Chapter 3 #2
The stronghold falls away behind them as they take the northern trail into the mountains.
The fog begins to thin as they climb, burning off in pale ribbons as the sun finds its footing, and the world opens up around them in a way that still, after all these months, takes Evran's breath and holds it.
He has lived among the mountains, has seen them from the stronghold walls in every light and weather, has watched the seasons change their colors from the garden terrace.
But being in them is different. The trail winds through stands of pine and bare-limbed birch, following the contour of the ridge, and on either side the land falls away into valleys still holding the last of the winter snow.
Water runs everywhere, over rocks, down cliff faces, pooling in hollows where the ice has only just retreated, and the sound of it is constant, a rushing murmur beneath the clop of hooves on stone.
Leona was right, and spring is the most beautiful time to see them.
The wildflowers are just beginning, pale purple and white, pushing up through the rocky soil in clusters that look too delicate to survive the altitude, and yet here they are.
Evran sees them clinging to ledges and filling crevices and carpeting a south-facing slope in a wash of color that makes him think of Eira, who would be beside herself at the sight.
He rides beside Vaike and tries not to sneak glances at him, and fails miserably at this as well.
The braid is a constant weight at his temple, swaying gently with the motion of the horse, and every time it brushes his jaw his hand itches to reach up and touch it.
He catches himself doing it twice in the first hour, fingers finding the beads, tracing their smooth surfaces, reassuring himself they are real, and forces his hand back to the reins with a discipline that takes more effort than it should.
The third time, Vaike notices.
He does not say anything, because he does not have to. The corner of his mouth pulls up, just slightly, and his eyes slide to Evran with a look that is warm and knowing and entirely too pleased with itself. Evran flushes and fixes his gaze firmly on the trail ahead.
The braid sways against his neck. He does not touch it again for at least ten minutes, which he considers a meaningful improvement.
They ride through the morning and into the afternoon, stopping once to water the horses at a stream that runs clear and cold over a bed of smooth stones.
Evran dismounts with a wince, because his thighs are already making their displeasure known in vivid and creative ways, and leads the mare to the water.
Bran appears beside him, leading his own horse, and the ground seems to vibrate slightly with each of his steps.
"How are you holding up, lad?" He asks it with genuine warmth, the way he asks everything, as though Evran's comfort is a matter of real importance to him.
Bran has been this way from the beginning, open-handed and open-hearted, a man who treats kindness as the most natural state of being and would be confused by anyone who did not.
"Well enough," Evran says. "Ask me again tonight when I can't feel my legs."
Bran laughs, a booming sound that startles a bird from a nearby tree. "You'll toughen up. The mountain horses have a smoother gait than those flat-footed beasts you're used to in the south. Give it a day and you'll barely notice."
"Your faith in me is generous as always, Bran."
"What can I say? I'm an optimist." Bran grins at him and claps him on the shoulder with a hand that takes up most of Evran's shoulder.
Evran staggers slightly but manages to stay upright, which he considers a victory.
"It's good to have you with us, Evran. It's been a long time since there was a reason to bring joy along on one of these rides. "
The words settle into Evran with a feeling of belonging he is growing used to but has not yet learned to take for granted, and he smiles up at the larger man and means it when he says, "I'm glad to be here."
They mount up and ride on.
The outcropping appears in the late afternoon as the light goes golden and long across the peaks. It juts from the mountainside, a shelf of grey stone that widens into a natural overhang and then deepens into the dark mouth of a cave.
Bran dismounts first and stretches, his joints popping audibly, and surveys the cave entrance with the easy recognition of a familiar place. "Here we are. Home for the night."
The cave is larger than Evran expected from seeing the outside, the ceiling high enough that even Bran does not need to duck, and the walls smooth with the patient work of water over centuries.
The entrance is wide and lets in the last of the daylight, but beyond the first twenty paces the darkness thickens, and the back of the cave disappears into shadow that seems to go on further than shadow has any right to go.
Evran eyes it warily.
"It's been used in times of travel to host entire armies," Bran tells him, following his gaze.
He is already helping unload the pack horses, moving saddlebags that would take Evran both hands to lift with casual ease.
"There's room enough for a hundred, maybe more.
But I wouldn't venture too far inside." He gives Evran a conspiratorial look.
"We're not entirely certain how deep it goes. "
Evran looks at the darkness, and the darkness gives every impression of looking back.
"Don't worry," he says. "I'm not interested in finding anything sleeping in there."
Bran laughs again, that wonderful full-throated sound, and returns to the horses.
Camp takes shape quickly. The Drakkari know what they are doing, and Evran watches the efficient choreography of people who are accustomed to living on the road.
Bedrolls are laid out in a semicircle near the cave mouth, a fire ring is built from stones that show the char marks of previous use, and horses are picketed along the sheltered side of the outcropping where the wind cannot reach them.
Evran helps. He is not the fastest or the most skilled, but he has hands and he is willing, and no one has ever faulted him for trying.
He helps unpack the cooking supplies and lay out the bedrolls and does a passable job at both, and no one corrects him or redoes his work afterward, which he takes as the compliment it is.
When the fire is lit, he goes to collect extra wood.
He is halfway down the slope, arms already full of dry branches, when a voice calls out behind him.
"Need a hand?"
One of Vaike's elite, Naela, is beside him before he can answer, crouching to snap a dead limb from a fallen pine with one easy motion.
She is tall and fair, with blonde hair braided tight against her scalp in the warrior's fashion and striking pale eyes that catch the fading light and hold it.
The axe at her belt is never far from her hand, but her smile is easy and unguarded, and she had been one of the first among Vaike's warriors to treat Evran as a person worth knowing on his own terms.
"Thank you," Evran says, shifting the branches in his arms.
They work in companionable silence for a few minutes, gathering what they can from the nearby trees.
The light is fading fast, the sun dropping behind the western peaks, and the air has gone from cool to cold with the abruptness of mountain evenings.
Evran is grateful for Aether's cloak, for its weight on his shoulders and the warmth it holds close to his body.
Naela's eyes find the braid.
She does not try to hide the fact that she is looking, and a grin splits her face, wide and bright and entirely delighted.
"Well," she says. "Look at that."
Evran's hand goes to the braid before he can stop it. "It's, yes. It happened..."
"When?"
"Last night."
Naela whistles, low and impressed. "He's been planning that for a while, you know. Bran told me he's been carving those beads for months."
Evran's chest does the thing it keeps doing today, the warm expansion that feels too large for his ribs, and he stares at her. "Months?"
"At least." She shifts her armload of branches and gives him a look that is half amusement, half genuine warmth. "It happened so fast, did it?"
"It happened so fast I can barely reconcile it," Evran admits, and the admission carries the wonder of a man still catching up to his own happiness, still looking at the braid and the beads and the ring they represent and unable to quite believe that all of it is real and all of it is his.
Naela shakes her head, still grinning. "That's how things are with the northern clans.
The mountain is harsh, and the people persevere, and they're not known for dilly-dallying when there's something they want.
" She pauses, tilting her head at him. "I'm surprised it's taken our Warlord this long to claim you. "
The word sends a flush up Evran's neck. "It's not a claim."
Naela laughs, the sound bright and sharp in the thin mountain air.
"It most certainly is a claim. Everyone at that summit is going to know exactly who you belong to.
" She nudges him with her elbow, nearly toppling him and the branches he is carrying.
"You might have to beat off some courtiers, you know.
Your husband doesn't have a braid of his own yet.
There will be people who take that as an invitation. "
He had not thought about that. The absence of a matching braid in Vaike's hair, the visible, public absence of it, suddenly takes on a significance he had not considered.
At the stronghold, among people who know them, the absence means nothing.
But at a summit full of strangers, surrounded by clan politics and the careful parsing of every visible symbol, it could mean a great deal.
"That's my fault," he says. "I wasn't aware of the customs. I didn't know he was making plans."