Chapter Forty-Seven
The men of the village lifted Xydell’s bier onto the back of the wagon. To Orval’s eyes, the blanket seemed to glow an even brighter blue in the sunlight.
A fairly large crowd had gathered at the gates. As the wagon passed, they fell in behind, walking in silence. Roth, Rosalind, and Yfin fell in as well, welcomed by the other mourners.
Orval stood at the gate, shoulder to shoulder with Amari, glad of her support. He noted that other people, mostly older, were also watching, unable to accompany the wagon, which was an odd comfort. He wasn’t the only one who couldn’t make the journey.
They all watched as the procession disappeared over a hill. Then the crowd started to dissipate, heading to the village. Some glanced over their shoulders at himself and Amari.
Not all the looks were kind.
“Will they be safe?” Amari asked.
Orval put his arm around her shoulder. “Roth slipped Rosalind a dagger, and Yfin has his knives.” Amari jerked, but Orval continued. “But I doubt that they would dishonor Xydell with a slaughter at this time.”
Amari shivered next to him.
“You’re cold,” Orval said. “Let’s get inside.”
The room seemed empty without Xydell. The fire had died down and the faintest odor of the herbs that they had used hung in the air.
“Let’s leave the door open for a bit,” Orval suggested. “Air the place out.”
“Please,” Amari said. She propped the door open, then removed her cloak and placed it on the bench by the fire.
“There is something else, she said hesitantly. “A simple cleansing ritual. It won’t take long.”
Orval nodded, starting to add wood to the fire.
Amari smoothed her hair and faced the hearth. She bowed her head for a moment, then took the salt cellar from the mantle. With graceful movements, she circled the table where Xydell had been laid out, scattering salt on its surface.
Orval watched, lost in her grace.
The salt cellar returned to the mantel, Amari took a dipper of water from the bucket and poured it into a small wooden bowl. Again, she circled the table, flicking water droplets onto its surface with her lovely hands. She took a drink from the bowl, then offered it to Orval.
He drank, finding the water clean and cool.
Amari placed the bowl on the mantel.
The room was colder now, with the door open, despite the blaze in the hearth. Amari took a piece of kindling from the wood box and set the tip to the flame. Once again, she circled the table, waving the smoldering stick over the table.
With her round completed, the stick went into the fire.
“What are you doing?” Orval asked quietly.
She shook her head at him, signaling for silence. Taking a clean cloth from the nappy basket she kept by the fire, she started to rub the wet salt into the rough wood of the table. There was nothing gentle about this, the table rocked with the strength of her arms. Again, she circled the table, scrubbing every inch of its surface.
She went ‘round again with the water, until the wood was cleaned of the salt.
Once she was done, she turned back to the hearth and bowed her head. The cloth was hung from one of the pot hooks to dry.
Then she sat, wearily, on the bench opposite Orval. “An old custom,” she said. “From Uyole. The salting of the table after a death in the house.” She glanced at the cloth. “I will burn that after it dries.”
“Can I close the door?” Orval asked.
“I will,” she said and rose to do just that, throwing the bolts. “I need to check the babes.”
Orval nodded, adding another piece of wood to the fire. The room warmed quickly with the door closed. He could hear Amari moving about, but other than that, the gatehouse was filled with a rare silence. He poked at the fire, thinking. Couldn’t help that persistent little doubt that he wasn’t enough for her.
“Still sleeping,” Amari said softly as she returned. She looked so tired and worn that Orval’s heart hurt for her. For all his fear of asking the question, fear of hearing her answer, what mattered was her, wasn’t it? Even if it was a truth he didn’t want to know. He couldn’t go on, not knowing.
She sat on the bench, checking to see if the cloth had dried.
Before he could lose his resolve, Orval said, “Amari, won’t you tell me what is troubling you?”
She jerked, her eyes wide, and stared at him for a moment before bursting into tears with a wail. She covered her face with her hands, sobbing.
“Amari—” Orval was shaken by her response. Amari, who was so strong, so resilient, who had fled a battlefield with two babes, and dealt with every blow she’d been given. “Amari, please tell me what—”
“I’m pregnant,” she gasped.
His shock was followed by a joy that bubbled up in Orval’s heart and spilled into a huge grin and a laugh that he could barely restrain. But he held it in as she wept, huge, gulping sobs that shook her body.
He wanted to comfort her but he wasn’t sure how. He felt at a total loss, not knowing what to say. But he had to try. “Amari, are you not pleased?”
She nodded. “I am, I am,” she said, then burst into fresh tears, trembling like a leaf.
Orval waited, hesitant. “Help me understand.”
She drew in a deep breath and when she spoke, her words tumbled over one another. “I told you I was nursing, that I couldn’t quicken, but Wethe scolded me for an idiot for believing that old wives tale, but I did believe it and I didn’t mean to add to our troubles, with another baby and this—” she waved her hands around, indicating the room, the gatehouse, the whole situation for all Orval knew.
“This is no place for babes and we’ve no stocks of food and we are barely scraping by and—” She sucked in a breath. “And, and the last time—” she couldn’t finish the sentence and put her face back in her hands, refusing to look at him.
It took Orval a moment. “And the last time you told a man you were expecting his baby, he rejected you in the cruelest way possible.”
She didn’t look up, just kept crying, wiping her face with her hands.
For a long moment, Orval didn’t move, afraid to say anything that might hurt her, unsure that he could even find the right words.
At last he struggled to his feet, limped over, and took a nappy from the basket by the hearth. He sat next to Amari and offered her the cloth. She took it, staring at him, all bleary-eyed and teary.
“You can dry your face with that, if you like,” he said. “Or I can dry your face with kisses.”
She snort-laughed, choking, stared at him for an endless moment, then threw herself into his arms.
Orval managed to brace himself with his good leg as he took her weight, then held this warm, wonderful woman tight. He didn’t try to shush her, just let her cry. Once her sobs eased, she tried to pull back, but he held her tight for a few seconds longer before releasing her—just enough to rain kisses over her face.
Which made her smile and push him away enough that she could mop her face with the cloth. He kept his arm around her shoulders.
“I was so afraid,” she whispered.
“How long have you carried this fear alone?” Orval asked.
“Since Wethe confirmed my suspicions.” Amari drew a breath. “Orval, it’s early yet. We could—” Another breath. “It might be smarter to take the medicines and…” her voice trailed off. Her next words were a whisper. “With all the dangers we face.”
“True, it’s dangerous to bring another child into the world,” Orval reached for her hand. “But—” he started, then stopped. “It is your decision, Amari. I support any choice you make. But oh,” his voice broke, “I so want another child with you. This child.”
“So do I,” Amari confessed. “With your eyes,” she whispered.
“No, with yours. Dark and sweet.” Orval choked back a sob. “The best reflection of both of us.”
She brought his hand up and kissed it.
“You are right,” he said, weak with relief. “We face challenges. But you are strong.”
“We both are,” she chided him. “In our own ways.”
“Yes,” Orval said. “The future holds no promises for us, beloved, owes us no obligations, that’s true. But we have our promise to each other, and if we hold true to that, we will find a way to build a Hearth.” He cleared his throat. “To that end, Hearth Mother, it would appear that we have met the requirements of entering into a formal marriage contract.”
She sat back, her eyes still wide, but shining now with hope. He brushed her cheeks with his lips.
“We will get paper and ink and draft it together, you and I.” He pressed his forehead to hers. “We will craft wonderful words, whole paragraphs and clauses, together, you and I, that will honor your traditions and mine.”
“That would be wonderful,” she breathed.
“This time, you will have to tell me what kind of bracelet,” he said dryly.
That brought a wet chuckle.
“There’s something else,” Orval said. “Something my Aunt reminded me of, before she passed. There are old words,” he took a breath. “Not used much these days, but a tradition in my family.”
You have honored my ways,” Amari said. “I will honor yours, if I can. Tell me these words.”
Orval hesitated. He’d never thought to say these words, never thought to find a companion, one who was willing to share his life, one who he could trust with his heart. But he wanted this, more than anything, and he tried to put his feelings into the ancient words.
“Amari Misalyn Anouk, flame of my heart, I would bond with you.” Orval said. “Be my star, my flame, my night wind and my morning sun, to the snows and beyond.”
Amari caught her breath, looking at him with eyes that shined with love.
“Orval of the Airion House of Xy, flame of my heart, I would bond with you.” She pressed her forehead to his. “Be my star, my flame, my night wind and my morning sun, to the snows and beyond.”
They kissed, and kissed again, each flowing into the other with quiet joy. The fire popped and crackled as if it approved.
“The babes will wake soon,” Amari whispered.
Orval nodded, drawing her head to his shoulder. “But not just yet. For now, for this moment, just let me hold you here in the warmth of our Hearth.
Amari nodded, pressing close.
“When the babes wake, when the others return, we will face our challenges.” Orval said.
Amari reached for his hand. She wove her fingers into his. “Together.”
“Together.”