Chapter Three
The Keep of the Black Hills
The crack of wooden practice swords resounded, echoing against the ruined stone walls of the Keep of the Black Hills.
Orval, reluctant Lord High Baron of the Black Hills, lifted his head to see Yfin and Roth back away from each other, each taking a defensive position. They circled each other, focused and intent.
“Watch your footing, elder.” Yfin, hair plastered with sweat, grinned like a madman. They’d used grit and stones to rough out a sparring circle in front of the old stables. The ugly barn cat perched on the collapsed roof in the sun, eyes half open.
Roth was certainly enjoying himself, Orval knew, but he made no reply to the taunt, just leapt forward with a feint and back swing. For a man of his age, he moved fast, but he also used patience as a weapon, something Yfin had yet to learn.
Stones rattled and fell deep in the Keep as their wooden swords clattered against each other.
Orval glanced down at his daughter Lara, seated on the blanket at his feet, next to the wooden practice daggers.
She was staring at the fighting, eyes wide, chewing her fist, curly black hair tossed in the breeze, echoing his own.
The air was cool but she seemed warm enough in the sun, with her tiny tunic and thick nappy, her bare legs curled before her.
Orval sighed, adjusted his scarf, shifted his bad leg, and returned to staring at the copy of the Epic of Xyson in his hands.
This was a rare moment of quiet, at least as quiet as it got, with all of them crammed into the guardhouse.
Small and cramped, it was the only part of the Keep that had survived the ravages of the rebellion of the Black Hills.
“Wo-Wo,” Lara babbled, waving tiny, damp hands toward Roth.
“Just a minute, little one,” Orval said absently. He needed this chance to think, to try to remember the history of the land he supposedly ruled.
With no books, it wasn’t easy to recall the past, when his aunt and uncle had been the Lord High Baron and Baroness of this region. That had been before the rebellion in Edenrich, but he couldn’t recall if it had been in the reign of Xykahn or if Xywellan had already been on the throne.
Not that it mattered. His fingers itched to make notes, but without ink, without paper he couldn’t make notes, trace lineages, or draw maps.
They’d been banished to the Black Hills, honored with the Barony over a war-torn land and a hostile people who wanted nothing better than to see his bloodline ended.
His library seized, he, his family, and the others had been stuffed in a carriage, ripped from home, brought here with the barest of supplies, dumped in the ruined Keep, and abandoned.
Now he taught Yfin how read by scratching letters in the dirt.
Orval closed his eyes and sighed. As much as he missed his home, his chief worry now was Amari, his wife, and their children.
The twins, he reminded himself. That story and their marriage contract had kept them alive so far.
That, and the locals’ regard for his Aunt Xydell.
But with her death, how long would that protection last?
The sound of the fight and the shuffling of feet brought him back, made the words of his book come into focus. The Epic of Xyson was a classic, but even Xyson himself would find this puzzle a challenge.
Orval had to admit the truth to himself, he was feeling sorry for himself. Everyone else seemed to be coping well, Roth and Yfin training, Amari and Rosalind bathing Dalan by the fire in the gatehouse, getting drenched, most like. Dalan loved water and splashing as much as Lara hated it.
Orval smiled to himself, glancing down at the blanket, thinking of the fuss she’d raise when it was her turn, the way she’d kick and squeal—
She wasn’t there.
In shock, Orval jerked up, dropping his book, horrified to see Lara walking toward Roth’s back, wobbling on unsteady, pudgy legs, clutching a wooden dagger. In the few moments of his inattention, she had reached the edge of the circle.
Walking? She couldn’t—
“Lara,” he shouted, jumping to his feet, only to have his leg collapse under him, sending him sprawling to the ground. Unable to catch himself, Orval fell hard, his breath knocked from him.
“Hold,” Roth bellowed, the sound echoing as stones rattled and fell in the ruins. He and Yfin both jerked into defensive positions and froze.
Startled by the shouts, Lara plopped down on her nappy-padded butt in surprise, but didn’t cry out. Instead, she looked over her shoulder at Orval, her little face scrunched in an angry glare.
“Orval?” Amari called from the gatehouse.
“Well, look at you, little one.” Roth came out of his stance and smiled. Yfin dropped his sword and scooped Lara up, dagger and all. Roth glanced at Orval. “I didn’t know she could do that.”
Amari and Rosalind peered through the doorway, both sopping wet and concerned. Seeing him on the ground, Amari ran forward, clutching a very wet, very naked Dalan. Rosalind came behind, chasing with a towel. “Orval,” Amari said, “what happened?”
“She walked,” Yfin said proudly. Safe in his arms, Lara had her arms wrapped around the dagger, gumming the hilt, oblivious to the chaos she’d caused.
Orval’s heart was still racing as Roth offered him a hand.
“Walked?” Amari blinked. “But she’s barely started crawling.” Amari was drenched, her tunic plastered to her in very attractive ways. Her dark hair in disarray, her eyes bright but concerned. She hurried toward him, one hand holding Dalan, the other reaching for Orval.
“Amari, I swear I looked away for just a minute,” Orval said as he stood, gingerly testing his leg as Roth steadied him. He felt rattled, shaky inside. He slid back down to the bench.
Amari sat beside him, her damp shoulder against his, smelling of clean baby and her own warmth. His heart calmed as he leaned into her.
“Walking?” Rosalind protested. “But she’s barely got her first tooth. Dalan’s still just pulling himself up!”
Roth chuckled, picking up Yfin’s wooden sword. “She’s going to be a fierce warrior, isn’t she, just like her—” he caught himself and took a breath.
“Like her mother,” Amari said, echoing his grief. She took the towel that Rosalind offered, covering Dalan. Dalan cooed; he was always a happy baby.
“It’s too early,” Rosalind frowned. “She’ll hurt herself, trying too fast.”
Amari shrugged, taking the towel to wrap Dalan up. “Babies walk in their own time.”
She chuckled. “Especially if they want something out of their reach.”
Rosalind shook her head. “We are going to have to keep a closer eye on this one.” She reached for the dagger.
“Nuh,” Lara babbled, her frown fierce. “Nuh nuh nuh.”
Roth laughed. “Careful, Rosalind,” he said. “Or her first word will be ‘no’, and then where will we be?’
Orval tried to keep his horror off his face. They were taking this so lightly, but his Lara, his precious daughter could have been badly hurt, trampled in a raging battle. What were they thinking?
“She needs a smaller dagger,” Yfin said.
Rosalind rolled her eyes.
“At any rate, it’s her turn for a bath,” Amari said firmly. Dalan was cooing in his towel.
“Come along,” Rosalind reached out but Lara pressed herself against Yfin, tucking her face into his neck.
Amari chuckled. “Yfin, take her in.”
“Yes, A’mum. Sorry, Shield-sister,” Yfin said to Lara, turning toward the gatehouse.
“Shield-sister?” Rosalind scolded as she followed the boy. “You can’t call her that…”
Roth snorted and started picking up the dropped weapons and kicking the stone circle back into place.
Orval suspected he was giving them a bit of privacy.
It hit him then, it would have been his fault, he would have failed to keep the heir safe, to hold her tight, keep away any harm. His fault and—
“Orval,” Amari’s voice was soft and warm, her breath on his ear. “It’s all right. Lara was in no real danger.” She huffed a laugh. “Babies don’t stay babies, Hearth Father. They crawl and walk and cry and smile and laugh and that’s a good thing.”
“Or skip crawling.” Orval sighed.
“Or skip crawling. Amari said. “They will grow,” her voice was soft, warm, and reassuring. “And we will grow with them.”
Orval reached then putting his hand on her rounded belly. “Speaking of growing,” he said. “All well, Hearth Mother?”
“All well,” Amari laughed, putting her head on his shoulder, her curls tickling his nose.
“Have we been formally adopted?” Orval asked as his thoughts finally caught up with what he’d heard Yfin say.
Amari nodded, lifting her head. “Yfin asked permission this morning,” she said. “Asked if he could call me that. He said he already had a Ma and Da.” She hugged Dalan close, and he squirmed and giggled. “I think Roth is to be Uncle and Rosalind, Aunt.”
“What about me?” Orval asked in mock outrage.
Amari gave him an impish grin. “O’papa.”
Orval wrapped his arm around her back, bringing her in closer. “Creating his own
family.”
“We all create our own families,” Amari said, letting her lips brush his cheek.
Piercing screams resounded from the gatehouse.
“I’d best go rescue Rosalind,” Amari laughed. She rose with her usual grace. Orval watched her leave, the gentle sway of her hips and Dalan peering over her shoulder.
“You’d best get warming up,” Roth gruffly broke into his admiration. “Your lesson comes next.
Orval nodded, standing, removing his scarf, and placing it on top of his book. He took a few tentative steps, making sure his leg would hold him.
Roth rolled his shoulders and they started stretching together, Roth to cool down a bit, Orval to warm up. Orval followed Roth’s movements as best he could, although not with the Weaponsmaster’s grace.
Another rattle of stones caught his attention. “They’re still there?” He asked quietly.
Roth gave him a wry smile as he squatted. “Our young watchers? I don’t think they are too worried that you have an army hidden somewhere, but they still post a watch.”
“Young, you think?”
“Aye, else they’d be better at it.” Roth chuckled.