“The others would be welcome, to witness the honor we give her.” Mother Bercie finished.
“Mother—” Jerrold started.
“No, my son,” she said firmly. “These two need to know from those they trust that we did her right and proper.” Bercie sighed, her eyes going to the Keep behind them. “As she deserves.” She huffed out a breath and focused on Orval. “I tell people that hatred blinds, but I seethe at what was done to her. Past and present, like she was nothing but a tool.”
Orval nodded. “I would hope that the enemy of my enemy is my friend,” he said cautiously.
“Not yet, Orval of Xy,” Berice said, “not yet. But we can agree to be uneasy allies.”
Amari spoke. “With an uneasy truce?”
Bercie snorted. “Truce?” But then she shrugged. “You may both, in fact, be worth more to us alive as the token Lord and Lady High Baron. Time will tell.”
“I do have some coin,” Orval said. “We could pay for food and services.”
“We will see,” Bercie said. She looked back at the gatehouse. “You should make your farewells.”
Orval nodded and started toward the door. Rosalind was waiting, tears in her eyes. “Come see,” she said, opening the door wide.
The fire in the hearth was a strong, steady glow. Orval stepped within to a room ringed with women of all ages, chanting softly.
Xydell lay on the table, her face at peace, her white hair braided around her head like a crown.
Orval caught his breath.
Xydell was covered in a traditional airion blanket, of blue and white wool, with embroidered airions dancing in a smattering of clouds. It glowed in the firelight, and he could swear that the creatures’ eyes glittered as if alive.
“Where—?” He barely dared breathe.
One of the women spoke up. “My Gran smuggled it out of the Keep when the Wyverns came. Said it was woven by her hand, and damned if any would ruin her good work.” She reached out and touched the cloth. “I remembered it when we heard the Lady Baroness had passed. I think Gran would have wanted it used this way. Seems fitting, don’t you think?”
“Yes,” Orval wiped at his eyes, suddenly feeling the loss. “You honor her and us with this.”
The woman nodded and resumed chanting. Orval went closer and pressed a kiss to Xydell’s forehead before he pulled the blanket over her head as the music flowed.
From the look on her face, he was sure she had already found her Jerrold.
Chapter Forty-Seven
The men of the village lifted Xydell’s bier onto the back of the wagon. To Orval’s eyes, the blanket seemed to glow an even brighter blue in the sunlight.
A fairly large crowd had gathered at the gates. As the wagon passed, they fell in behind, walking in silence. Roth, Rosalind, and Yfin fell in as well, welcomed by the other mourners.
Orval stood at the gate, shoulder to shoulder with Amari, glad of her support. He noted that other people, mostly older, were also watching, unable to accompany the wagon, which was an odd comfort. He wasn’t the only one who couldn’t make the journey.
They all watched as the procession disappeared over a hill. Then the crowd started to dissipate, heading to the village. Some glanced over their shoulders at himself and Amari.
Not all the looks were kind.
“Will they be safe?” Amari asked.
Orval put his arm around her shoulder. “Roth slipped Rosalind a dagger, and Yfin has his knives.” Amari jerked, but Orval continued. “But I doubt that they would dishonor Xydell with a slaughter at this time.”
Amari shivered next to him.
“You’re cold,” Orval said. “Let’s get inside.”
The room seemed empty without Xydell. The fire had died down and the faintest odor of the herbs that they had used hung in the air.
