“It’s safe,” Vren said.
Orval stepped in as the figure pulled back its hood. He sucked in more air than he knew he could hold.
She was glorious.
Golden-brown skin, dotted with dark freckles just under her eyes. Tousled, black, tightly curled hair, pulled back with a simple cloth band, framed her face. Deep, dark brown eyes focused on him warily from beneath black velvet lashes.
Orval stepped forward and walked into his own table, sending dishes rattling.
A small cry came from beneath the cloak.
Those lovely eyes dropped to her burden. Orval took a breath at the lines of exhaustion there, the circles under her tight, weary eyes. The mud caked to her shoes and skirts. The wet cloak.
“This is Orval.” Vren sat the lantern down on the mantel. “He is a cousin to Xywellan and an honored scholar. He is trusted. You can shelter here.”
Those eyes rose again, and Orval was lost. “I,” he stumbled, “I,” the words caught in his throat. “You are welcome, lady.”
“Amari,” came her husky whisper, with the faintest trace of an accent. “I am Amari, lord.”
“No, no,” Orval straightened. “I’m no lord. A distant cousin, no more. A fourth cousin, once removed, in point of fact. No title, that is certain.” Flushed, embarrassed, he cleared his throat again. “I, er—”
Vren, all the elements bless him, moved. “Let me help you,” he said. “Perhaps something warm to drink,” he suggested as he drew a bundle out of Amari’s arms.
“Of course, of course,” Orval moved then, to open his oven doors. Heat and steam billowed into his face as he used the sleeve of his robe to pull out the kettle. “There are clean mugs someplace…” Orval glanced around at the shelves and reached for a mug that didn’t seem quite as dusty as the others.
Vren held a babe in one arm and he cleared old dishes off the table. Amari was untying her blouse with one hand.
Orval averted his eyes. “We’ll get you warm, not a kav drinker myself, too expensive for my purse, but I’ve tea and some honey here somewhere.” He could hear himself babbling and forced himself to take a breath and set the tea brewing.
A thin cry drew his attention and he looked back at Amari to see her cradling a tiny babe with a shock of black, silky hair.
“Is that her?” Orval asked.
Amari looked up and nodded. “This is Xylara. Could you take her for a moment?”
“Oh, I—” Orval put the tea down and wiped his hands on his robe. “If you are sure,” he said, nervous. “I’m not much for babies—”
Amari rose, graceful and lovely, and put the babe into his arms. “You won’t break her,” she said.
“Oh,” Orval said softly as the infant yawned and blinked up at him. She had Wellan’s hair and fey blue eyes, a true Daughter of the Blood. So small, so new, born into a rough and dangerous world. A world where even a tiny babe could be deemed a threat.
Tears welled up. Orval blinked them away as he remembered the ancient pledge, the words spilling from him in a joyous flood. “My hand to yours. Bless you, Xylara, Daughter of the Airion House of Xy, Daughter of Xywellan and Kara, Warrior Queen.”
He looked up to find Amari looking at him, something in those deep pools of brown that had not been there before.
Hope.
Chapter Three
Autumn Equinox, the same day, the first few hours of the
Reign of Xyrath and Queen Satia
“Warriors of Xy, behold your King!”
The cheers rose around him as Xyrath greeted his bloody and exhausted warriors as they returned from the battlefield.
Finally, victory was his.
