Chapter 12 #3
"Being Merrik's nephew makes Torsten virtually untouchable by the Warlords.
Merrik is a respected figure among the clans.
He served at three Gatherings before Ragna took the seat.
If I accuse Torsten without evidence, it becomes my word against his, and Merrik will rally the Windfar delegation behind his nephew. It would fracture the summit."
Evran's jaw tightens. He looks down at his hands in his lap and thinks about the vial of purple liquid that might be sitting in a bedside drawer in the Windfar wing.
He thinks about the things Torsten's men said when they thought no one who mattered was listening.
He thinks about how close he is to having what they need, and how the path to getting it runs directly through Torsten's rooms and Torsten's trust and every inch of performance that entails.
He does not say any of that.
"I want you to be careful," Evran says instead.
Vaike is quiet for a moment. The tournament continues below them, the clash of weapons and the roar of the crowd and the dust rising from the rings in golden clouds, but neither of them is watching.
"I'm more worried about you," Vaike says.
Evran looks up. "What do you mean?"
"If Torsten really is looking to undermine me, then there's no quicker path than striking where I'm most vulnerable." Vaike's dark eyes hold his, steady and serious, the noise of the crowd fading to a murmur against the weight of his gaze. He pauses, and the pause is deliberate. "My husband."
The word, husband, spoken here, in public, on the tournament platform in full view of the delegations, sends a flush climbing up Evran's neck.
It is born from the fierce, defiant tenderness of being claimed in the open, of being named in front of everyone as the thing a Warlord holds most precious, and Evran feels it settle into him alongside the fear and the determination and the knowledge that Vaike is right, that he is the vulnerability, and that being the vulnerability is exactly what makes his plan possible.
"You don't need to worry about me," Evran says. "I'm not going to be a liability."
Vaike turns toward him on the bench, the movement deliberate, his big body angling to face Evran fully, and he reaches out and cups Evran's cheek in one broad hand.
The calloused palm is warm against his skin, the thumb resting just beneath his eye, and the gesture is so gentle and so public that Evran's heart clenches.
"You are the farthest thing from a liability," Vaike says, and his voice is low and rough and meant only for Evran. "What I worry about is what I would do if I lost you."
The words sink into Evran past the surface and the current and the noise, settling at the very bottom of him, in the place where the things that matter most are kept.
He thinks about what Vaike would do. He has seen it, the cold fury, the lethal stillness, the violence that lives beneath the composure of loving completely and protecting absolutely.
If something happened to Evran, if Torsten succeeded in using him as a weapon against Vaike, the response would be total, devastating, ending a man and a summit and an alliance and a peace all at once.
That is what Torsten is counting on. That is the lever he is trying to pull.
And that is why Evran cannot let him.
He leans in and kisses Vaike, sweetly, quickly, a brief press of lips that is soft enough to be tender and quick enough to be appropriate, because they are in public and the delegations are watching and a Warlord's husband cannot make a spectacle on the tournament platform no matter how much he might want to climb into his husband's lap and stay there.
Vaike's hand lingers on his cheek for a moment, then drops. His expression is warm, but beneath it there is the shadow of worry, the anxiety of being strong enough to fight anything except the fear of losing the person he loves.
Evran turns back to the fights. Below them, Naela is being congratulated by a swarm of Rendari warriors who seem both impressed and slightly afraid of her, which is exactly the correct response. The crowd is cheering, the sun is warm on the platforms, and the banners shift in the valley breeze.
Evran watches the tournament and thinks about proof.
He thinks about Bran, and the plan they have been building, and the careful, dangerous steps that still need to be taken.
He thinks about the ale room and the information he gathered and the excursion he needs to ensure Bran knows about if he has not already mentioned it.
He thinks about Torsten's bedside drawer and what might be inside it and what it would mean if he could get his hands on it.
He thinks about what Vaike just said. What I worry about is what I would do if I lost you.
And he thinks: you will never have to find out, because I am going to end this before it gets that far.
He reaches over and takes Vaike's hand. Their fingers lace together on the bench between them, and Vaike squeezes once, firm and sure, and does not let go.
They watch the rest of the tournament together, hand in hand, while the sun tracks across the valley sky and the fighters clash below and the cheering of the crowd rises and falls.