Ussin cleared his throat. “Here’s your Letters Patent granting you the Barony of the Black Hills,” he said, shoving a heavy scroll at Orval; it dripped with red wax seals and ribbons. “Along with a list of expected tithes,” another scroll, “including a piece of pure white marble large enough for a life-sized statue of King Xyrath.” Ussin reached into the wagon and produced a cage filled with pigeons. “Send word when the King can expect delivery.”
Orval stared at him incredulously. “Xyrath really expects—”
A shriek of horror came from inside the gatehouse. “The tapestries?”
The guards scrambled for their mounts.
“Sun’s light be with you,” Ussin said over his shoulder as he headed toward his own horse. With sharp commands, the men, carriages, and wagons were gone in a flurry.
Orval just stood there, scrolls in one arm, cage in the other, watching them vanish through the main gates and down the road. The pigeons in the cage fluttered and made grunting sounds at their rough treatment.
So that was that. They were on their own, abandoned and betrayed. Yes, they’d secured themselves as best they could, but it seemed a hollow victory.
He looked up, over the walls of the Keep, to the mountains that loomed over them. The sun etched sharp shadows on their face, making the scene feel ominous and threatening.
The wind picked up and he shivered, feeling the ache in his leg. He’d have pain tonight, sure as anything. He was used to that. But the pit in his chest was new, wide and deep, with no remedy.
An outburst from the open gatehouse door drew his attention. He gathered himself and limped in, dreading the others’ anger and despair.
A fire in the hearth made the room glow. Rosalind was sitting on the rolls of fabric that were not carpets, it seemed, but tapestries, her face buried in her hands.
She lifted her face, covered in tears and…laughter. Yfin giggled by the hearth, and Roth was struggling not to laugh out loud as they built the fire up.
“What?” Orval moved further inside, totally confused. Roth shifted to close the door behind him.
Amari was by the table, her face glowing with merriment, tears in the corners of her eyes.
She gestured to the crate on the table.
Orval limped over and peered in, and his own laughter bubbled up in his chest, releasing tension and fears he’d trapped there.
They’d packed the pot of pease porridge.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Caris balanced the breakfast tray and opened the door to the Queen’s chambers.
“So, our new Lord and Lady High Barons have left?” Satia asked from her bed, a mound of pristine white pillows at her back, perfect, regal, serene, and clearly gloating.
The morning sun spilled into the room, setting the red and gold carpet alight.
“Yes, Bonded.” Caris settled the breakfast tray by the bed, checking to make sure that steam was still rising from the oats. “Early this morning.”
Satia smoothed the crisp, white sheets and coverlet over her belly. Her brown skin and black hair glowed against the field of white and she knew it. “And his books?”
“Secured,” Avice said. “Every scroll, every piece of paper. I will see to the delivery to the library myself, and watch them boxed and sealed and placed into storage.”
Satia tilted her head. “And my little surprise?” she inquired, raising an eyebrow at Avice.
“As you commanded, I had the tapestries loaded into the wagon. The guards have instructions to see that they are the last things dumped on the ground.” Avice was heating water by the fire.
Much to Caris’s relief, Satia slowly smiled with clear pleasure. Gloating always put the Bonded in a good mood. Caris rattled the tray a bit, drawing her attention, and lifted the honey jar. She let the dipper hover over the top of the jar and raised her own eyebrow.
Satia gave a nod. Caris let the sweet syrup drip down on the oats as she watched. “More,” Satia demanded.
Mira opened her mouth as if to protest, but Caris gave her a warning look as she let the sweet honey flow until there was enough covering the oats to make her own teeth ache.
“Just a few nuts,” Satia commanded.
