CHAPTER FORTY-TWO #3
Ilain grinned. “That’s because it takes time. Six years for me, remember?”
Deckard came to a stop, and she halted with him. He looked down at her, determined to seek her serious advice. “And what if my lack causes our mission’s failure?” he asked, knowing that it was his lack that had caused her brother’s death.
Ilain didn’t hesitate to reply, “It won’t.”
“What if it does?” he pressed.
“Then we die,” she said flippantly. “But at least we’ll have tried.”
The plain, unembellished truth struck Deckard. They could try, or they could quit. Either way, misery awaited them. Or . . .
Quitting would secure failure. Trying might gain them success.
Why not try?
In the worst case, Deckard would get them all killed.
But if they abandoned their mission of fighting Blount, the man would stop at nothing to gain power over the continent.
Deckard didn’t know the man’s motives; he didn’t know what drove him to this madness, but he’d seen the prince’s cruelty in action more than enough times to know a life under Blount’s rule would be filled with despair.
Death might be a mercy from that existence.
With a defeated sigh, Deckard scoffed at his own morbidity. “Thank you for the advice,” he said.
“Anytime,” Ilain said, setting a hand on his arm. “You’re not to blame for your inability, Jonn. There’s a reason the Mages don’t seek out students among those above seventeen. The older you grow, the harder it is to learn.”
Deckard held her adamant gaze, something like relief welling inside of him at her words.
“You’re doing well,” she promised. “I’ve seen great progress in you just in the short time we’ve trained together. It just takes time, and you weren’t given any before being thrown into the fray.”
Swallowing down his worry, Deckard dipped his chin. “I want to apologize to you, Ilain,” he said. “Your brother didn’t deserve to die. And I . . . It was my weakness that got him killed.”
Ilain’s gaze shuttered. She stepped away, walking forward again. Deckard didn’t know whether to follow, so he stood there, watching as she drifted among the trees before she came to a stop next to a golden apple tree.
She lifted a hand, tracing one of the fruits that hung from the limbs. “No,” she said so quietly he hardly heard her. “Auden didn’t deserve to die.”
Ilain turned to him then, a hardness in her vibrant green eyes as tears sparkled on her lashes. “But you are not the only one who failed him that day,” she said, the words weak.
Something within the frailty of her voice confessed the truth to Deckard then: Ilain blamed herself. In all her anger toward Brea, in all her insistence that the Warrior had intentionally chosen to let Auden die . . . Ilain was merely attempting to absolve herself of the guilt.
Deckard didn’t understand her reasons, but he felt it wasn’t his right to ask. However, he’d come to know Ilain as a friend. He cared for her as he might his own sister. And he would be damned if he let her stand there, crying in the forest, blaming herself for her brother’s death.
With a determined stride, Deckard stepped to Ilain’s side. He set a hand on her shoulder, unflinchingly holding her watery gaze. “Whatever has caused you to believe this lie,” he whispered, “banish it from thought.”
A tear dropped onto her cheek, but Deckard didn’t bother to brush it away. That wasn’t his place. He could console and encourage her, but he would not comfort her with such affection. That was her husband’s job.
“Have you spoken to Ethenn about this?” Deckard asked.
The subtle shake of her head was all the response she gave.
“I’d advise you to,” he said. “In this life, Allore granted us a greater gift than magic: a spouse. Your husband is meant to be your closest confidant, your most trusted friend, and your dearest advisor. Speak to him about this. Let him know your heart and allow him to help you heal these wounds.”
Drawing in a deep breath, Ilain stepped back, out of his reach. A gentle smile came to her lips as she brushed away the tear that clung to the edge of her jaw. The smallest, breathy chuckle escaped her. “You know,” she said, “you’re rather wise for a young man.”
Deckard laughed at the dry compliment. “I haven’t been called a young man in years.”
“You’re only thirty.”
“Thirty-two.”
“Eleven years younger than me,” she quipped, then her brow raised with a pointed emphasis. “We’re both young by magical standards. But age doesn’t determine wisdom or maturity.”
She reached over to give his hand a quick squeeze.
“And I’m grateful to have friends like you and Evylin,” she said passionately.
“I’m impulsive and reckless at times. Despite my age, I can’t quite seem to act it.
I need people like you two. I need your steadiness to remind me that all my emotions, all my reactions—they aren’t the truth. ”
Deckard gave her a smile, though he felt bashful under such kind words.
Ilain hummed with amusement at his reserved demeanor. “Come now,” she said, moving back toward the path they’d taken. “We should return. I’ve got a husband to speak to.”