Chapter Thirty-Seven
The Farmstead in the Black Hills
“I need to see to my pickling,” Amari stood up, bumping the table in her haste. The others of her Hearth raised their heads from their planning session, startled. She turned, left Orval’s office, and stepped into her kitchen.
Fled to her kitchen, if she were truthful.
Tears trembled under her eyelids and her hands were shaking. She leaned against the wooden table to steady herself.
It wasn’t much, as kitchens go. Nothing to compare with the kitchens at home, large, well stocked with linens and crockery, and well-supplied. But they had done well here, with what they had, and the next year should bring plantings and harvests and bounty in great measure.
But she was greedy, she wanted so much more, and she wanted it with Orval beside her and that damn fool was determined to be all heroic and manly and risk everything—
Quick as she could, Amari set out her cutting board, her knives, and a string of onions. Pickled onions, that’s what she’d make. She had the first one peeled and had started slicing before the first of her tears slid down her face.
Well and good.
She heard the others talking, just the murmur of their voices, and then the sounds of chairs moving, folks rising. They’d best start their chores as well, there was work to be done, plenty of work that needed doing.
Pickled onions. As sharp and crisp as she could make them, with just the right kick. Not that Orval would eat them. The Lord High Baron had existed on pease for so long he’d no tolerance for any spice. It was so frustrating; he missed out on so many of the dishes she made, or would make.
She was so scared for him.
She was chopping the third onion, letting her tears run down her cheeks, when Orval stepped into the room.
He didn’t say anything, her Hearth Father, just wrinkled his nose and took the furthest stool, propping himself on it. He set his hands in his lap, his marvelous, ink-stained fingers laced together.
Ancestors, she loved this man.
It wasn’t just the physical aspect, although that was wonderful and gave her joy in the taking and sharing. It was knowing that he supported her, listened to her, wanted a future with her, with their children now and to come, and—
She wacked the knife down hard on the next onion.
Her tears flooded out. She turned her back to him and started to gather salt and spices. She neede to boil the water for the brine, and—
“It’s a good plan,” Orval said quietly.
Amari slapped the spices down, setting the crockery to rattling. The water needed to be boiling, so she turned back to feed the fire.
“We know when they are coming through the portal,” Orval continued.
“You and the children and Old Petro will go to Mother Bercie’s.
The others will stay here, while I go with Jerrold to wait at the portal.
When those from Edenrich arrive, we will take them to the quarry.
After that, Jerrold will come and tell you what has happened, and how things went, and I will bring them here, to offer food, and get as much information as I can before they depart.
Rye and Aramal and Halithe will be here, with Roth and Yfin.
Jerrold will have men in place.” Orval took a breath. “Amari—”
“No,” Amari snapped, chopping harder, upset for herself with being angry, but angry just the same. “Orval, they will kill you.”
“No,” Orval said gently. “I don’t believe that.
Xyrath has an heir now, and one with the birthmark of the Chosen.
Why should he think us a threat?” He drew a breath.
“But if the worst should happen, Mother Bercie will keep you and the children safe. We’ll pack some coin in the nappies, in case you need to flee. ”
She froze, fear thick in her throat.
Orval just sat there, strong and determined and so very very stubborn.
Amari darted around the table and threw herself into his arms, trying and failing to stop sobbing. “Come with us,” she begged.
Orval’s arms wrapped around her, held her tight. “No.”
Amari closed her eyes and hid her face in his shoulder. From the first time she had seen him, on that horrible night, she had known she had found refuge in this man. Her heart, her dreams, her children, all as safe as they could be in a wild, cruel world.
He would stand between them and danger, and that made her weep that much harder.
“Amari,” he whispered, and put his hand on her belly.
That was the crux of the matter. She would gladly stand next to him, face the same dangers if the risk was just to her. But it wasn’t.
He stroked her back, giving her time.
At length she nodded, covering his hand with hers, and sucked in a breath.
“You are my light,” he said softly, his breath warm on her ear. “The fire in my hearth,” he continued.
“The blandness in your pease.” She choked back a fresh sob.
His arms tightened around her. “I want nothing more than to be at your side, raising our children, building a Hearth we can be proud of. I am even looking forward to potty training.”
Amari gave a wet chuckle in spite of herself.
Orval’s voice grew colder. “They can keep their kingdoms, their power, their greed. I ask nothing more than for them to let us be.”
Amari put her head on his shoulder and sighed.
“But we need to know what they intend. If they wish to kill me outright, this would be their chance. If the Black Hills intends to betray us, this would be the time.”
Amari lifted her head to stare at him. The fire in the hearth crackled, sending sparks up the chimney. “You don’t trust—”
“I trust Old Petro,” Orval said. “And Mother Berice. I wanted Roth and Yfin to go with you as well, but they refuse. Aramal and Rye insist on staying as well, and Leeda won’t be separated from them, nor they from her.
” He started to wipe her tears with his thumb, cradling her face in his hand.
“Remember, Xyrath wants his marble and his taxes. That should be enough to prevent them from starting another conflict with the Black Hills.”
“Or so you hope,” Amari said.
“So I hope,” Orval said, and kissed her forehead.