When they part, Vaike's forehead rests against his.
"There will be time for that later," Vaike says, quiet, certain.
Evran closes his eyes and breathes him in. He lifts his hand and touches the braid at his temple, feels the smooth round weight of the beads beneath his fingers, and knows with an absolution that lives in his bones that he will never take it out.
The fire crackles. The mountain wind moves the shutters. Vaike pulls him close, and Evran goes, willingly, gratefully, and lets himself be held by his husband in the firelight.
Chapter 3
The morning is grey and cold, the kind of mountain dawn that has not yet decided whether it wants to be spring or winter and has settled for some amalgamation of both. Fog clings to the lower walls of the stronghold and pools in the courtyard, thick and slow-moving, and the air has a bite to it that makes Evran's breath come out in thin white plumes.
The horses are already saddled and waiting in the yard, sturdy mountain-bred things with thick necks and shaggy coats and an air of general indifference to the commotion around them. Supplies are being loaded onto pack animals, and warriors move through the fog checking straps and cinches and the edges of blades. Bran's voice carries from somewhere near the gate, issuing instructions that are half command and half cheerful suggestion, and Leona is beside him, providing emotional support and nothing else because she knows better than to get involved when Bran is planning.
Evran stands near the stables with his pack over one shoulder and the new weight of the braid against his neck. He has been touching it all morning and he cannot seem to stop. Every timehis fingers find the smooth round press of the beads, something warm pulses through him, and he has to remind himself to breathe normally and stop grinning, and he is succeeding at neither of these things.
"Evran!"
He turns. Aether is crossing the courtyard toward him with something draped over her arm, her long stride unhurried and her expression something close to apprehensive. She had mentioned to him yesterday that she did not like the idea of him traveling so far to be paraded around in front of the clans, but he had assured her there would be no parading. Vaike would be with him and, regardless of Evran's standing, there is no one who takes the attention from the Warlord when he is in a room.
She stops in front of him and shakes out the fabric.
It is a cloak. Deep charcoal wool, dense and finely woven, with a hood lined in something softer, rabbit fur or perhaps the belly-wool of the highland sheep Aether has been experimenting with. The weave is tight and even, made to repel water, and the edges are finished with a border of dark blue thread in a pattern Evran recognizes from the Drakkari banners. It is, without question, the most beautiful garment anyone has ever made for him.
"Arms out," Aether says.
Evran puts his arms out. She sweeps the cloak around his shoulders and settles it into place, adjusting the fall of it with quick, practiced hands. From somewhere in her belt pouch she produces a brooch, iron and simple, stamped with the Drakkari sigil, and pins the cloak at his throat. She steps back, tilts her head, and examines him with the critical eye of a master artisan assessing a finished piece.
"Well," she says, looking pleased. "Don't you look positively regal."
Evran runs his hand down the front of the cloak. The wool is dense and warm beneath his fingers, and he can feel the hours init, the hours of spinning and warping and weaving and finishing, all done in the days since the Gathering was announced, all done without a word to him because Aether does not announce her gifts. She simply makes them and expects them to be worn. The generosity of it is staggering, and even more staggering is the casualness with which she offers it, the offhanded matter-of-factness that saysof course I made you a cloak, you are mine and I do not send mine into the world without proper clothing.
"Aether," he says, and his voice does something embarrassing.
"Don't," she says firmly. "If you cry on it before you've even left the gate, I will be very cross."
He laughs, a wet sound that he does not fully succeed in keeping steady, and pulls her into a hug. She hugs him back, brief and fierce, and then pulls away and holds him by the shoulders with hands that are strong and calloused and entirely certain.
"Bring me something from Heldrin's End," she says. "Something fancy. I've heard the Rendari have access to southern dyes I can't get here, and if you come back empty-handed I will take it as an act of war."
"I wouldn't dare."
"See that you don't." Her eyes flick to the braid at his temple, and something crosses her face, quick and private, gone before he can name it. It might be pride or tenderness or some feeling that doesn't have a word, the feeling of watching someone you care about receive the love they deserve. She reaches out and touches the braid once, lightly, with the tips of her fingers. Then she drops her hand and nods, as though confirming something to herself.
"Passable work for a thirty-four-year-old bachelor," she says. "The tension is slightly uneven in the third pass, but the bead placement is thoughtful."
Evran laughs. "I'll tell him you approve."
"Tell him I said it was passable, in exactly those words." She turns and walks back toward her workshop without looking back, and Evran watches her go and loves her so fiercely it hurts.
He barely has time to collect himself before a small body collides with his midsection.
"You promised you'd come find me before you left!"
Eira's face is flushed from running, and there is dirt on her hands and a streak of it across her cheek that suggests she was pulled directly from the garden. Her eyes are bright and slightly too shiny, and her lower lip is doing the thing it does when she is trying very hard to be brave and not entirely succeeding.
"I was coming to find you right now," Evran says, which is mostly true if one is generous with the definition of right now.
"You were not. You were standing here touching your braid and looking dreamy."
