Chapter 338: Draeven Can Say What He Like

When it was over, they were quiet.

It was a good quiet. It was the kind that comes after a long laugh, warm and soft and a little breathless, like the hush after rain. The fire crackled. The ash leaves rustled overhead. Somewhere in the grass, a cricket was tuning its fiddle.

She felt Kaelen shift.

He lay down on the other side of her, on his back, with his hands behind his head and his boots crossed at the ankle. He turned his head, and looked at her. His eyes were very blue, and very quiet.

"Hey," he said.

"Hey."

"Come here."

She moved. She did it without thinking, a small slow roll across the blanket, and his arm came around her, warm and solid, and she settled with her head on his shoulder. He smelled of woodsmoke and cold air and mint. His chest rose and fell under her cheek.

"Better?" he murmured.

"Much."

"You looked tired."

"I’m not."

"You’re a little bit tired."

"A little."

"Close your eyes. We’ve got an hour."

"Draeven said...."

"Draeven can say what he likes." Kaelen’s thumb traced slow circles on her arm. "He’s already looking at the horses. He’s going to count them for the next twenty minutes."

"I heard that," said Draeven.

"You were meant to."

"I am counting them," said Draeven, "because somebody must. And because three of them are very beautiful. And because one of them has a hoof I do not entirely like."

"Which one?"

"The chestnut."

"That’s my horse."

"I know. I am sorry."

She smiled against Kaelen’s shoulder.

She felt the blanket shift. A hand came down, warm and light, and settled against her hair. It stroked once, slowly, from her temple to her ear, and lingered. She did not have to look. She knew the shape of that hand by now. It moved through her braid, loosening it, carefully, strand by strand, and she felt the tension run out of her scalp like water.

"Draeven," she murmured.

"Hm."

"That’s nice."

"I thought it might be."

"You’re good at it."

"I have been told I have steady hands."

"They’re very steady."

"Thank you."

She felt his mouth against her hair.

It was not quite a kiss. It was only a touch, very light, a brush of warmth against her temple. She turned her head, and found his eyes close above hers, golden and soft. He was leaning on one elbow, looking down at her, and the sunlight lay across his face in a long slant.

"May I?" he said.

"Yes."

He kissed her.

It was slow. It tasted of woodsmoke and mint. It was warm, and quiet, and utterly unhurried, with the gentleness of a man who had learned that nothing needed to be rushed. She lifted one hand, and laid it against his jaw, and felt the faint prickle of stubble and the quick pulse in his throat. His breath caught against her lips.

When he drew back, she was smiling.

"And me," said Kaelen.

"You’ve had yours."

"I want another."

"You are greedy," said Draeven.

"I’m thorough."

She turned her head, laughing, and he caught her mouth before she could say anything else.

It was a different kiss. It was warm and open and laughing, a kiss that tasted of salt and smoke and the last of the stew. His hand slid into her hair. She felt him smile against her lips. He kissed her once, twice, a light playful brush, and then more slowly, with a long soft sigh, and she melted into it like butter in a pan.

"There," he said, softly. "That’s what I wanted."

"Greedy," she whispered.

"Very." Kaelen replied with a smile.

She smiled and closed her eyes.

She lay between them in the warm stone, with the sun on her face and a man’s arm under her head and a man’s hand in her hair, and for the first time in many weeks she let herself simply be. No plots, no council, no chains. No Carrick, no Valorhold, no choosing. Only a ruined tower, and a golden afternoon, and the sound of the ash leaves stirring.

It was so quiet that she almost slept.

She was drifting, loose and warm, when she felt something strange. A cold, thin, delicate touch on her cheek. It was like a hair, or a thread of spider silk. She stirred. She put up a hand.

Her fingertips came away damp.

She opened her eyes.

Above her, on the old grey wall, a sheet of frost was spreading. It crept up the stones in feathery fans. It was beautiful, white and glittering and perfectly formed, and it covered the whole wall in the time it took to blink. Every blade of grass near the stones had stiffened and turned silver.

"Oh," said Morgana.

"Don’t be alarmed," said Draeven.

His voice was very calm.

She turned her head. He was looking at the wall. His face was perfectly composed, but his hand, in her hair, had gone still.

"It’s...."

"Cold stones," said Kaelen, from the other side. "In the shade. It happens."

"It’s noon."

"It’s a very shady wall."

"There’s no shade, it’s...."

"Morgana," said Draeven gently.

She stopped.

He met her eyes. His own were quiet and warm and steady. They said, very plainly, not now. They said, let it be. And after a moment, because she was tired, and happy, and afraid of what she might find if she looked too closely, she nodded.

"It’s a very cold wall," she said.

"Isn’t it?"

"I’ll try not to stand near it."

"A wise precaution."

She lay back down.

She did not look at the frost again. But in the warm quiet, with Kaelen’s arm around her and Draeven’s hand in her hair, she felt, very faintly, something deep in her chest turn over, like a seed shifting in cold earth. It was not painful. It was only strange.

I know, she thought. I know. I’m trying.

Not yet.

***

They reached the ford in the middle of the afternoon.

It lay at the bottom of a long, shallow valley, where the river spread out wide and slow over a bed of grey stones. On either side, the banks were steep and wooded, thick with alder and willow. The water was clear as glass, and shallow, no more than hock-deep, and the far bank rose in a gentle slope of bracken and gold leaves.