charges had wandered off. Yvon had seen such things done before. He rose up, stretched, and then sat on his haunches.
Claye woke up, lifting his head abruptly. Seeing Xaragitte there, he grinned and giggled, and tugged up a handful of grasses from beside the blanket. Xaragitte yawned, and eyes half-closed, stretched her hand out to him with one finger extended. Claye smiled at her, dropped the blades, and poked his finger toward hers.
"I don't know why we prolong this dance of masks and costumes," she said softly. Her shoulders started shaking. "I've never felt so tired, not even after my daughter died-"
"Listen to me." Yvon leaned forward, talking to her the way he'd talked to too many soldiers on too many campaigns. "We swore to Lord Gruethrist that we would save his lady's son from the Baron, and I can't do it alone. You're tired, and you hurt because something bad has happened to someone you love. But you have to be strong."
Claye's large eyes watched Yvon intently.
"If anything happens to you," Yvon said, "then Claye doesn't eat. So you have to be strong."
Xaragitte stopped crying, exhaled. Absurdly, she laughed at Yvon, then yawned again. Her hand moved to cover her mouth, then sagged to the ground as she fell asleep.
Claye immediately crawled away from her.
"Hold on, now," Yvon whispered, and stuck out his arm to block the child's path. Claye pealed in laughter, twisted, and squirted off in the opposite direction.
Yvon moved to block him again, and Claye turned it into a game. Soon Yvon was crawling around on his hands and knees, constantly herding Claye back toward his slumbering nursemaid. When the child started to grow frustrated, Yvon reached in and tickled him. Shrieks of laughter rose from the hillside, and a mammut pealed back in reply across the nightfall.
Yvon glanced over at Xaragitte. Even that sound failed to wake her.
"Mahmah," Claye shouted, to catch Yvon's attention. When Yvon looked at him, he rolled over onto his pudgy knees again and giggled, looking over his shoulder.
"Oh, you can't escape from me," Yvon whispered, and they started all over again. This was good, Yvon thought. This was what he wanted. They could turn the baby over to Lady Eleuate, wait for Lord Gruethrist to settle things with the Baron, and then he and Xaragitte could start over on their own. He held on tight to that image.
After a while, Claye paused unsteadily on three little limbs, rubbed one tiny fist against his eye, and yawned. Then he scooted over to Xaragitte. He tugged at her bodice strings, shoved them in his mouth, and whined.
Yvon hesitated a moment, then untied the strings himself. He brushed the cloth back with his fingertips, then slowly, gently, cupped her breast to lift it free. Claye pushed past Yvon's hand, rooting around with his nose in the pale flesh until his mouth found her nipple. He sucked happily and soon dozed off cuddled to his nursemaid's bosom.
The sky's deep blue purpled into black. The cool air raised goosebumps on his skin, so Yvon took his own blanket and covered Xaragitte and Claye with it. Then he sat there, cloak folded around his arms and legs, guarding.
His chin drooped toward his chest and stayed there.
He slept, and in his sleep he dreamed of Xaragitte. She was with him, and he with her, in the way of men and women, and it was good, balm on an old wound. She moaned in pleasure as he thrust against her, but the dream shifted toward something else, some shadow moving in the darkness, the sound of feet through grass, and his eyes snapped open. He was aroused, though he still sat apart, hunched over his knees.
Xaragitte groaned, like she had in his dream, and yet nothing like that either. It was so dark he could scarcely see her. But something was wrong.
"Knew you weren't no uncle," said a voice, fishing for a response that would let him pin their position.
Yvon hunkered motionless and silent. Slowly he slid his knife from its sheath and waited.
"Leave her door open for me
Claye woke up, lifting his head abruptly. Seeing Xaragitte there, he grinned and giggled, and tugged up a handful of grasses from beside the blanket. Xaragitte yawned, and eyes half-closed, stretched her hand out to him with one finger extended. Claye smiled at her, dropped the blades, and poked his finger toward hers.
"I don't know why we prolong this dance of masks and costumes," she said softly. Her shoulders started shaking. "I've never felt so tired, not even after my daughter died-"
"Listen to me." Yvon leaned forward, talking to her the way he'd talked to too many soldiers on too many campaigns. "We swore to Lord Gruethrist that we would save his lady's son from the Baron, and I can't do it alone. You're tired, and you hurt because something bad has happened to someone you love. But you have to be strong."
Claye's large eyes watched Yvon intently.
"If anything happens to you," Yvon said, "then Claye doesn't eat. So you have to be strong."
Xaragitte stopped crying, exhaled. Absurdly, she laughed at Yvon, then yawned again. Her hand moved to cover her mouth, then sagged to the ground as she fell asleep.
Claye immediately crawled away from her.
"Hold on, now," Yvon whispered, and stuck out his arm to block the child's path. Claye pealed in laughter, twisted, and squirted off in the opposite direction.
Yvon moved to block him again, and Claye turned it into a game. Soon Yvon was crawling around on his hands and knees, constantly herding Claye back toward his slumbering nursemaid. When the child started to grow frustrated, Yvon reached in and tickled him. Shrieks of laughter rose from the hillside, and a mammut pealed back in reply across the nightfall.
Yvon glanced over at Xaragitte. Even that sound failed to wake her.
"Mahmah," Claye shouted, to catch Yvon's attention. When Yvon looked at him, he rolled over onto his pudgy knees again and giggled, looking over his shoulder.
"Oh, you can't escape from me," Yvon whispered, and they started all over again. This was good, Yvon thought. This was what he wanted. They could turn the baby over to Lady Eleuate, wait for Lord Gruethrist to settle things with the Baron, and then he and Xaragitte could start over on their own. He held on tight to that image.
After a while, Claye paused unsteadily on three little limbs, rubbed one tiny fist against his eye, and yawned. Then he scooted over to Xaragitte. He tugged at her bodice strings, shoved them in his mouth, and whined.
Yvon hesitated a moment, then untied the strings himself. He brushed the cloth back with his fingertips, then slowly, gently, cupped her breast to lift it free. Claye pushed past Yvon's hand, rooting around with his nose in the pale flesh until his mouth found her nipple. He sucked happily and soon dozed off cuddled to his nursemaid's bosom.
The sky's deep blue purpled into black. The cool air raised goosebumps on his skin, so Yvon took his own blanket and covered Xaragitte and Claye with it. Then he sat there, cloak folded around his arms and legs, guarding.
His chin drooped toward his chest and stayed there.
He slept, and in his sleep he dreamed of Xaragitte. She was with him, and he with her, in the way of men and women, and it was good, balm on an old wound. She moaned in pleasure as he thrust against her, but the dream shifted toward something else, some shadow moving in the darkness, the sound of feet through grass, and his eyes snapped open. He was aroused, though he still sat apart, hunched over his knees.
Xaragitte groaned, like she had in his dream, and yet nothing like that either. It was so dark he could scarcely see her. But something was wrong.
"Knew you weren't no uncle," said a voice, fishing for a response that would let him pin their position.
Yvon hunkered motionless and silent. Slowly he slid his knife from its sheath and waited.
"Leave her door open for me
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