That was the crux of the matter.She would gladly stand next to him, face the same dangers if the risk was just to her.But it wasn’t.
He stroked her back, giving her time.
At length she nodded, covering his hand with hers, and sucked in a breath.
“You are my light,” he said softly, his breath warm on her ear.“The fire in my hearth,” he continued.
“The blandness in your pease.”She choked back a fresh sob.
His arms tightened around her.“I want nothing more than to be at your side, raising our children, building a Hearth we can be proud of.I am even looking forward to potty training.”
Amari gave a wet chuckle in spite of herself.
Orval’s voice grew colder.“They can keep their kingdoms, their power, their greed.I ask nothing more than for them to let us be.”
Amari put her head on his shoulder and sighed.
“But we need to know what they intend.If they wish to kill me outright, this would be their chance.If the Black Hills intends to betray us, this would be the time.”
Amari lifted her head to stare at him.The fire in the hearth crackled, sending sparks up the chimney.“You don’t trust—”
“I trust Old Petro,” Orval said.“And Mother Berice.I wanted Roth and Yfin to go with you as well, but they refuse.Aramal and Rye insist on staying as well, and Leeda won’t be separated from them, nor they from her.”He started to wipe her tears with his thumb, cradling her face in his hand.“Remember, Xyrath wants his marble and his taxes.That should be enough to prevent them from starting another conflict with the Black Hills.”
“Or so you hope,” Amari said.
“So I hope,” Orval said, and kissed her forehead.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
In the Palace of Xy
Captain Ussin was unhappy.
The Palace courtyard had been cleared, the men were gathered, as was Master Sculptor Muris and his journeymen, who also looked unhappy.
Ussin checked the cinch on his saddle for the tenth time, letting his eyes flicker over the ten men who had been placed under his command for this…expedition.
They looked eager.
Too eager.
Ussin tightened the cinch, and buckled it again, and huffed a breath at himself.He was in charge, they were under his authority, but the unease in his gut was still there.
“Morning,” came a cheerful bellow, and King Xyrath strode into the courtyard, his blonde hair gleaming in the sun, drawing all eyes.He looked very pleased, as he stopped to greet the craftsmen, who bowed and scraped before him, holding their caps.It looked like the Master Sculptor Muris was attempting yet again to convince the King that only his journeymen needed to go to the Black Hills.
Ussin grunted.Xyrath was not known to change his mind, once it was fixed.
“Ussin,” the King called out as he walked over, dismissing Muris with a wave of his hand.“Forterran not here yet?”
“No, my liege,” Ussin said.
“He will be,” Xyrath grinned, teeth white in the sun.“Or Satia will have his head and balls.”He looked around the courtyard.“Looks like you have a good crew.”
“These are not my men,” Ussin rumbled.
“Yes, about that,” Xyrath patted the horse’s neck.“They were hand-picked by Lord Marshal Tarwain at the Queen’s request.”
“Ah,” Ussin said, his unhappiness growing.
