Chapter 21: Blood Oath at Dusk
The dust of the training yard had settled, but it clung to Kerr’s skin, a gritty testament to the day’s relentless drills. The castle, saved but scarred by Howe’s treachery, hummed with a nervous energy. It was a reprieve, not a victory. His father and brother were still at Ostagar, unaware of the knife aimed at their backs here at home. A knife he’d barely caught in time.
He took his supper on a stone bench in the inner courtyard, a bowl of hearty stew in his hands. The dusk light bled across the sky, painting the high walls in shades of violet and gold. The scent of roses from his mother’s garden fought a losing battle against the prevailing smells of horse, leather, and men. He ate mechanically, his mind not on the food but on the road east, towards the king’s army.
“You eat like a man savoring his last meal.”
The voice was soft, lyrical, touched with an Orlesian accent. Oriana, Fergus’s wife, stood a few feet away, her hands folded before her. She was a silhouette against the dying light, fine-boned and elegant even in her simple day dress.
“Maybe I am,” Kerr said, shoveling another spoonful into his mouth. He gestured with the spoon to the space beside him. “Join me. Unless you’re afraid of the grime.”
She sat, arranging her skirts with a precision that felt foreign amidst the courtyard’s rustic charm. For a while, they sat in silence, listening to the distant calls of the guards changing watch.
“The castle is safe because of you,” she said finally, not looking at him. “The men, the servants… they look at you differently now. There is a respect that wasn’t there before. It is more than just the Teryn’s son.”
Kerr grunted, swirling the stew in his bowl. “They’re just glad not to be dead.”
“It is more than that.” She turned her head, her dark eyes studying his profile. “I am glad, too. For myself. For my Oren.” She said her son’s name like a prayer. Then her voice tightened. “And yet, every time I feel that gratitude, it curdles. Because my husband rides to war, loyal and brave, while his own neighbor plotted to murder his family in his absence. How do I hold both truths?”
He put the bowl down on the stones, the clunk loud in the quiet. “You don’t have to hold them. I do. I’ll ride for Ostagar at first light. I’ll find Fergus and Father. I’ll bring them both back.”
She blinked rapidly, her composure cracking for just a second. “You say that so easily.”
“It’s not easy. It’s just necessary.”
Another silence, heavier this time. When she spoke again, her voice was lower, curious in a way that felt dangerous. “May I ask you something… indelicate?”
“You just did.”
A faint smile touched her lips. “In all the years I have been here, since I married Fergus… you have never once… there has never been an advance. Not a look, not a whispered suggestion.” She paused, choosing her words with surgical care. “Given what I hear, and what I see… your appetites are not small. Yet you have never given me, your brother’s wife, a moment’s unease. Why?”
Kerr stared at her, his brows knitting together. He looked genuinely perplexed, as if she’d asked him why the sky was blue. “You’re Fergus’s wife.”
“Yes.”
“He’s my brother.”
“I am aware.”
He shook his head slowly, as if the logic was so fundamental it was almost impossible to articulate. “It’s… he’s my brother. That’s his. You’re his. It’s just… how it is.” He said it not with pride or piety, but with the flat certainty of stating that fire was hot or stone was hard. A natural law, written in his bones.
Oriana watched him, her expression unreadable. Then she let out a soft breath, almost a laugh, but tinged with a profound sadness. “Of course. A Cousland honor. Simple. Absolute.”
“It’s not about honor,” Kerr said, the words coming out rough. He stared at his hands, large and scarred from practice blades. “Honor’s a flag you wave. This is… bedrock.”
Oriana stayed silent, letting the twilight settle around them.
“The best thing I’ve ever been given,” he began slowly, “is to be a brother. From the moment I squalled, I was never alone. Fergus was just… there.” He gestured vaguely at the castle around them. “He taught me to hold a sword. Took the blame when I broke a window. Was as responsible for making me a man as my father was.”
He finally looked at her. “You’re not just his wife. You’re a jewel. You’re my sister. You’re Oren’s mother.” He said the boy’s name with a softness that surprised even him. “Together, you two… you made me more.”
She had gone very still, her eyes shining in the dim light.
“I’m a protector because of him. An uncle because of you.” He let out a short breath, almost a laugh. “Fergus made me look at the future and actually want it. Kids. A family. To be half as good as he is.”
The confession hung in the air, stark and simple.
“All the rest… the flirtation, the fun…” He thought of Elspeth’s sharp comfort, of Landra’s desperate hunger in the dark. “I love it. Giving pleasure, taking it. It’s a part of me. But it’s not the core. The core is because of them. Because of him.”
Oriana’s hand, small and cool, covered his on the stone bench. She didn’t speak for a long time. A bat flickered overhead, stitching the purple sky.
“Then bring him home, Kerr,” she whispered, her voice thick. “Bring your brother home to his son. And to me.”
She stood abruptly, the moment too heavy to bear sitting. She smoothed her dress, a regal, reflexive gesture.
“You should sleep,” she said, not looking at him. “The road at dawn is long.”
He watched her walk back towards the keep, a slender figure swallowed by the torchlight of the doorway. The stew in his bowl was cold now, a congealed mass. He didn’t move. The weight of her request settled on his shoulders, heavier than any armor.
Bring him home.
It wasn’t a hope anymore. It was an oath. Kerr stood, the joints in his legs protesting. He left the bowl on the bench and walked toward the barracks, the core of him solid, ready for the war to come.
He left the bowl on the bench and walked toward the barracks, the core of him solid, ready for the war to come. The evening had grown cold, the torchlight guttering in their sconces along the courtyard wall, casting frantic shadows. He almost didn’t hear the soft footsteps on the cobbles behind him.
“Off to brood in the dark, are we?”
Elspeth’s voice was a familiar rasp in the night. He turned to find her holding two clay cups and a squat, dark bottle. Her expression was unreadable in the gloom.
“Brooding’s a luxury,” he said, stopping. “Was heading to check the patrol schedules.”
“Aye, I’m sure you were.” She lifted the bottle. “Schedules can wait. This can’t. Found it at the back of the cold cellar. Blackberry. From the batch we laid down the summer you were sixteen.”
A memory, sudden and vivid: the sticky-sweet heat of that summer, the purple stains on their hands, her laughing at his eagerness. The wine had tasted like rebellion.
“That’s a specific recipe for memory,” he said, his voice softer.
“Only kind worth keeping.” She nodded toward a shadowed alcove near the stables, out of the wind. “Come on. My feet are killing me.”
They settled on an upturned trough. She poured, the wine glugging thickly into the cups. It was deep purple, almost black. She handed him one, their fingers brushing. The first taste was a punch of concentrated berry, tart and sweet, followed by the warm bloom of fermentation. It was exactly as he remembered.
“Drank this the first time you snuck into my quarters,” she said, not looking at him, watching the torchlight dance in her cup. “Thought you were so clever, silent as a bull in a pottery shed. You were shaking.”
“I was not.”
“Like a leaf. All that bravado, gone the second the latch clicked.” She took a sip, smiling at the memory. “Lasted about ten seconds, that first time. Over before I’d got my shawl off.”
He laughed, a real one, the sound swallowed by the vast, dark courtyard. “You’re cruel.”
“I’m honest.” She nudged his boot with hers. “Made up for it, though. Second time lasted a whole minute. Progress.”
He drank more of the wine, its warmth spreading through his chest. The memory was no longer a sharp, private thing, but a shared story, smoothed by time.
“Then it was anywhere you could get me alone,” she continued, her tone dipping into a fond, amused register. “Pantries. The larder behind the flour sacks. Up against the anvil in the empty smithy once, if I recall. Maker, the places. Any solid surface you could find.”
“You weren’t exactly protesting.”
“Protesting? I was keeping up.” She shook her head, a strand of grey hair coming loose. “Had the stamina of a druffalo, you did. Those first few years, must have been six times a day, easy. Thought I’d wear a hole in the mattress, or my knees would give out. Whichever came first.”
The casual, earthy recounting of their history wrapped around him like a worn blanket. It was a chronicle of appetite, of sheer physical joy, uncomplicated by duty or name. It was a part of him that existed outside of being a Cousland.
He listened, drinking the wine, watching the lines of her face in the half-light. She spoke of it like a cook recalling a particularly good harvest season—factual, appreciative, with a hint of pride in the yield.
“Slowed down after a while,” she said, finishing her cup and pouring another. “Grew up a bit. Got a bit more sense. Or at least, learned to pace yourself.”
She sipped her wine, a distant look in her eyes. “But Maker, those first years. You learned so quick. Learned what to do, how to touch.” She shook her head, a slow smile spreading. “I couldn’t get enough of you. My cunt just… screamed for it. For you.”
Kerr felt a hot flush that had nothing to do with the alcohol. Her bluntness was a physical touch in the dark.
She chuckled, a low, rasping sound. “I’d laugh sometimes, after. Laugh at the state of me. You’d leave me a wreck for hours. Couldn’t walk right, couldn’t think straight. Every nerve ending I had, just… spent.” She turned her head to look at him, her gaze direct and unashamed. “It was a good way to feel spent.”
He had no words. The admission was a raw, glorious gift. It wasn’t poetry. It was better. It was truth, etched in the memory of muscle and skin.
“Don’t get a big head about it,” she nudged him again, breaking the spell. “You were just eager. And I was… receptive.”
“Receptive,” he repeated, the word dry in his mouth. He looked at her, really looked. At the lines fanning from her eyes, the permanent slight stoop from a lifetime of work. A fierce, protective tenderness welled up in him, sharp as a knife. “I’ll miss this.”
“This?” she gestured between them with her cup.
“The truth. The no-bullshit.”
She drained her cup and set it down with a definitive click. “Truth is, you’re leaving tomorrow. Truth is, I’m too old for goodbyes that last all night. My back won’t take it.” She stood, brushing invisible crumbs from her apron. “You have a duty. A real one. Not just to your cock or to some lonely woman in a pantry.”
He stood with her, feeling suddenly too large, too clumsy. “Elspeth.”
“Don’t.” She reached up, her hand rough against his cheek. It was a brief, hard press of warmth. “Just go. Be a hero. Come back in one piece. And if you don’t,” she said, her voice dropping to a gravelly whisper, “I’ll be furious. Understood?”
He nodded, the motion stiff.
“Good.” She turned and walked towards the kitchens, her steps sure on the cobbles. She didn’t look back.
Then her voice came, thrown back at him over the damp courtyard stones, clear and certain. "And for incentive? This old cunt and any solid surface you can find in this keep will be waiting for you when you haul your hairy arse back home. Consider it a reward program."