Now that her breathing had slowed, she could hear the faint sounds of music and laughter below her, and a rhythmic pounding that didn’t seem to be drums.
Dalan shifted against her side. He’d wake soon, both of them would, and they’d need tending. She blinked against her tiredness, determined not to sleep, and tightened her hold on the babes. The marcus hadn’t said they were safe, and if the need came, she’d rise and flee again.
So long as he was willing to lead to safety, she would follow.
“Two babes? Awet nurse? Why in the name of all the gods did you bring them here, Vren?” Orval pushed back his blankets, shifted to sit on the edge of his bed and stared at the marcus in horror. The light of the small bedside lantern pooled around them, leaving the rest of his bedchamber in shadows. “This city is the first place the Wyverns will come, to secure the throne.”
“They need shelter and warmth,” Vren said as he shook his head. “The Wyverns will not think to look here for a babe.” His voice was an urgent plea. “You are a known bachelor, distant cousin to both sides of the conflict, not often at court and—” he hesitated.
“A cripple,” Orval finished for him bitterly. He ran his hand through his curls and over his face. “Vren, I have known you for years, and you have honored me with your name, but I have to say this is not the smartest thing you have ever done.”
“Needs must, when the snows come.” Vren sighed, his weariness showing on his face. Orval reached for his bed-coat at the foot of the bed and struggled into it. “You’re sure that King Xywellan and Queen Kara are dead?” Orval asked gruffly, really not wanting to know.
“It’s possible that they triumphed,” the marcus said. “But even so—” He paused. “Queen Kara gave me her blood memories.”
Orval closed his eyes in grief as it washed over him. He and Wellan and Kara hadn’t been close; but they had been family. “They might take the child, raise it as their own.”
Vren gave him a pitying look. “Orval, you fostered with Xyrath. Do you really think he would tolerate a rival for the crown?”
“Our fosterage overlapped, ‘tis true, but thankfully, not for long.” Orval grimaced. “And no, he would not. They will kill the child.” He ran his hand through his curls. “Where are they?”
“The kitchen,” Vren said. He paused. “Your servants. They are loyal?”
“Now you think of that?” Orval said harshly, then regretted it when fear flashed over the marcus’s face. “Forgive me, old friend.” he grumbled. “I am not at my best, roused in the middle of the night. I had to release my servants months ago. I hated to; they’d served my sister before—” His throat closed with fresh pain. Orval took a breath and pushed past the sorrow. “My Crown stipend was cut.”
“Forgive me,” Vren said. “I’m—”
“Forgiven.” Orval took a breath, then eased to his feet, wincing at the cramps which spidered through his withered leg. “Of course I will shelter them until better is found. Is Dust with you?”
“No.” Vren picked up the small copper lantern to lead the way. “She is laying a false trail toward Swift’s Port. Besides,” he flashed a grin, “she does not do well in cities.”
Orval grunted his understanding as he reached for the bed post to steady himself. “I suppose you picked my lock,” he asked, knowing full well the answer.
Vren flashed another grin.
Orval shook his head. “At least tell me you didn’t break it.”
Vren lifted the lantern. “Of course not,” he said, taking mock offense.
Orval took his first painful step, knowing the cramping would ease as he moved. He gestured for Vren to take the lead, then followed as quickly as his leg would allow. It dragged worse when he was tired. The floor was cool beneath his bare feet and he could hear rain striking the windows. It was no night to be out.
Vren lifted the lantern as he walked, taking care to avoid the piles of books and papers. “Bad enough your rooms are a warren,” Vren said. “One day you will be buried in these piles of history, biography, philosophy, etcetera, etcetera.”
Orval snorted. “I know where everything is,” he muttered as they made for the kitchen. An old, familiar, and oddly comforting argument. “How much time do we—”
The city bells started pealing, reverberating through the stone walls.
“Never mind.” Orval said, clutching his bed-coat tighter. The marcus brushed against a pile of scrolls on one of the side tables and knocked a few over. “But have a care,” Orval snapped.
“Sorry,” Vren murmured.
Even before they reached the kitchen, the deeper church bells had joined in.
“Figures the Holy Matriarch would be quick to support the victor,” Orval snorted.
“Aye,” Vren agreed quietly as he opened the door to the kitchen. “All the more reason to protect them.”
The light of the bed lantern joined that of the one kept burning in the kitchen. Shadows fell from the bulky cloaked figure by the hearth.
