Hearts in Zenith (Four Husbands and a Lover)

29. The Books We Read as Children

After two days on the march, mud, squalls and cold let up, providing a blessed lull. We set our camp at a leisurely pace that night, and Ondrey invited me for a cup of tea. 

Before going, I crouched before my soldier's chest to find a gift for him. 

How could I not? His gray eyes were the only ones that looked upon me with joy, rather than a demand or scorn. Sunshine added a bit of blue to their shade. They reminded me of melting ice and it was a beautiful thing to behold, particularly with the spring so far away.

The lid banged when it flipped open. What I wanted hid on the very bottom. A smile tugged at the corners of my lips, the kind that hides for years at a time, then sneaks upon you with a half-forgotten memory. I hefted the culprit out of the chest and paused, still smiling, still remembering, until the wistful acknowledgment of the past gave way to today's dreams.

I pushed to numb feet and went to Ondrey's tent. Its fur-padded interior stayed the drafts and defied the annoyances of the winter march. So cozy, so out of touch with the frozen world outside... He spent a lot of energy setting it up nightly, not just on the day he had expected my officers and me. It wasn't to impress. It was what he wanted, comfort, even at the price of extra work.

Rubbing my hands over the flickering fire—pork fat helped a little, but it wasn't a panacea—I wondered how he reconciled his sybarite habits with his abstinence vow.

He placed an almost conical earthenware cup into my hands, and my questions evaporated. Blessed be those who love comfort and share it with a stranger on the road! The cup had no handle and a very wide top, almost like a bowl. One had to cradle it. I lowered my face over the tea, inhaled the steam curling over it. My nose filled with the scent of mint, steeped with some other herb, slightly bitter, more so astringent, unfamiliar. But, again, blessed be those who share their comforts with strangers.

"Do you like to read, Ondrey?" I asked. "My husband doesn't go a day without leafing a spiritual book to give him solace." Involuntarily, I heaved a sigh. Hopefully, Kozima was warm and cozy right now in Palmyr. So far away from me.

He saluted me with his own cup. The anxiety that made me take pity on him when Phedoxia asked nearly the same question was not there. Instead, his eyes twinkled under his brow—the sable's brow they called it here.

"A peculiar choice to soothe the sorrows." In the firelight, there was even more blue in his eyes. Their gaze lingered on my lips. "Or to even have sorrows when married to a woman like you. But who am I to judge?"

I took a sip out of my cup and winced. Mint has never been my favorite flavor, but I could have endured mint. It was the additional bitter note that promised to grow more disgusting with every swallow. Pity this land for it produces firs and pines instead of our beautiful lemon trees. I wiggled my toes, letting the soft pelt under my soles tickle me. Yes, every place had its gifts. The trick was to find and appreciate them.

"You didn't answer my question, Ondrey," I said.

He rubbed his neck with a large hand. He had callouses. His nails were bitten off to the meat to stop them from getting in the way of his daily toils. Those weren't the hands of a virtuous husband, but I was ready to bet they were warm. More gifts of this unforgiving land...

"I've tried devotional texts, Your Grandissima, but three verses in—and I'm fast asleep. All those strange ancient words... There always seems to be more than they need to say what they want to say."

I felt my eyes crinkle at the corners. "And what's that, Ondrey?"

"The Divines are good. Obey the Princesses and your wives. Beget and raise the Divine-loving children." He scratched his beard, then the neck and throat under the chin, also overgrown. "Am I forgetting anything?"