Chapter 3
The morning is grey and cold, the kind of mountain dawn that has not yet decided whether it wants to be spring or winter and has settled for some amalgamation of both.
Fog clings to the lower walls of the stronghold and pools in the courtyard, thick and slow-moving, and the air has a bite to it that makes Evran's breath come out in thin white plumes.
The horses are already saddled and waiting in the yard, sturdy mountain-bred things with thick necks and shaggy coats and an air of general indifference to the commotion around them.
Supplies are being loaded onto pack animals, and warriors move through the fog checking straps and cinches and the edges of blades.
Bran's voice carries from somewhere near the gate, issuing instructions that are half command and half cheerful suggestion, and Leona is beside him, providing emotional support and nothing else because she knows better than to get involved when Bran is planning.
Evran stands near the stables with his pack over one shoulder and the new weight of the braid against his neck.
He has been touching it all morning and he cannot seem to stop.
Every time his fingers find the smooth round press of the beads, something warm pulses through him, and he has to remind himself to breathe normally and stop grinning, and he is succeeding at neither of these things.
"Evran!"
He turns. Aether is crossing the courtyard toward him with something draped over her arm, her long stride unhurried and her expression something close to apprehensive.
She had mentioned to him yesterday that she did not like the idea of him traveling so far to be paraded around in front of the clans, but he had assured her there would be no parading.
Vaike would be with him and, regardless of Evran's standing, there is no one who takes the attention from the Warlord when he is in a room.
She stops in front of him and shakes out the fabric.
It is a cloak. Deep charcoal wool, dense and finely woven, with a hood lined in something softer, rabbit fur or perhaps the belly-wool of the highland sheep Aether has been experimenting with.
The weave is tight and even, made to repel water, and the edges are finished with a border of dark blue thread in a pattern Evran recognizes from the Drakkari banners.
It is, without question, the most beautiful garment anyone has ever made for him.
"Arms out," Aether says.
Evran puts his arms out. She sweeps the cloak around his shoulders and settles it into place, adjusting the fall of it with quick, practiced hands.
From somewhere in her belt pouch she produces a brooch, iron and simple, stamped with the Drakkari sigil, and pins the cloak at his throat.
She steps back, tilts her head, and examines him with the critical eye of a master artisan assessing a finished piece.
"Well," she says, looking pleased. "Don't you look positively regal."
Evran runs his hand down the front of the cloak.
The wool is dense and warm beneath his fingers, and he can feel the hours in it, the hours of spinning and warping and weaving and finishing, all done in the days since the Gathering was announced, all done without a word to him because Aether does not announce her gifts.
She simply makes them and expects them to be worn.
The generosity of it is staggering, and even more staggering is the casualness with which she offers it, the offhanded matter-of-factness that says of course I made you a cloak, you are mine and I do not send mine into the world without proper clothing.
"Aether," he says, and his voice does something embarrassing.
"Don't," she says firmly. "If you cry on it before you've even left the gate, I will be very cross."
He laughs, a wet sound that he does not fully succeed in keeping steady, and pulls her into a hug. She hugs him back, brief and fierce, and then pulls away and holds him by the shoulders with hands that are strong and calloused and entirely certain.
"Bring me something from Heldrin's End," she says. "Something fancy. I've heard the Rendari have access to southern dyes I can't get here, and if you come back empty-handed I will take it as an act of war."
"I wouldn't dare."
"See that you don't." Her eyes flick to the braid at his temple, and something crosses her face, quick and private, gone before he can name it.
It might be pride or tenderness or some feeling that doesn't have a word, the feeling of watching someone you care about receive the love they deserve.
She reaches out and touches the braid once, lightly, with the tips of her fingers.
Then she drops her hand and nods, as though confirming something to herself.
"Passable work for a thirty-four-year-old bachelor," she says. "The tension is slightly uneven in the third pass, but the bead placement is thoughtful."
Evran laughs. "I'll tell him you approve."
"Tell him I said it was passable, in exactly those words." She turns and walks back toward her workshop without looking back, and Evran watches her go and loves her so fiercely it hurts.
He barely has time to collect himself before a small body collides with his midsection.
"You promised you'd come find me before you left!"
Eira's face is flushed from running, and there is dirt on her hands and a streak of it across her cheek that suggests she was pulled directly from the garden.
Her eyes are bright and slightly too shiny, and her lower lip is doing the thing it does when she is trying very hard to be brave and not entirely succeeding.
"I was coming to find you right now," Evran says, which is mostly true if one is generous with the definition of right now.
"You were not. You were standing here touching your braid and looking dreamy."
"I was not looking dreamy."
"You were. Everyone can see it. Kellin said you've been useless all morning."
Evran makes a mental note to have words with Kellin. Eira's hands find his cloak and grip the wool, and her chin trembles once before she sets it firm.
"Swear you'll be safe," she says.
"I swear."
She searches his face with the fierce scrutiny of a girl who has decided she is responsible for his well-being and will not be satisfied with anything less than total honesty.
Whatever she finds there satisfies her, because she lets out a breath and throws her arms around his neck.
He wraps his arms around her small frame and holds her, and she smells of soil and green things and the rosemary she tucks behind her ear when she's working, and the thought of being away from her for weeks makes something clench behind his ribs.
"I'm in the best hands possible," he tells her, quietly, into her hair.
"I know," she says, muffled against his shoulder. "But I'm still going to worry."
"That's your job."
"Someone has to do it."
He laughs and kisses the top of her head and lets her go. Eira wipes her eyes with the back of her hand, leaving another streak of dirt, and straightens herself with the dignity of a small queen composing herself before court.
"Bring me something?" she asks.
"Aether already made me promise the same thing."
"Then you'd better not forget or you'll have two cross women to contend with."
She backs away, watching him, and then turns and runs back toward the garden with the quick, sure stride of a girl with plants to tend who cannot afford to waste any more time on sentiment.
Evran watches her disappear around the corner of the terrace wall and breathes out slowly.
The warmth of her, the fierceness of her concern, lingers in his chest and mixes with the weight of Aether's cloak on his shoulders and the press of the braid at his temple, and for a moment he stands in the courtyard and lets himself feel the full, improbable gift of being loved by these people.
"Ready?"
Vaike's voice, behind him. Evran turns and finds his husband already mounted, sitting atop a dark grey stallion with an ease Evran is not going to be capable of replicating.
Evran allows himself a moment to simply look because he is allowed now, because that is one of the many quiet privileges that come with being married to this man, the right to stare openly and without pretense.
Vaike looks extraordinary. Dressed in riding leathers and a heavy fur-lined cloak, the Drakkari sigil stamped into the pauldron at his shoulder, his brown hair pulled back from his face and his jaw set against the morning cold, he looks exactly like what he is: a Warlord preparing to ride into a world that is entirely unprepared for it.
Evran pulls Aether's cloak tighter around his shoulders and goes to his horse.
The mountain horse assigned to him is a dun mare with a calm eye and a temperament that gives away that she has carried inexperienced riders before and has no particular feelings about doing so again.
Evran swings into the saddle with false confidence and is pleased when he does not shift off the other side onto the ground.
It has been a long time since he has ridden, but the muscle memory is there, buried beneath months of gardens and looms, and his body remembers the seat even if his thighs will be screaming about it by nightfall.
The riding party assembles at the gate. Bran and Leona take the lead, Bran on a massive draft horse that still looks slightly too small for him and Leona on a lean, quick-footed bay that matches her hair.
Behind them ride six of Vaike's elite warriors, armed and watchful, their cloaks bearing the Drakkari colors.
Evran recognizes all of them by name now and is greeted with friendly nods and the occasional raised hand as he passes.
He settles into place beside Vaike, and the column moves.