Chapter Thirty-Nine
Orval found himself hustled inside. The others followed, and the door had barely closed behind them before Roth started yelling.
“Are you out of your gods-damned mind?” the Weaponsmaster asked, his face turning red. “Have you listened to anything I have been saying?”
Orval stood quietly as a storm of protest erupted from everyone, including the babes. Between crying infants and upset people, it was loud. He hoped no one outside could hear; the stone walls of the gatehouse should have muffled the sound.
“No,” Amari said, glaring at Orval. She settled on a stool and put Lara to her breast.
“Not just no,” Roth growled, arms crossed over his chest. “Hells, no. You are not going out there, and especially not alone. Are you mad? You just cautioned patience.”
Rosalind was trying to comfort Dalan, who was shrieking furiously.
“I swear this boy’s voice can pierce castle walls,” Orval shook his head as he limped over and took the babe from Rosalind. “Hush, my boy,” he crooned, offering his own glare at the others.
Amari shut her mouth into a thin, angry line.
Roth at least lowered his voice. “Your wits are gone with the winds.”
Rosalind went to check Xydell, sleeping on a pallet near the hearth and showing no signs of rousing at the noise.
Yfin stared, wide-eyed, at all of them.
“I have perfectly sound reasons for doing this,” Orval said, prepared to review all of his logic.
“All of them stupid,” Roth responded.
“They might yet come to us,” Amari insisted, desperation in her voice, but it was the fear in her eyes that hit him hard. “They might knock on the door tomorrow morning. There is no need to risk yourself.”
“Amari,” Orval rocked Dalan, stroking his cheek to get him to quiet, “remember our contract. Above all else is the safety of our children. Roth and Yfin can protect you, and I won’t risk you or Rosalind.”
Dalan grew quiet but alert, eyes shining as if he was listening. “If things were different, I might set Xydell on them, like a mastiff after a bone.” Orval gave Amari a smile.
It was not returned. She was fierce and angry, but he could see resignation creeping into her eyes. “I—” she started, then stopped.
“I am the Lord High Baron. I am the best choice. The only choice,” Orval said.
“And I am your protector.” Roth said flatly as he moved to block the door, his arms crossed. “I can’t allow you to do this. Unless you let me go with you, I will keep you in here until you regain your wits.”
“Roth,” Orval said, “I have to do this. Our position is not defensible, we are running out of food and firewood, and—”
“You are the last of the Blood, Orval of Xy,” Roth’s voice cracked. “You and Xydell, The last of the House of Airion.”
“Roth,” Orval said, exasperated, “you give me no choice. I command—”
“No,” Rosalind said, startling all of them. “Tell him the truth, Lord High Baron.”
Orval froze, jerking his head around to stare at her.
“Tell us all the truth of who we are protecting.” Rosalind stood tall and straight, one of the tapestries spilling from her hands to lay on the floor.
Orval glanced at Amari, lifting his eyebrow. Did you tell her?
Amari gave a slight shake of her head. No.
Roth caught the exchange. “Tell us what?”
Orval turned to Rosalind. “What do you think you know?”
“Gossip,” Rosalind said, “from the Court. Dates. The babes themselves.” She gestured at Dalan. “Tell him.”
Orval drew in a slow breath and looked again to Amari, who nodded.
Roth waited, watching them both.
“Lara and Dalan are not my blood-children,” Orval started.
Roth’s eyes narrowed.
“Dalan is Amari’s true son.” Orval glanced at Amari, who gave a quick shake of her head. “His father is of no import.” Orval took a breath and said, quickly and clearly, “Lara is Xylara, Daughter of Xywellan and Queen Kara, of the House of Airion. True heir to the Throne of Xy.”
Roth sucked in a breath. “How is that possible?” he breathed out. “They are twins, you said—”
Amari rose, supporting Lara who was still suckling. She put her hand on the stone hearth, right below her small shrine. “I swear it by the hearth of my home and the harmony within. Lara is not the child of my body. Queen Kara retained me to act as wet nurse. With the aid of the marcusi I smuggled Lara out of the Airion camp when Queen Kara went to her death.”
“What’s a marcusi?” Yfin asked, darting wide-eyed looks at all the adults.
“Kara trusted Amari and I trust no one more,” Orval said. “She is a woman of honor and my Hearth Mother.”
“This is Tithanna’s granddaughter?” Roth asked, stepping closer to stare at the child in Amari’s arms. His voice was choked, tears in his eyes. “Truly?”
“Yes,” Orval said. “My daughter in name, my third cousin, once removed, in truth.” He drew himself up, trying to look as stern as he could with Dalan waving his tiny hands about. “You must swear yourself to her, and to her cause, Roth, you and Rosalind both. If you can’t swear to that, then I demand your silence, all of your silences, for if any others learn of her heritage, Xyrath and Satia will have her killed.”
Roth reached out a rough and callused hand to the babe, gently touching her shock of black hair. “How do I know this to be true?”
“Why would I lie?” Orval tried not to let his impatience show. “So I can go out and face my death? I swear it by the skies, and if you wish I will swear it under the open sky, with fire in one hand, water in the other, and my bare feet on the earth.”
Roth stared at him. Orval met his look steadily.
It seemed many heartbeats before Roth bowed his head and dropped to one knee before Amari and Lara. Surprisingly, Yfin moved as well, taking the same position beside him.
“Yfin, you don’t—”
“Swore to the old lady.” Yfin’s mouth was set, his gaze firm. “Where my cap’n swears, I swear.”
Rosalind flicked her wrists and the last of the tapestries spread out before her, showing an airion in a battle with a wyvern, its beak cutting into the wyvern’s bloody neck. The colors were vivid, the red of the blood bright where it welled on the wyvern’s neck. “Seems appropriate,” she said as she also knelt.
Roth cleared his throat.
“Please, take a seat, Amari,” Orval said softly, stepping to her side.
When Amari did, Roth reached out his hands, palms up. Yfin and Rosalind copied his gesture.
“My hand to yours,” Roth and Rosalind chanted together, with Yfin stumbling a beat behind, copying them. “Bless you, Xylara, Daughter of Xy, Daughter of Xywellan and Queen Kara, Warrior Queen.”
A thrill passed through Orval as he responded to the ancient words. “On behalf of Xylara, Daughter of Xy, my hand to yours. Blessings upon you, Warriors of the House of Xy.”
A soft murmur from Xydell drew their attention, but her eyes did not open. Rosalind rose and went to her.
Yfin bounded up. Roth climbed to his feet and wiped his face with his hands. “Command me, Lord High Baron.”
“I am going out there,” Orval said. “I will try to come to terms with them, but if I have to—” he swallowed. “If I offer myself as sacrifice for the lives of my wife and children, you will
take them, leave the Black Hills, and head to Athelbryght. It’s strong and remained neutral in the struggles.”
“Whatever you do, Lord High Baron, don’t stop reading Xyson . It shall be as you command,” Roth said. “You should at least take a knife or—”
Orval shook his head. “Harmless is the best look for me.”
“We need a code and a counter-sign,” Roth said. “So we know it’s safe to open the door
when you return.” He offered suggestions and Orval listened absently and nodded, but really only paid attention to Amari. She had collapsed back on to her bench, tears in her eyes.
Orval passed Dalan to Rosalind and limped over to sit beside Amari.
“Orval, no, I can’t let you do this,” she whispered even as he opened his mouth to speak.
“You can, Hearth Mother.” Orval put his arm around her shoulders, felt her trembling against him. Lara’s tiny face was pressed into Amari’s soft breast as she suckled fiercely. He drew in the scent of Amari’s hair, of her skin, of baby and milk, and his heart cracked wide open.
Warmth flooded into his chest, so lovely it hurt. His old, book-lined life had been swept away and he had no regrets. If he needed to offer his life for hers and the children, he would do it without hesitation and not regret the going.
Orval’s heart twisted then, as he realized the truth. He would indeed regret the going, for he wanted more; he was greedy for more of life with this wonderful woman at his side.
“You can’t go,” Amari looked ill; her eyes were wet with tears. “You can’t do this.”
“Our duties,” Orval whispered. “As Hearth Mother, your duty is protecting the hearth. Our babes must have their mother.”
Amari nodded then, and he shifted to risk pressing a kiss to her temple. But she turned her head and met his lips with her own warm ones. “Please come back to us,” she begged against his mouth.
Her lips were sweet and salty on his. Orval did the hardest thing he’d ever done; he pulled away from her. “I will use every weapon I have, to return.” Orval forced himself to release her and rose to his feet. “Besides, it might take a few trips before they approach me.”
They were all staring at him and he found his courage in their steady gazes.
Straightening his tunic to cover his own concerns, Orval asked, “Where, exactly, is this shrine to the Lady of Laughter?”
The sun hadn’t yet set but the walls and the Keep created patterns of deep shadow and light. Orval slipped out the door and walked toward the main doors to the keep.
With a clunk, Roth and Yfin bolted the door behind him. It sounded so…foreboding. Still, Orval walked on through the courtyard.
This seemed so much easier in the books he’d read. Famous warriors never spoke of knots in their guts or of fear. When stories were told, no one mentioned a desire to puke. Orval paused, swallowed hard, and resolved to think of something else.
Pigeons fluttered in the rafters. Something scurried in the dead leaves that lay swirled in the corners by the wind. Scurrying rats, most like. He caught a brief glance of red fur and the bright eyes of a startled fox running off. Seemed Yfin had competition.
Orval stopped to admire the main doors, sagging from rusting hinges. Old wooden doors, warped by water and time. Despite being richly engraved and carved, they somehow looked lost.
He stepped into the main hall. Dead leaves rustled though no breeze stirred the air.
Rats, Orval assured himself. Just rats.
The stairs were off to the left, as Yfin had said, a circular stair with arrow slits that let in enough light to see. Cobwebs clung to the rough stone.
A Lady of Laughter shrine would be something to see. Few enough remained after the purge by the clerics of the Lord of the Sun. He’d read about the shrines, of course. Even seen a rare sketch. Orval frowned, trying to remember which book he’d seen that in, as he started up the steps.
Nowadays, the Lady of Laughter was rarely worshiped or invoked. The Church of the Lord of the Sky referred to her as the Lady of Darkness. A source of evil and chaos. But it hadn’t been that way in the old days.
Orval paused to catch his breath. The stairs weren’t that steep, and there was a clear enough path through the rubble and accumulated rubbish. Still, Orval took his time, resting one hand on the rough stone to make sure of his balance.
The first entrance he came to was dark, but he could see a bit of light ahead. Why hadn’t he thought to bring a lantern? He couldn’t linger long, since he didn’t want to lose the light. Besides, there didn’t seem to be anyone here but him.
He stepped in, looked up, and gaped in admiration.
Stars. The ceiling was covered in stars that glittered in the fading light.
He wandered forward without really looking where he was going and stumbled over the raised lip of a reflecting pool that had white marble pillars at each corner. No water now, of course, but in its day it would have been full, its waters and dark tiling designed to reflect the stars above. All white marble, now dirty and stained with time.
Orval stood in the center and stared up, turning in a circle. The stars seemed to wheel above him, still bright, although it looked like someone had scraped at a few to see if they were actually silver. Silver paint, perhaps. Did they reflect actual star patterns? Orval wasn’t sure but—
A rush of steps behind him was his only warning. They were on him fast, grabbing his arms and forcing him back violently against one of the pillars. Orval lost his breath at the impact, seeing nothing as a sack went over his head.
The sack smelled of tubers and dirt and was tight on his face.
Orval jerked back instinctively, banging his head on the pillar. When he tried to relax, he felt something sharp prick at his throat. He froze. In the stillness he only heard his ragged breaths and those of his captors.
An older female voice grated in his ear, grating and vicious. “Talk, scribe. Tell us of your master.”
“Uh,” was really the only thing Orval could think to say, trying to slow his heart and his breath. He wet his lips, feeling the rough cloth against his face. “Hard to talk with a blade to my throat,” he rasped.
“Harder to talk without a throat,” one of his captors snarled.
“There seems to be a misunderstanding—” Orval started.
“No misunderstanding what we have seen with our own eyes.” A woman’s voice rang out, sharp and hard. “We seek answers, scribe, not your blood. Answer our questions and you may return to your master.”
“I’m not a scribe, well, I am but—” Orval started to explain but they tightened their hands on him and forced his arms farther back. Anger shook him, then. Bullies, all of them.
Their sweaty hands grasped his wrists, their breathing was just as ragged as his. Fear was everywhere, and that which is feared is to be harmed.
“Answer her questions,” came a hiss.
“She hasn’t asked any,” Orval snapped, letting his temper get away from him.
His arms were jerked back yet again, painfully pressing him to the pillar behind him.
“Tell us of the Lord High Baron,” came the demand. The same female voice—and there was no fear in it. “He is clearly a warrior. How many are his forces and from which direction will they come?”
“None,” Orval said. “He— I— have no forces.”
“What sort of fool comes here to claim a barony without support? Brings only his wife, his son, his babes, one handmaiden, and a scribe?” Her disdain was clear, and Orval stiffened.
“The sort of fool who comes out to talk instead of flourishing a sword.” Orval’s anger grew. People always did this, assumed that he was a nothing due to his lack of weapons.
The woman scoffed. “What kind of Lord High Baron sends a scribe to his death?”
“The kind of Lord High Baron that risks himself to seek out his watchers to ask questions.”
“What?” From the confusion in her voice, it seemed that maybe she was finally listening.
“I am the Lord High Baron of the Black Hills,” Orval sucked in sour-tasting air through the sack. “Orval of the Airion House of Xy.”
There was silence then; he could almost hear them thinking it through.
“Any movement from the gatehouse?” she asked.
“No,” a different man’s voice, from farther off.
“There won’t be,” Orval said. “They’re bolted in, safe, waiting for my return.”
Breathing. Boots on the floor.
The sack was pulled off swiftly and Orval found himself blinking into the light of a lantern. He could see nothing else but the bright glare. Then the sack was back over his head, stifling him again.
The knife edge returned to his throat, cold against his skin, the point sticking into the bottom of his jaw. Orval felt a slow trickle of something wet and warm start down his neck.
“You have the look,” the woman said slowly. “The eyes, for certain.”
“And the hair,” Orval said ruefully. “Do we still need the sack?”
The blade pressed deeper. He sucked in a breath.
“We could kill you now,” she said, “and be rid of—”
“I came out to talk, didn’t I?” Orval interrupted quickly. “So I will talk. Xyrath and Satia want you to rid them of the Airion bloodline.” He sucked in another stale breath. “They hope you kill me, my wife and children, and my aunt. End the Airion bloodline and give the Wyverns an excuse to send an army to subdue you and claim this Barony.”
“You lie,” another voice, male this time.
“No,” Orval said. “The one thing I can promise is that I will not lie to you.”
The only sound was his own breathing. He was sweating profusely and his stomach was tight with a need to hurl. All he had were words, so he used them. “If you kill me, kill the newly appointed Lord High Baron, conveniently ridding them of the last of the Airion bloodline, Xyrath and Satia will use the excuse of avenging my death to lay waste to this Barony.”
“We are ready,” a younger male voice this time, passionate and eager. “We will fight them off as we have in the past, as did my father, and his father, and—”
“At what cost?” Orval asked. He shifted, trying to ease his weight off his leg. “There might be a way we can help one another. If I am not dead, Satia and Xyrath have no reason to attack, to send another as Lord High Baron.”
“They will find a reason,” the woman said.
“They might,” Orval admitted. He thought of the list of tithes back in the gatehouse and decided now was not the time to mention them. “They might not.”
“Trust a Xyian?” the oldest male asked, a bitter undertone in his voice. “Either Airion or Wyvern?”
Orval drew another breath of close, stilted air. “Then, if you must kill me, spare my wife and babes. Amari is from Uyole and does not deserve your hate. She is a woman of honor, and the children,” his throat closed. He forced the words out. “The children are innocent. Make out that you have slain us all, but let them go.”
“You offer us your life for theirs?”
“If you won’t consider other options, such as an alliance or truce, then yes,” Orval closed his eyes, feeling the sweat dripping down his face, the blood running down his neck.
His breath was deafening in confines of the sack. He heard nothing else for a long moment.
“There was one we trusted, long ago, she and her Lord High Baron,” the woman paused. “They were good people. But they died and left us in the hands of another Lord High Baron, known best for his cruelty and greed.”
Orval frowned, trying to remember his baronial history. “Which Lord High Baron could you trust?”
The woman sighed and Orval swore he heard a shrug. “Lord High Baron Jerrold and Lady High Baroness Xydell. I remember them well.”
The cold shiver of shock and disbelief hit Orval hard, and a laugh escaped him. Xydell?
“What’s so funny?” came this hiss.
“Aunt Xydell?” Orval asked.
“Aunt?”
Orval cleared his throat. “There is someone you should meet.”