Chapter 7
There is a knock on the door, gentle but firm, and Leona's voice is on the other side. "Warlord, council assembles in an hour."
Vaike groans, very quietly, into the back of Evran's neck. Evran bites his lip to keep from laughing and calls out, "We're getting up."
"Breakfast in the hall before that," Leona reminds him, and her footsteps retreat down the corridor.
After a breakfast of soft cheese and honeyed oats, which Vaike eats with voracity and Evran eats with considerably more appreciation for the Rendari chef's labors, the delegation splits.
Vaike heads to the council chamber with Bran and Leona and the senior members of the Drakkari retinue.
Evran is not required to attend, and Vaike tells him so with a look that means enjoy yourself but stay out of trouble.
Evran smiles innocently. Vaike gives him a second look that means I know what that smile means and I don't trust it. Then he kisses Evran's temple, right beside the braid, and goes.
Evran watches him disappear around the corner and stands in the corridor for a moment, at loose ends. The morning stretches before him, unstructured and unfamiliar, and he is deciding between finding the twins and finding the greenhouses when a voice calls his name from the opposite direction.
"Evran! Just the person I was looking for."
He turns. A woman is approaching from the far end of the corridor, moving with the unhurried authority born of being mistress of the house you are walking through.
She is tall, nearly as tall as Evran, with deep brown skin and black hair pulled back from her face in an arrangement of braids that is both practical and elegant.
Her features are strong and handsome, her jaw firm, her dark eyes quick and warm, and she wears the Rendari green in a simple gown belted at the waist. There is a baby on her hip, a round-cheeked infant gnawing on a wooden toy with the focused determination of a child assigned an important task.
"Delia," the woman says, extending her free hand. "Harath's wife. Mother of the twins who have apparently adopted you."
Evran takes her hand and smiles. "They've been very welcoming."
"You're too generous, Evran. I know they can be insufferable.
Tria has talked about nothing else since you arrived, and Arin has been in the greenhouse since dawn, which means he's preparing something to show you.
" She shifts the baby to her other hip with practiced ease.
"I thought I'd steal you before they could. "
There is something immediately likeable about Delia.
She has the directness that comes from managing a stronghold and a Warlord and twin sixteen-year-olds simultaneously, and emerging from the experience with her sense of humor sharpened to a fine edge.
Evran falls into step beside her, and she leads him through the corridors of the Keep to a sunlit room on the upper floor that overlooks the inner garden.
The room is already occupied. Three women are seated on cushioned benches around a low table set with tea and pastries and a bowl of early strawberries, and they look up when Delia enters.
Evran is acutely, suddenly aware that he is the only man in the room, and the awareness brings with it a self-consciousness that is not entirely unpleasant, the sense of being out of his depth in a way that is social rather than threatening.
It is not so unlike the weaver's terrace with Aether.
"Ladies," Delia says, settling into a chair and propping the baby against her shoulder, "this is Evran. He's with the Drakkari delegation. He's married to the Warlord."
She says it simply, without fanfare, which is surprising. The women react with the polite interest of people who have apparently heard this already, because news travels fast in a stronghold, and Evran is greeted with nods and names and the offer of tea.
He sits and accepts the tea and realizes, with a start that he does his best to conceal behind the rim of his cup, that he is sitting in a room full of the wives of the clan leaders.
The woman to his left is Halla, wife of the Windfar Warlord, a compact woman with sharp cheekbones and a dry wit who tells Evran within five minutes of meeting him that her husband snores badly enough to shake the walls and she has not slept through the night in six years.
The woman across from him is Sorrel, wife of the Moor Warlord, who is older than the others, grey-streaked and calm-eyed, with weathered hands and a quiet dignity that reminds Evran of Leona.
And Delia, who presides over the gathering with the easy authority of a host, pouring tea and directing conversation and managing the baby on her hip with the seamless multitasking of a woman who has spent years perfecting the art of holding a child in one arm and a kingdom in the other.
"So," Halla says, studying Evran over her teacup with an expression that is half curiosity and half amusement. "A husband. Haven't had one of those in a while."
Evran flushes. "Am I the only one?"
"The only one currently, yes," Delia says, settling the baby onto a blanket on the floor, where it immediately begins a determined crawl toward the table leg. "But not the first ever. There have been others in the past. The clans have a long memory."
"My own mother was wife to a female Warlord," she continues. "Warlord Kerath of the Rendari, two generations back. They ruled together for thirty years. I was adopted by them as an infant."
Evran blinks. "That's incredible."
"It's not knowledge that's paraded around as spectacle.
It's not uncommon, among the clans, for same-sex pairings.
" She picks up a strawberry and bites into it.
"Blood bonds and chosen bonds carry the same weight.
There is no bloodline for succession, not the way there is in the south, where the throne passes from parent to child and everyone wrings their hands about heirs.
" She waves the half-eaten strawberry for emphasis.
"Here, an heir is chosen. Cultivated. Raised over years to be both willing and capable of ruling in your stead.
Blood is irrelevant. What matters is competence. "
The words land in Evran's chest with a weight he did not expect.
He sits with them for a moment, turning them over, feeling their shape and the way they dismantle, quietly and completely, an entire framework of assumptions he did not even realize he was still carrying.
He thinks about the south, about the rigid hierarchies of blood and birth that determined everything, who mattered and who did not, who was human and who was property.
He thinks about the voice in his head that said you can't give him an heir, the practical, political voice, the one that knows how succession works and how thrones are held, and he feels that voice go quiet for the first time since Vaike placed beads in his hair.
He thinks about Torsten, who thinks blood entitles him to something. Torsten, who does not understand, or chooses not to understand, that the clans do not work that way. The irony of it would be almost funny if the threat behind it were not so real.
"That's different from what I'm used to," Evran says.
Delia studies him, her dark eyes sharp and perceptive, sharpened by twenty years of reading the faces of powerful people. Then she smiles, and the sharpness softens into something that says I see you and I understand more than you think.
"Speaking of which," she says, and the tone shifts, lighter, carrying the mischievous energy of an impending personal question. "Have you and Vaike discussed children?"
Evran nearly chokes on his tea.
"It's, we, that's." He sets the cup down before he can spill it, his face flaming. "It's far too soon for that. We've barely been married. The braid is not even a week old."
Halla snorts. Sorrel hides a smile behind her cup. Delia laughs, full and bright, and the baby on the floor pauses its crawl to look up at the sound.
"Yes, yes, it's new," Delia says, waving away his embarrassment with a flick of her fingers. "But I've seen the way your Warlord looks at you, Evran."
Something in her voice makes Evran go quiet.
"Your bond is strong," she says, and the teasing has faded now, replaced by something sincere, born of sixteen years of marriage to a Warlord and knowing what that bond looks like from the inside.
"I saw it at the feast. He watches you with his whole heart in his eyes, possessively and tenderly all at once, and it's unmistakable.
" She pauses. "Hold on to what you have.
Cherish every moment, the good and the bad. "
The room is quiet for a moment, the baby making a soft, contented sound from the floor, sunlight moving slowly across the table.
Evran feels the words settle into him and take root in the same place where the beads rest against his temple and the press of Vaike's hand lives against the back of his neck.
Hold on to what you have. The instruction is simple and fierce and it comes from a woman who knows what she is talking about, and Evran receives it with the gravity it deserves.
He swallows and says, "I intend to."
Delia nods, once, as though he has passed a test she did not tell him she was administering. Then the warmth returns to her face and she pushes the bowl of strawberries toward him. "Good. Now eat something. You're too thin for the mountains."
The afternoon is bright and clear, the valley stretched out green and gold beneath a sky so blue it seems impossible, a sky that only exists in mountain valleys where the air is thin enough to strip the color down to its purest form.
Evran finds the twins in the courtyard, exactly where Delia told him they would be, and is greeted with enthusiasm that suggests they have been waiting for him since breakfast and are offended that he did not arrive sooner.
"You were with the wives," Tria says, falling into step beside him with an accusatory look. "Mother stole you."