Valorian

5

Somewhere nearby a bird was warbling a song. Its lilting notes lifted on the wings of the wind and mingled with the subtler rhythms of falling water in a distant stream and the sway of evergreen trees. The gentle sounds were familiar and comforting to the clansman as he lay motionless, still swathed in the darkness of his mind. He listened to the natural music for a long time while his consciousness gradually awakened and his other senses returned.

After a while, he became aware of other feelings he hadn’t noticed before: the cold of the stone beneath his stomach, the heavy, damp weight of his clothes, the unexpected warmth of sunshine on the side of his face. Very carefully he opened his eyes. Dark storm clouds filled the sky to the south, the direction he was facing, but to the west, the sky was clearing and the blessed sun was shining. The days of rain were finally over. And, praise the gods, there was Hunnul grazing on a patch of grass nearby.

Valorian managed a weak smile before he tried to sit up. Then his smile turned to a groan and he sagged back onto the wet ground, almost blinded by a severe pain that rocked his head. Nausea settled like a cold, squirming thing in his stomach. The rest of his body felt stiff, as weak as a newborn, and achy in every joint. Strangest of all, he felt very warm inside. Not feverish, just hot.

What’s happened to me? he wondered. He lay still again to let the pain subside while he tried to revive his memory. He remembered searching for the mountain pass, and he remembered coming up the ridge to see the range of peaks. Everything after that was extremely hazy. There had been rain and thunder, and then something had happened. He clenched his fists in an effort to remember, but he couldn’t recall what had occurred or why he should be lying there feeling as if he had just fallen down the mountainside.

The oddest visions passed through his head. . . Harbingers and goddesses. . . the realm of the dead. . . Ealgoden . . . gorthlings . . . and clearest of all, a golden crown that gleamed with the light of the sun. Yet the images were unfocused and jumbled together. None of them made sense. If he had truly died, then what was he doing still lying on the top of the ridge? The visions had to be a dream, and a bad one at that.

The ache in his head had eased somewhat, so Valorian tried to sit up once more. This time he managed to make it to an upright position. He propped his head in his hands. It was then that he realized his helmet and his cloak were missing.

That’s odd, he thought, staring around slowly. His sword and his armband were still in place, his other possessions seemed to be intact, and Hunnul was still saddled, so it wasn’t the work of thieves. How could he have lost the helmet and cloak while lying on the ground?

The puzzle was too much for him at the moment. His head was still pounding as if thunder was rumbling through his skull, his right arm was numb, and he suddenly realized he was unbearably thirsty. Remembering his water bag tied to Hunnul’s saddle, he whistled to call the stallion. Hunnul perked his ears and moved to obey, but Valorian was horrified to see the big black horse was limping off his right foreleg.

All thoughts of his own pain vanished. The clansman climbed stiffly to his feet and staggered to meet the horse. As soon as he reached Hunnul’s side, the cause of the stallion’s discomfort was immediately apparent. A long, jagged wound ran down the length of Hunnul’s right shoulder.

Valorian exclaimed in amazement while he carefully probed the shoulder. The wound wasn’t bleeding; in fact, it looked much like a brand burned into the black hide. Whatever had caused the injury had cauterized the broken blood vessels, sealing the edges of the torn skin. Stitching the wound was impossible; it looked as if Hunnul would be scarred for life. What in the name of Surgart had happened to them? How could Hunnul have been burned like that while his rider had only bumps, bruises, and a headache?

Valorian rubbed the stallion’s neck for a moment before he dug out the pot of healing salve Kierla always packed for him and rubbed some liberally over Hunnul’s burn. Only then did he untie the water skin and drain it to the last drop.

The water helped clear his head enough for some common sense to take over. He saw that the day was quickly waning and knew he and Hunnul needed more water, rest, and shelter for the night. After a last look around for his missing cloak and helmet, Valorian slowly and with great care led his horse off the ridge to find shelter. They made it as far as a small stream rippling down a nearby valley when Valorian’s muscles started shaking from the exertion and his headache returned with a vengeance. He had just enough strength left to uncinch the saddle from Hunnul’s back and take a long drink of water before he dropped into the grass and bracken and fell sound asleep.

It was early afternoon of the next day when Valorian awoke. He came out of his sleep suddenly and bolted to his feet in alarm, his hand fumbling for his sword. The visions of his dream played in his mind for a moment longer, then dimmed to a half-remembered, faded feeling of danger. He shook his head, as if to shake the visions back into view. For just a moment, everything had seemed so clear. He had been riding Hunnul in a tunnel of darkness guided by a ball of light that he himself had created. To his great frustration, he couldn’t remember anything else, only an intense feeling of danger.

Valorian sighed and straightened to his full height. Such an odd, disturbing dream. At least the sleep had done some good. His head pain had dwindled to a dull ache, and his body wasn’t as stiff—despite sleeping on the cold, wet ground without his cloak. In fact, Valorian still felt warm even in the cool breeze blowing off the mountains. He was also still very thirsty.

He walked to the creek, and after a deep, satisfying drink, he sat back on his heels and looked at his reflection ruefully. He looked terrible. A large bruise, probably from his fall off Hunnul, discolored his temple. His dark, curly hair, which he usually kept tied behind his head, was matted and dirty, and his normally clean—shaven face was hidden under an ugly black stubble.

Valorian was not a fastidious man, but he liked to be reasonably clean, and he hated his beard. It always itched and drew bugs and was too uneven to be worth the trouble of letting it grow. He scratched the stubble absently. It would be so pleasant to have Kierla bring warm water and her knife to shave him.

Kierla! Valorian rushed to his feet. By the gods, how long had he been gone? He had told her he would only hunt for two or three days, yet he had been out perhaps seven or eight days. And he still had to get back. Kierla would be frantic. He had to go home!

He whistled for Hunnul, hoping the stallion wasn’t far away. The black horse came trotting over the hill where he had been grazing and nickered to his master. Valorian was relieved to see that the rest and the salve had helped the stallion. Hunnul was moving easier, with only a slight limp in his right leg.

A short time later, the stallion was saddled and they were heading north back toward the Bloodiron Hills, where the clanspeople made their home.

Although they tried to travel fast, Valorian quickly realized that neither he nor Hunnul had the endurance to stand their usual pace. Both of them were weak from their injuries and the lack of food, and too sore to move any faster than a colt’s pace through the high, rough foothills. They traveled as best they could, stopping often to rest. Valorian walked’ much of the time to ease Hunnul’s shoulder wound. Fortunately the exercise helped strengthen Valorian’s weakened muscles and brought some feeling back to his numb arm. After a while, only the odd warmth within his body and the intense thirst remained.

And the visions. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t shake the tenacious images of his dream. The vivid memory of those strange visions stuck with him day and night, haunting his sleep with terrors of gorthlings and coloring his days with the light of a goddess’s smile. He thought about the dream for hours as he and Hunnul walked home, but the pictures remained mixed up in his consciousness like the pieces of a broken mosaic. He could discern no logic to the patterns or any real truth.

There were all the ingredients of an exciting tale to tell the Clan around the fire at night, Valorian thought with a chuckle. If only he could organize the dream into a coherent tale, everyone would love it.

He shook his head and walked faster. His family had probably given him up for dead by now—except Kierla. She would never accept his death, and he didn’t want to cause her any more anguish.

To his relief, the weather remained dry and warm during the journey home. Valorian and Hunnul had no difficulty finding water and shelter; only food was scarce. They saw a few other people far in the distance, some Chadarian shepherds and a small merchant caravan on the road for Sarcithia. But despite his hunger, Valorian instinctively avoided contact with strangers. Very few would bother to help a clansman, and many more would likely steal his horse.

Shortly after noon on the sixth day after his accident, Valorian saw the reddish bluffs that marked the valley where his family made its winter camp. Relief, pleasure, and anticipation welled up within him, bolstering the last of his strength. He mounted Hunnul and urged the stallion forward in a trot along a hillside toward the bluffs.

They had nearly reached the first bluff when a shout caught Valorian’s attention. On a rise to the west, where an ancient trail led out of the foothills to the flatland below, a rider on a bay horse was whooping to draw Valorian’s notice. The rider waved frantically and spurred his horse into a gallop down the broad slope.

A grin spread over Valorian’s weary face, for the rider was his younger brother Aiden, Adala’s twin.

“Valorian!” The shout echoed off the bluffs with all its joy and relief.

The clansman rolled his eyes skyward as the young rider thoughtlessly jerked his horse’s bit to bring the animal to a stop in front of Hunnul. Aiden didn’t have rapport with animals, not even horses. His strength, Valorian knew, lay in his enthusiasm, his charm, and his ability to immediately discern people’s characters. He was smaller than Valorian, with a thick mane of dark brown hair, gray—blue eyes, and an unquenchable smile.

Valorian dismounted to meet his brother and was nearly knocked off his feet by Aiden’s fierce hug.

“By all the gods, Brother!” Aiden cried joyfully. “We thought you were in the realm of the dead!”

A strange spasm passed over Valorian’s face and was gone, but not before Aiden’s quick eyes noticed it. He held his older brother at arm’s length, studying the man’s pale skin, the huge bruise, and his filthy, travel-stained clothes.

“You look horrible. What happened to you, Valorian?” Aiden asked, the worry strong in his voice. “We searched the hills for days. Some of the men are still out looking for you. Where were you?”

Valorian smiled ruefully. He pulled his brother dose again, as if to draw on Aiden’s vibrant energy. It felt good to hug another human being at that moment. “I . . . I don’t know where I’ve been.” He gripped Aiden’s arm to silence the flood of questions. “I’ll tell you everything I can when we reach camp so I won’t have to repeat myself.”

Aiden jerked his head in agreement. “At least you’re back.” His voice suddenly choked in his throat, and he’ turned away to mount his horse.

Together the men rode side by side along the grassy hills toward the wide mouth of the valley.

“Is Kierla all right?” Valorian asked after a moment of silence.

“As well as can be expected. She’s hardly eaten or slept for eight days,” Aiden replied. “That’s some woman you have, Valorian. She wouldn’t let any of us give up on you. She sent all of us out in search parties and went out herself for several days. No one could even breathe the possibility of your death in her presence.”

Valorian felt his heart begin a slow pound. He could hardly wait to see his wife. He wanted to feel her warmth, to see her eyes sparkling at him, and to rely on her wisdom when he told her of his journey. Perhaps she could help him understand the accident that had befallen him and the strange dream that had taken root in his memory. He straightened a little more in his saddle, and Hunnul, feeling his master’s cue, walked faster.

They rode down to the shallow stream that flowed out between the bluffs and turned onto a narrow, barely visible path that followed the creek into the valley.

As Aiden rode in front to lead the way, Valorian became aware for the first time that his brother was wearing the split—leg robes, soft leather shoes, and vest of a Chadarian. He also had two baby goats tied in burlap bags behind his saddle, their heads peeking out of the rough fabric.

“Aiden, what have you been doing?” Valorian demanded. “Stealing again?”

Trying to look insulted, Aiden turned in the saddle. “I have not! Not this time. I went as a legitimate trader to sell some of Linna’s rugs and hear the latest news.”

“In Chadarian clothes?”

Aiden snorted irritably. “You know those Chadarian merchants won’t give a clansman a fair deal.”

Valorian stifled a grunt of annoyance. It did no good to talk to Aiden about his actions, because he never listened. He was stubborn, willful, and too intelligent for his own good.

One of his greatest pleasures was going to the Chadarian capital, Actigorium, in disguise to gather news and to barter, trade, or steal anything he could get from the Chadarians or the Tarns. It was dangerous work, for if the Tarnish soldiers ever caught him in any suspicious activity, they would whip him to death and hang his body on the main wall of the city.

The problem was that Aiden was very good at his work. He spoke fluent Chadarian, could dissemble with the best, and was skilled at disguises. He was also very successful. He had saved the family several times from surprise visits from Tyrranis’s tax collectors and had brought back many items from the city market that the clanspeople couldn’t make themselves.

Valorian couldn’t understand Aiden’s attraction to the city. He himself hated the crowds of people, the narrow streets, and the constant noise, yet he couldn’t help but respect his brother’s daring. .

“What are the goats for?” Valorian asked, deciding to change the subject.

“Linna wants them. They’re supposed to have very soft, long wool when they grow up. She wants to try the wool in her weaving.”

Even through the disgust in his voice at having to haul goats, Valorian could hear the pride in Aiden’s voice. Linna, his betrothed, was the finest weaver in the Clan.

Aiden half-turned in his saddle and said, “I also heard that Sergius may pay us a visit in a few days. It seems we’re behind on our tribute to General Tyrranis.”

Valorian stifled a groan. The last thing he wanted to do now was argue with Sergius Valentius over taxes the family couldn’t pay.

They rode on quietly for a while, deeper and deeper into the hills. Gradually the valley narrowed as the surrounding hills rose high above them. Relieved to be almost home, Valorian savored the familiar landscape as never before. Usually” he merely tolerated the rocky confines of the valley. It was cold and damp in the winter, it had too many trees and not enough meadows for the horses, the ground was mostly stone, and the high hills made him uncomfortable. On the other hand, it afforded an excellent shelter from the winter winds, and so far it had protected them well from the Tarns.

It wouldn’t be long, though, before the family moved on.

After the last of the spring crop of stock animals was born, the family would celebrate the Birthright, the festival of thanksgiving to Amara, then they would pack their tents, gather the herds, and move higher into the mountains to the summer pastures.

Their move could be sooner than he imagined, Valorian surmised, for spring had advanced far into the hills while he was gone. The snow had vanished from the valley during the long days of rain, and the warm sun had brought out a thick carpet of green grasses, herbs, and vines. Wildflowers in delicate colors of white, blue, and pink popped out in every sunny patch of earth.

Not far ahead, Valorian could see where the creek took a sharp turn to the right around a rocky promontory. Behind it, the valley widened into an oval—shaped meadow that was fairly flat and grassy. There, Valorian knew, were the tents of the extended family group that called him their nominal leader.

He was so pleased by the prospect of being almost home, he missed Aiden’s look of suspicion at the promontory as they passed.

“Ranulf is supposed to be on guard duty,” Aiden snapped, startling Valorian out of his reverie. “If he’s asleep again, I’ll slit his gut.”

Valorian shot a look at the place on the high point where a guard usually stayed, but there was no sign of one. He frowned. Every Clan camp stationed guards to protect itself from unwelcome visitors or surprise attacks. One unwary guard could mean disaster.

The two riders hurried on along the trail past the promontory and through a copse of tall pines. The path rose up a low slope, then dipped down again to the valley floor and the wide, grassy meadow. Valorian and Aiden went as far as the top of the slope before they stopped and looked down on the camp.

At first glance, the valley looked normal. A few horses grazed peacefully at the far eastern end where the grass was the thickest. Some goats and sheep were being herded by several small boys to the stream that tumbled beside the sheer slopes of the northern wall. The camp itself lay quietly in the sunshine, just below the riders’ positions.

Valorian’s hand edged to his sword and silently drew it. Something was wrong. He could sense it. The camp was too quiet. There was no sign of anyone among the tents or by the central fire, and the surrounding area was strangely empty.

“Where is everyone?” he murmured.

Aiden didn’t hear him. “What did that?” he asked incredulously and pointed to Valorian’s sword.

The clansman glanced at his blade, then stared at it in amazement. He had had no reason to draw it on the journey home and hadn’t looked at it since that rainy afternoon on the ridge.

Something incredible had happened to it. The blade had been burned black by some powerful heat that not only scorched the blade down to the hilt, but also melted the edges in ripples at the point. Instead of a straight, hammered blade, the sword looked much like a long flame. In disgust, Valorian slammed the weapon back in its sheath. The sword had been his father’s and grandfather’s before him. Now it was probably useless, and short of stealing a Tarnish blade, he had no means of getting another.

“I don’t know what did that,” he snapped. “Now, where is everyone?”

Aiden gazed at the man for a long moment. He loved his brother too much to doubt him, but this mystery of Valorian’s reappearance was beginning to bother him. He gestured toward the camp. “Most of the men and boys are’ either out hunting or looking for you, and Mother Willa said something about taking the women out to gather herbs and greens. I don’t know about everyone else.”

The sharp tone in Aiden’s voice brought Valorian’s irritation up short. He didn’t need to take his frustrations out on his brother. He was about to apologize when he heard a sound that turned his blood cold.

Voices had suddenly raised in anger from the corrals where the camp’s best horses and breeding stock were kept.

The pens were near the stream and out of his sight behind some trees, yet he still recognized the shouting voices. One was Kierla, yelling at another voice that belonged to Sergius Valentius, General Tyrranis’s tax collector.

“Oh, gods,” groaned Aiden. “He came early! That weasel came two days early!”

All at once, Kierla’s shout changed to a cry of fury and fear, and Valorian’s heart fell to his knees. He reacted instantly by clamping his legs to Hunnul’s sides and grabbing the black mane. The stallion rocketed forward from a standstill to a full gallop down the trail through the trees, with Aiden right behind.

Like a thunderbolt, the black charged through the edge of camp, past the refuse pile, and out of the trees into the wide clearing where the corrals stood. At his master’s command, he came sliding to a stop almost on his haunches and neighed in excitement. His sudden appearance brought everyone in the corrals to a shocked standstill.

Valorian’s face tightened with rage when he took in the scene in the nearest large corral. One Tarnish soldier was leading four pregnant mares out through the gate with the obvious intention of taking them, and two more soldiers held a small group of clanspeople at bay with swords. The mares were the family’s last brood mares of pure Harachan blood, the ancient strain of Clan-bred horse, and the finest of Valorian’s breeding stock.

Kierla had apparently tried to stop the Tarns with little success. She lay struggling on her back in the dust of the corral where Sergius had knocked her. The Tarnish tax collector was tying her wrists together.

He looked up when Hunnul burst into the clearing, and an arrogant smirk crossed his swarthy, pinched features. “You’re late with your tribute, Valorian,” he shouted. “I’ve had to come collect it myself, and that will cost you.”

Kierla started violently, nearly pulling her wrists free. Her fact twisted toward her husband with a crazy combination of hope, joy, anger, and outrage as she fought to escape the Tarn’s grip.

Sergius merely chuckled with appreciation before he hauled her to her feet and shoved her toward his saddled horse.

Deep within Valorian’s mind, an unconscious power flickered to existence. It surged hotter in his anger, coursing through his veins and energizing his tired body. Fiercer and stronger it grew until his skin tingled with its energy. But Valorian didn’t recognize the magic. He saw only his beloved wife being pushed toward the Tarn’s horse. There had been other women forcibly taken from the Clan to satisfy Tyrranis’s lust, and they had never returned. He kicked Hunnul forward.

Sergius saw the movement and drew his knife on Kierla.

“One more move, clansman, and this woman will feed the buzzards.” He curled his lip at the expression on Valorian’s face, then deliberately shoved Kierla up against his horse and ripped the bodice of her dress.

Valorian gave no thought to what he did next; he simply reacted. A fragment of his dream suddenly came into sharp clarity, revealing in his mind the picture of a deadly blue bolt of energy. He raised his hand and threw it forward.

Out of his body, formed by the goddess’s gift, came a sizzling blast of magic that seared through the afternoon air, struck Sergius full on the chest, and slammed him to the ground. Kierla was knocked off her feet, and the Tarn’s horse reared in terror, snapped its rein, and galloped away.

For a long, silent breath, the tableau froze in time. No one moved, no one spoke. They could only gape at Valorian.

The clansman was staring at his hand. In one stunning instant the remaining pieces of his dream fell into place, and he knew with utter certainty that what had happened in his memory was true. He had been struck by lightning and died; he had rescued the crown of Amara from the gorthlings, and she in gratitude had returned him to life with his power to wield magic intact. The enormity of his ability suddenly struck him like a blow, and he lifted his eyes to Sergius’s smoking body, appalled by what he had done.

The small movement shattered the shocked silence. The three Tarnish soldiers bolted as one for their horses, but Aiden moved faster. He yanked out his bow and shouted, “Stop them!” The soldier nearest Valorian staggered and fell with two of Aiden’s arrows in his back. The second was killed with a dagger thrown by one of the elderly men in the group. The third nearly made it to his horse before he was brought down by a well-aimed rock from a sling.

Valorian didn’t move during the killing. He was too overwhelmed by his own thoughts. It wasn’t until Kierla walked over to stand in front of Hunnul that he forced himself to look down at her.

Her green eyes were snapping with suspicion, and her expression was cold. Kierla wasn’t a beauty at any time in her life, least of all when she was angry. Her look of outrage set over her straight nose, large teeth, and longish face gave her a faint resemblance to a horse ready to snap. The freckles on her fair skin were lost in a red flush, and her dark eyebrows glowered over her eyes. The long, dark hair that hung in a single plait over her shoulder was tangled and dusty. She paid no attention to her torn bodice, letting the shreds hang open.

Valorian thought he had never seen her look so lovely.

“Who are you?” she hissed fiercely. “You look like Valorian, but he cannot do what you have done. Who are you?” The clansman dismounted like a weary old man and stood by Hunnul’s head. The other clanspeople—his two aunts, some cousins, Kierla’s uncle, and several children gathered around him. Their faces were wary and fearful. The look of relief and welcome had even faded from Aiden’s expression.

Valorian could hardly blame them. He had appeared out of nowhere with a power only the gods had heretofore wielded.

“Perhaps it’s a gorthling,” he heard a young cousin say softly.

“Too big,” Kierla’s uncle stated. “Could be a ghost.”

“Maybe he’s a Harbinger,” an aunt murmured. The people sucked in their breath at that possibility and took a step backward.

Only Kierla didn’t back away. She faced the man before her, scrutinizing every detail of his face. She looked past the dirt and the bruise on his temple and the scruffy beard to the unchanging characteristics of the man’s face. If this wasn’t Valorian, it was an exact copy of him down to the cleft in his chin, the straight line of his nose, and the scar on his forehead. The eyes were the same brilliant blue, too, but there was a cast about them that was subtly different. They were harder, more piercing, as if forged in fire and set with the farseeing vision of an eagle. Her anger began to fade to confusion. She moved closer, and, trembling, she reached out to touch his cheek.

“I am Valorian,” he said directly to her, and she knew then it was true. Whatever doubt or fear she had, she cast it aside and fell into Valorian’s arms.

Later that night the entire family, fifty-two people in all, gathered around the central fire after the evening meal to hear Valorian’s tale. He told them everything, from the moment he decided to give the Tarnish soldiers his meat to his return to the Clan. The clanspeople listened, spellbound, to his every word.

When he finished his story, he formed a sphere of light over the camp and watched his people stare at it in rapt’ silence. He wondered what they were thinking. Were they terrified of his new power? Awestruck? Disbelieving? He felt all of that and more. One question kept repeating itself in his thoughts—why him? What purpose did Amara have in sending him back to life with the ability to wield magic? was it simply gratitude or something more? He snuffed out his light.

“What do we do now?” someone said in the darkness.

The question voiced Valorian’s own doubts. He really didn’t know what to do now. The family was in serious trouble because of the killing of four Tarns. If Tyrranis found out, he would slaughter every man, woman, and child without mercy. They would have to move quickly. He rubbed his hand, which was still numb from the lightning strike, and tried to think. Whatever reason the goddess had for returning him to life would probably be revealed in time. Meanwhile, he still had the elusive mountain pass and his determination to find it. Amara had said nothing about his request for a new life for the Clan, so he proposed to seek it himself.

“It would be wise to leave here immediately,” he said as if to himself, “so we will go to Stonehelm. I must talk to Lord Fearral.” He lapsed into silence, his gaze lost in the dying embers of the fire.

Sensing his brother’s exhaustion, Aiden rose to his feet. “Ranulf, since you were the one who fell asleep and let the Tarns slip by, you can come with me to dispose of their dies.” Shamefaced, the young man nodded as Aiden went on. “The boys can bring in the rest of the herds. Jendar, you and two others tear down the corrals. If we all move fast, we can have this camp obliterated by tomorrow afternoon.” Nods and murmurs of assent moved around the campfire.

With a great effort, Valorian pulled himself to his feet and put his hand on Aiden’s shoulder in thanks. He felt Kierla’s strong arm take his. To a sincere chorus of goodnights and blessings from his family, Valorian followed his wife to their tent.

He would have thought he was too exhausted for passion in the warmth of their blankets, but Kierla’s closeness brought a new strength surging from his innermost being. They made love with a desire and yearning that surprised them both and left them gasping and giggling in the tangle of covers.

Later, in the dark of the night, Kierla put her hand on her lower abdomen. It had happened at last. She did not need the midwifery of Mother Willa to tell her—she knew. As surely as she had recognized her husband, she now recognized the son who had been conceived in the dizzying heights of their love. Her heart sang. Praise to Amara, she wanted to cry. The goddess had given her husband a gift; now she had given one to her. The greatest of all blessings.

Kierla felt hot tears trickle down her cheeks. Whatever purpose the gods had for returning Valorian, it had to be for the good. Only that would explain why, after fifteen years of emptiness, she had conceived a child on the night of his return.

Kierla smiled in wonder before she snuggled closer to her sleeping husband. “Thank you,” she whispered into the night.