Chapter Forty-Six
They made sure Xydell was never alone.
During the day, someone was always in the kitchen; cooking or puttering. At times Xydell was talkative, especially during Yfin’s reading and writing lessons. She seemed to like the boy, perking up whenever he laughed.
There was a small stream of visitors as Mother Bercie would bring one or two people who remembered the Lady High Baroness and were known to her. Xydell’s face would light up, she’d extend a frail hand, and they would all sit in the warmth of the kitchen and talk in hushed voices. Orval noted as the days passed that some of the looks he got were kinder, or at the least he detected less malice.
But as the days went on, Xydell drowsed more, rousing only long enough for a bite to eat or a sip of kav. She always made an effort when Mother Bercie arrived, but afterwards Xydell always slept deeply. So deeply, in fact, that once or twice Orval checked to make sure she was still with them.
Wethe was true to her word, bringing possets and mixtures that helped ease Xydell. Once, outside, she looked Orval in the eye. “Have you seen death?” she asked softly.
“Yes,” Orval said. “My sister, of the Sweat.” He looked away. “I sat with her.”
“Ah,” Wethe said. “This won’t quite be the same. Your Aunt won’t be feverish or fretful. I suspect she will slip from us quietly, so long as she is comfortable. Perhaps best then that you take the night shifts, yes?”
He’d nodded. It was no real burden for him. Every night, he’d see Amari and the babes to sleep then relieve Rosalind and sit by the fire with the Epic of Xyson . For the last few weeks, he’d enjoyed the quiet, so rare these days.
Not tonight.
Tonight, he opened the book, stared past the words, and looked his troubles in the eye.
Mother Bercie, her son, and the entire town—none of them trusted him. Bercie was paranoid and suspicious, and from what Orval had learned of the history, she had every right to be. They all did. The Black Hills had been fought over like a carcass being fought over by wolves fighting a mountain lion. The land and its people were the worse for it.
Jerrold was grim and hard. Orval was fair certain that without Amari and the babes, he’d be dead.
A log in the hearth collapsed. Orval rose, sucked in a breath waiting for his leg to support him, then added wood to the fire.
True enough, the people were seeing to the newcomers’ basic needs. But for how long would that continue?
He had promised Bercie and her people that he wouldn’t lie, but he hadn’t shared the truth of Lara’s parentage and wasn’t sure he ever would. Safer that way, although to be honest, he had the unsettling thought that too many people already knew the truth.
He sat back down by the bed, stretching his bad leg toward the warmth. It hurt, to be hated for what he could not change. He couldn’t change his blood, his leg, or the past.
He trusted Roth and Rosalind. They would both die before betraying the secret and Yfin would follow Roth in that regard. But Rosalind made Orval uneasy for reasons he couldn’t quite put his finger on. He thought she favored Lara over Dalan, but he wasn’t sure. He hadn’t mentioned it to Amari yet because…
He drew in a breath, not wanting to face it, but Amari was his other worry. No, more of a fear. The last week or so, she’d been acting different. Pulling back from him, not meeting his eyes. A few times, he caught her staring at him, her mouth open as if to say something, but then she’d turn away.
Orval frowned, staring into the fire. It was hard, to be husband and wife. He’d thought it would be easier somehow, that having a relationship meant that you knew the other’s thoughts and feelings. It wasn’t like that at all.
Vren had said that a marcus would come. So it was still a possibility that she would leave and take the children with her. Orval knew they’d be safer away from this place, this strife, but he couldn’t bear the thought of losing her.
It wasn’t just the nights, oh, the nights when they took pleasure with one another. But the days, with her sharp wit and her laugh and her tenderness to the babes. And the babies themselves, Dalan and Lara were such joys. He smiled wryly to himself; how had he ever lived without them?
Well, he hadn’t, had he?
He grimaced then. He didn’t have the courage to just come out and ask her what was wrong, to press her to tell him what was troubling her. Fool that he was, coward that he was, all he could do was wait and see.
Xydell stirred and opened her eyes.
“Aunt Xydell.” Orval closed his book and leaned over. “Can I get you anything?”
She turned toward him and smiled. She looked relaxed and so much younger. “Orval,” she said, reaching out a trembling hand. “You love Amari.”
“I do,” He took her hand in his. It felt so cold and frail. “And even better, she seems to care for me.” He smiled, still trying to understand the wonder of it, and hoping it was still true. But his doubts were not something he was going to discuss with his Aunt.
“Good,” she whispered. “That’s good.” She yawned and sighed. “Sometimes it seems this has all been a bad dream. All the pain, all the grief, since my Jerrold died.”
“Perhaps, if I hadn’t buried myself in ancient history, I wouldn’t have ignored the living history before me,” he said, voicing his own quiet regret.
Xydell sighed. “Perhaps, if I had let my bitterness go, I might have been willing to talk of the past.” She plucked at the blankets with her free hand, “Old people can be so stubborn.”
“Life is wasted on the young,” he said. They shared a smile.
“Go back to sleep,” Orval said softly. “And dream a better dream.”
“It’s good to be back home.” She closed her eyes and murmured something faintly.
Orval leaned in to hear.
“The fire has warmed me.” Her words were nearly breathless, a final struggle.
He’d never been sure of his Aunt’s beliefs. It wasn’t much talked of in the family. But Orval knew the ancient words; he’d learned them at his mother’s knee.
“We thank the elements,” he recited.
“The earth has supported—” Aunt Xydell drew a ragged breath.
“The earth has supported you,” Orval finished for her. “We thank the elements.”
Her lips moved, following his words.
He drew a breath as she slipped into sleep, her breathing growing shallow. “The waters have sustained you. We thank the elements.” He kept his voice soft, not wanting to disturb her. “The air has filled you. We thank the elements.” He paused, then gave the traditional ending.
“Go now, warrior. Beyond the snows and to the stars.”
It was only when he stopped talking that he realized she had stopped breathing.
The silence seemed endless; the only sound the crackle of the fire. There should have been an outcry, the peal of a horn or the crack of a glass shattering. But there was nothing like that, just something precious and quiet gone from the room.
There was a ritual, actions to take, words to speak, but his throat closed and the tears came. He allowed himself a breath, and then another, then wrapped his fingers around Xydell’s thin right wrist.
“Xydell,” he called softly, his voice cracking. “Xydell of the Blood of Xy, answer me.”
There was no response.
Orval shifted, reaching for her left hand. Those pale, frail fingers. “Xydell, Daughter of the Blood, answer me.”
Left, foot, right foot, each time calling her name. He knew she was gone far beyond his voice, but as with all who suffer this loss, he hoped for her to wake, to open her eyes and scold him for being a dolt, for probably getting the ritual wrong.
Finished, he put his hands in his lap, acknowledging his pain and grief, and, to be honest, keeping her to himself for just a moment longer.
Then he rose and went to the door, opening it wide to let in the cool night air, and offered his tears to the wind and the glittering stars.
Finally, he drew a deep breath. He’d need to wake the others, and send word to Mother Bercie. He went to close the door when the thought occurred.
The Black Hills have no reason to keep us alive.
Orval hadn’t mentioned his fear to the others, but the tension was there as they watched Mayor Jerrold bring a wagon filled with women at dawn. “We’ve come to see to her, for the washing and the laying out.” Mother Bercie said as the others climbed down from the wagon.
“She is of the Blood,” Rosalind’s voice was strident and fierce. “She must be honored properly.”
“We do not honor her for her Blood,” Bercie snapped. “We honor her as Our Lord High Baroness, who cared for her people and suffered for them.”
There was a pause, then Amari placed her hand on Rosalind’s arm. “We thank you for your aid.” Amari said gently. “She is within, and we have water warming by the fire.”
“The men can wait outside.” Bercie announced, and started toward the gatehouse.
Orval walked over to the bench and sat, Roth followed but remained standing. Yfin wandered, shoulders hunched, kicking at stones.
“See to Yfin,” Orval said.
Roth glanced toward Jerrold, who was seeing to the horse.
Orval just shook his head, and nodded to Yfin.
Roth heaved a sigh. “I’ll see to him,” Roth said softly. “Hey, Yfin,” he called. “Let’s go hunt a few pigeons, shall we?”
At the lad’s nod, Roth patted Orval’s shoulder and headed off toward the old stables, Yfin in tow.
Jerrold had finished his work, and had walked to the well.
“It’s still filled with rocks,” Orval called, wrapping himself tighter in his cloak. “The only water is the well in the cellar,” he pointed at the gatehouse with his chin.
Jerrold gave an abrupt nod, then looked at loose ends.
“I have a question,” Orval ventured. “What did Aunt Xydell mean by ‘with the hidden ones’?”
Jerrold glanced at the door, and for a moment Orval was certain that the man was going to refuse to talk to him. But with a shrug, Jerrold drew closer, taking a defiant stand in front of him.
“Years of war have taught us well.” His deep voice made it a pronouncement. “Seeing our wells filled with stones, our fields burned, our dead desecrated, we learned to hide our dead, among other things. Where is none of your concern.”
“Ah,” Orval shifted on the bench, glancing at the well. “We tried to shift the rocks out you know, but they are too deep and heavy for us.”
“I know,” Jerrold said. “We watched.”
“Yes, of course,” Orval glanced at the gatehouse.
“We will treat her with respect,” Jerrold said. “More respect than the Blood of Xy has ever shown us.”
Orval craned his neck to look up at the man, genuinely surprised. “I never doubted that. I am truly grateful.”
From behind them, in the depths of the Keep, came a triumphant shout from Yfin and the fluttering of wings.
Jerrold relaxed slightly. When Orval gave him a questioning look, he shrugged. “He sounds like my son,” Jerrold said gruffly.
Orval nodded his understanding, then nodded toward the gatehouse. “How long will that take, do you think?”
Jerrold shrugged, and sat on the other end of the bench, adjusting his scabbard. “About an hour, maybe a bit longer.”
Orval nodded.
After another moment, Jerrold spoke. “I have a question.”
Orval met his gaze with a raised eyebrow.
“What is it you really want, Lord High Baron?” The disdain in his voice was clear.
In his mind’s eye, Orval was back in their apartments, an ache of homesickness for crowded shelves, copper lanterns, the smell of pease cooking. Amari’s delightful laugh and the gurgle of babes in arms. Those precious days before all of this had crashed down on him. On them.
Orval drew a breath. “I want a place,” he said slowly. “Where I can build a life with my wife and children where we need not fear the knock at the door or want for our basic needs.”
“Not power?” Jerrold asked. “Not wealth, dominion, or glory?”
“No.” Orval said, dying to launch into all the historical, philosophical, and practical reasons behind his answer, but shut his mouth firmly.
Jerrold grunted, then went silent. Orval was more than willing to do the same, for fear of offending the man. They sat in the sun, listening to the occasional shouts from Yfin, of both success and failure. At one particularly loud string of curses, Orval couldn’t help but chuckle. He glanced over to see a half-smile on Jerrold’s face.
It was a start, maybe.
When the door finally opened, Mother Bercie emerged with Amari. Orval could hear, in the gatehouse, women’s voices raised in a chant.
Jerrold rose to greet the women. Stiff from sitting, Orval struggled to get up. Jerrold extended a hand to aid him and Orval took it with thanks.
“It’s done,” Mother Bercie said, coming to stand in front of them. Amari nodded to Orval to confirm.
“Thank you,” Orval said.
“Others who wish to honor her will be here shortly,” Bercie continued. “We will escort her and see her entombed.” She looked at Orval. “You cannot come.”
“I know,” Orval said. “The Blood of Xy—”
“No,” Mother Bercie stopped him with a raised hand. “The path up into the mountain is narrow and torturous. With your leg…”
“Oh,” Orval said.
“And Amari should not risk it.” Mother Bercie decreed.
Orval expected a protest, but Amari’s head was down, her gaze firmly on her shoes.
“The others would be welcome, to witness the honor we give her.” Mother Bercie finished.
“Mother—” Jerrold started.
“No, my son,” she said firmly. “These two need to know from those they trust that we did her right and proper.” Bercie sighed, her eyes going to the Keep behind them. “As she deserves.” She huffed out a breath and focused on Orval. “I tell people that hatred blinds, but I seethe at what was done to her. Past and present, like she was nothing but a tool.”
Orval nodded. “I would hope that the enemy of my enemy is my friend,” he said cautiously.
“Not yet, Orval of Xy,” Berice said, “not yet. But we can agree to be uneasy allies.”
Amari spoke. “With an uneasy truce?”
Bercie snorted. “Truce?” But then she shrugged. “You may both, in fact, be worth more to us alive as the token Lord and Lady High Baron. Time will tell.”
“I do have some coin,” Orval said. “We could pay for food and services.”
“We will see,” Bercie said. She looked back at the gatehouse. “You should make your farewells.”
Orval nodded and started toward the door. Rosalind was waiting, tears in her eyes. “Come see,” she said, opening the door wide.
The fire in the hearth was a strong, steady glow. Orval stepped within to a room ringed with women of all ages, chanting softly.
Xydell lay on the table, her face at peace, her white hair braided around her head like a crown.
Orval caught his breath.
Xydell was covered in a traditional airion blanket, of blue and white wool, with embroidered airions dancing in a smattering of clouds. It glowed in the firelight, and he could swear that the creatures’ eyes glittered as if alive.
“Where—?” He barely dared breathe.
One of the women spoke up. “My Gran smuggled it out of the Keep when the Wyverns came. Said it was woven by her hand, and damned if any would ruin her good work.” She reached out and touched the cloth. “I remembered it when we heard the Lady Baroness had passed. I think Gran would have wanted it used this way. Seems fitting, don’t you think?”
“Yes,” Orval wiped at his eyes, suddenly feeling the loss. “You honor her and us with this.”
The woman nodded and resumed chanting. Orval went closer and pressed a kiss to Xydell’s forehead before he pulled the blanket over her head as the music flowed.
From the look on her face, he was sure she had already found her Jerrold.