Her lips moved, following his words.
He drew a breath as she slipped into sleep, her breathing growing shallow. “The waters have sustained you. We thank the elements.” He kept his voice soft, not wanting to disturb her. “The air has filled you. We thank the elements.” He paused, then gave the traditional ending.
“Go now, warrior. Beyond the snows and to the stars.”
It was only when he stopped talking that he realized she had stopped breathing.
The silence seemed endless; the only sound the crackle of the fire. There should have been an outcry, the peal of a horn or the crack of a glass shattering. But there was nothing like that, just something precious and quiet gone from the room.
There was a ritual, actions to take, words to speak, but his throat closed and the tears came. He allowed himself a breath, and then another, then wrapped his fingers around Xydell’s thin right wrist.
“Xydell,” he called softly, his voice cracking. “Xydell of the Blood of Xy, answer me.”
There was no response.
Orval shifted, reaching for her left hand. Those pale, frail fingers. “Xydell, Daughter of the Blood, answer me.”
Left, foot, right foot, each time calling her name. He knew she was gone far beyond his voice, but as with all who suffer this loss, he hoped for her to wake, to open her eyes and scold him for being a dolt, for probably getting the ritual wrong.
Finished, he put his hands in his lap, acknowledging his pain and grief, and, to be honest, keeping her to himself for just a moment longer.
Then he rose and went to the door, opening it wide to let in the cool night air, and offered his tears to the wind and the glittering stars.
Finally, he drew a deep breath. He’d need to wake the others, and send word to Mother Bercie. He went to close the door when the thought occurred.
The Black Hills have no reason to keep us alive.
Orval hadn’t mentionedhis fear to the others, but the tension was there as they watched Mayor Jerrold bring a wagon filled with women at dawn. “We’ve come to see to her, for the washing and the laying out.” Mother Bercie said as the others climbed down from the wagon.
“She is of the Blood,” Rosalind’s voice was strident and fierce. “She must be honored properly.”
“We do not honor her for her Blood,” Bercie snapped. “We honor her as Our Lord High Baroness, who cared for her people and suffered for them.”
There was a pause, then Amari placed her hand on Rosalind’s arm. “We thank you for your aid.” Amari said gently. “She is within, and we have water warming by the fire.”
“The men can wait outside.” Bercie announced, and started toward the gatehouse.
Orval walked over to the bench and sat, Roth followed but remained standing. Yfin wandered, shoulders hunched, kicking at stones.
“See to Yfin,” Orval said.
Roth glanced toward Jerrold, who was seeing to the horse.
Orval just shook his head, and nodded to Yfin.
Roth heaved a sigh. “I’ll see to him,” Roth said softly. “Hey, Yfin,” he called. “Let’s go hunt a few pigeons, shall we?”
At the lad’s nod, Roth patted Orval’s shoulder and headed off toward the old stables, Yfin in tow.
Jerrold had finished his work, and had walked to the well.
“It’s still filled with rocks,” Orval called, wrapping himself tighter in his cloak. “The only water is the well in the cellar,” he pointed at the gatehouse with his chin.
Jerrold gave an abrupt nod, then looked at loose ends.
“I have a question,” Orval ventured. “What did Aunt Xydell mean by ‘with the hidden ones’?”
Jerrold glanced at the door, and for a moment Orval was certain that the man was going to refuse to talk to him. But with a shrug, Jerrold drew closer, taking a defiant stand in front of him.
