.”
Winter waved him off with a dismissive “pfft” and urged Amari to the door. “We’ll have the guard that goes with us carry packages.” She gave them both a wicked smile. “If Ussin’s hovering, we’ll make him come. Serve him right to have to go clothes shopping.”
Amari laughed, casting a worried glance back at Orval as the door closed. He smiled and waved and nodded reassuringly.
The latch clicked and he was left to his doom.
Alone. With babies.
Dalan burped. Orval shifted him to his other shoulder. “At least now, I am wise to your tricks, young man,” Orval said as he patted Dalan’s back and waited for the child to burp again.
He started pacing back and forth; the rhythm of his limp always seemed to help rock the babes. As he walked, he looked around his kitchen.
Had it only been weeks? The changes Amari had made had been rather amazing. Gone from the kitchen were his piles of books and scrolls. Room had been found for them elsewhere. Clean linens and crockery—all of which had been there before, in a jumble—were now placed where they could be seen and used. The pantry shelves held more than just his pease porridge.
On the hearth mantel, above the oven, Amari had created a small shrine to the Harmony of the Hearth. It wasn’t much, really. Amari had taken a blank piece of parchment and with a quick and steady hand, had drawn two hands with their fingers intertwined.
“You can draw?” he’d asked, and she’d blushed and denied it. But he suspected she had more skill than the simple sketch showed.
She’d propped the parchment up with one of his smaller copper lanterns. Every morning, she’d light the lantern, recite a prayer, and then extinguish the flame. Orval smiled. Sometimes she was fairly rushed doing it, as one child or another cried. But even in a harried state, she was always lovely.
Dalan burped, loud and long.
“Finally,” Orval started back toward the privy. “Not much time. A clean-up and then a nice nap, if the skies allow.”
He peeked in on Lara, sleeping peacefully in her basket, then gathered fresh nappies and swaddling blanket and started to work.
“Now, remember, you have to do your share of the work,” Orval said as he stripped off the dirty nappy, covering Dalan to prevent getting pissed on.
Dalan chortled, then yawned, waving his arms.
“You need to go to sleep, just like we told your momma you would,” Orval said. “There’s a bit of research I want to do, back in my shelves. But first,” he took each tiny foot in his hands and started to pump those baby legs. “Let’s see if you—”
Dalan chortled and messily farted.
“Whew,” Orval leaned back, waving his hand in front of his face. “There we go,” he said, and started over with fresh cloths.
Dalan focused on him, his tiny arms moving as he yawned. They had started weaning him from the swaddling. Wean him. “Who knew of such a thing?” Orval asked as he scooped Dalan up. “But your momma does, so now we’re to leave your arms free. Isn’t that something?”
Dalan yawned, a good sign.
The babies grew so fast, every day something new. Skies above, both Dalan and Lara were growing like weeds. They’d soon outgrow those baskets, that was sure. It gave Orval the oddest sense of pride and yet…
He carried Dalan into the bedroom. His sister Lara had talked of her pending child and Orval had looked forward to having a niece or nephew to spoil. But the Sweat had taken that away.
There were times when the babies made him want to retreat into the comfort of his shelves, his books and scrolls. He wanted to hide from the crying, the screaming, the various bodily fluids that came from every orifice.
But he’d miss them when they were gone.
Dalan’s face wrinkled as Orval set him in his basket. He started to fuss.
“Well, I know what will settle you.” Orval cast an anxious glance at Lara. He reached under Dalan, pulling out the old, tattered copy of the Epic of Xyson from below the cushion.
“I will have you know that The Epic of Xyson is the most boring epic poem ever written, in the entire history of Xy.” Orval settled in the chair beside the baskets. “Scholars have argued for years over its translation from the archaic Xyian.” He opened the book with a fond smile. “My father gave me this when I was very young. See, it still has my notes, tracing back our family blood line.” Orval shook his head at his childish writing. “He was furious that I wrote in it, but he forgave me when he saw the depth of my research.”
Dalan stared at him.
“And look, here is the most boring section. ‘On the Preparations for Marching.’” Orval started to read in the softest, most boring tone he could manage.
Dalan’s eyes kept opening, and closing, and opening, and closing. At last, with a soft yawn, he drifted off.
“And…three…ton…of…blackstone…for…the…smiths.” Orval droned to a stop and waited.
Dalan’s eyes popped open and his face wrinkled up.
“Oh, no,” Orval said softly, quickly tucking the book back into Dalan’s basket, careful to cover it well. “Don’t you dare wake your sister.” He swept the boy back up into his arms. “We’re running out of time. You’ll just have to help me.”
Dalan gurgled and grabbed Orval’s ear, tugging on it.
Orval winced, trying to pull away. “Those little nails are sharp, Dalan.”
Dalan chortled.
“Have it your way,” Orval said. “Our goal is back here,” he headed into the stacks, where Amari’s touch had not yet quite reached. The familiar scent of old paper and dust filled his lungs.
Dalan sneezed.
“You know something?” Orval said softly. “I have my old picture books from when I was a babe. Maybe I should find them for you. You’d like the stories and colors, I am sure.”
Dalen reached for Orval’s mouth.
“Ah,” Orval pulled his head back. “Maybe we should wait until you are a little older. So you don’t rip the pages, eh?”
Dalan chuckled and shoved his fists in his mouth.
Orval knew he had at least one history of Uyole and certainly something on customs.
Ordinarily he could have spent hours on research, but they’d be back soon. He wanted to surprise Amari, impress her with his knowledge. “Yes, here,” he struggled to bend down while holding the child securely. Dalan grabbed his hair, tugging hard.
He had two, no, three books, but they were mostly history and records of treaties with Xy, fairly old. He rifled through them quickly, looking for anything on babes or wells.
Nothing.
Orval paused, thinking. Dalan patted his cheek.
“I’m sure,” he said to the boy. “Sure I have a reference…” Where had he read about Uyole…? He crammed the books in his hand back into the shelves. It had been a more general reference, and it was…he switched Dalan to the other shoulder. “Let’s try over here,” he murmured.
Dalan yawned and babbled.
A book on birth traditions around the Old Empire. Orval moved to a different shelf and had it in hand in a minute. Standing between the shelves, turning so Dalan couldn’t reach the other books, he flipped though the old, yellowed pages carefully.
Interesting. Bracelets carried meaning. Signifying the passage into adulthood, marriage contracts, wealth, status, and births. There. That was what he was looking for.
‘The Hearth Mother is honored with bracelets upon the birth of her children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren. The first birth is celebrated with a bracelet of braided leather. If the Hearth Mother has birthed twins, beads of red jasper are intertwined. Upon the second birth—’
Dalan shrieked and yanked on his hair. “Hey,” Orval pulled his head back. “That hurts, young man.”
Dalan looked at him, and then crammed his fist into his mouth, eyes fluttering closed.
Bracelets are presented during the Walk to the Well, by the Hearth Father. If no Hearth Father has been chosen, the father of the child presents the bracelet.
Wait. Hearth Father? Orval frowned. What reference was that?
The Walk to the Well also signals the renewal of physical relations with the male of the Hearth Mother’s choosing.
Elements above. Orval felt heat rise in his face at the very idea. But Hearth Father…he paged forward, looking for—
Each Hearth Mother chooses the sires of her children, as she wills. But the requirements for a Hearth Father are stricter, according to custom. Preference is given to the warrior who triumphs in battle, who exceeds in swordsmanship and riding, who embodies the—
Orval’s gut rolled, with oh-so-well-remembered pain. He snapped the book shut.
Dalan protested softly, his face now firmly pressed against Orval’s neck.
Orval put the book back on the shelf. He had the information he needed and he didn’t want to read more, didn’t want to know more. Wasn’t that always the way of things?
He shifted Dalan gently and sighed. “Let’s get you to your basket, shall we?”
Dalan’s blood father, Lord Eijer, had been a paragon of all the manly virtues, except that he lacked any morals or integrity whatsoever. But he’d had all the qualities of a Hearth Father, all right.
As Orval himself did not.
Story of his life, really.
Dalan let out a soft snore and went boneless in his arms.
Orval limped back to the bedroom and slowly lowered Dalan into his basket. The boy was fast asleep.
The scholar stood still for a moment, watching Lara and Dalan. The pain over what he lacked, his inadequacies, faded a bit. It was an old familiar pain, that voice in the back of his head. But babies didn’t worry over such things. They needed food and shelter and care. When Amari had first walked into his kitchen, Orval had been shaken, taken aback, but determined to aid them. And now, he couldn’t imagine life without them.
It had all turned out better than he could have hoped.
Still, he reminded himself that this was temporary. Once the fuss died down, the marcus would appear to whisk Amari, Dalan, and Lara off to someplace safer. These rooms would once again smell only of old books and dust. It was foolish to hope for anything else.
Amari would be back soon and hot kavage would be welcome on such a cold day.
Orval took a deep breath and headed for the kitchen
They were back before the kavage finished brewing. Orval looked up and smiled as Amari bustled through the door, her brown skin flushed, her eyes bright. She was followed by Winter and Ussin, his arms filled with bundles.
“It’s cold, but sunny,” Amari started to unwrap her scarves. “The well’s not far—” she took a breath and laughed. “Winter bargains like a hawk after a mouse, wait until you see what we found! Even a matching tunic for you that you must try on. Are they sleeping? Is everything—?”
“They’re sleeping,” Orval assured her. “Go see for yourself.”
Amari rushed through the door, taking off her cloak as she went.
Ussin piled the packages and bundles on the table.
“My thanks, Ussin.” Winter added her bundles to the mix.
“Any time, Madam Winter.” Ussin said cheerfully.
“Wait for me downstairs and I’ll warm you…with a hot drink.” Winter said, a note of playfulness in her voice.
“Much appreciated,” Ussin said. “Lord Orval.” He nodded and left, closing the door behind him.
Orval raised an eyebrow, but Winter just shrugged at him, then checked to make sure Amari was out of earshot. “Did you find what you were looking for?” she whispered.
“Yes,” Orval whispered back. “Braided leather and red jasper beads.”
“Good choice, not too expensive. I know a leather worker who does a lovely corded braid. The beads shouldn’t be a problem.”
“Good,” Orval quickly reviewed the other things needed. “You’ll take care of it? In time for the Walk?”
“I will,” Winter turned to the door. Orval rose to follow. “You worry about them.” She nodded back toward the bedroom.
“To the best of my ability,” Orval said. As the door closed behind her, he leaned his head against the rough wood. “And ever after.”