CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR
The door shut behind their troop with a soft thump. Thom didn’t know how to feel. Their offer was incredible and exciting, and their requests were heartening and gratifying.
Yet, standing in the stone corridor with his brother, Evylin, their friends, and the woman he was coming to realize he loved, Thom found himself immeasurably disappointed.
The night had come, shrouding them all in darkness, lit only by the gentle golden-amber glow of oil lamps mounted on the columned walls.
It was as though the world was reflecting the inner turmoil inside Thom. Hope and dejection.
The Alliance presented him with a thrilling dream job and the opportunity to have anything he desired (within reason). Yet, they wanted Brea to marry a Mage; they’d even given her a choice of whom. And she’d already told him she would accept.
“It is my burden to carry on with my promise to the Alliance.”
“You shouldn’t have to do that, Brea.”
“It’s all I have left.”
But it wasn’t all she had.
She could have him.
Following behind the others as they meandered absently down the hall, Thom nearly scoffed at the thought.
And yet, what could he offer Breata Lohen, the most impressive, strong, and intelligent woman he knew?
She was magical. He was not. She would live another century.
He would likely die within half that time.
She was destined for greatness and a soul-deep connection.
He could offer her nothing but mundanity and meager affection.
“So,” Ethenn said, breaking the silence and Thom’s disdainful thoughts, “that is . . .” He didn’t finish the sentence, scratching the back of his head.
Ilain immediately brushed down the hair he’d mussed. “It is exciting,” she said decisively, though she didn’t sound convinced herself. “We can all take the next day to consider our futures. In the meantime,” she grabbed her husband’s hand, “I’d like to dance.”
Though Ethenn gave her a disgruntled look at the thought, Thom grasped onto the idea. “Almighty, yes,” he said. “We should certainly join the party. I could use a drink right about now.”
Though Vayden and Brea offered amused chuckles, Thom noticed that neither Deckard nor Evylin showed any sign they’d heard the discussion around them. In the shadowy hall, they stood side by side, holding hands and gazes, locked in some silent conversation.
“You two all right?” Thom asked, taking a step closer.
As though startled out of their private reverie, Deckard and Evylin whipped toward him with wide eyes. Evylin took a deep breath before saying, “Yes. We’re fine.”
The smile she offered wasn’t quite believable, but before Thom could press the issue, she added, “You all go on. Jonn and I . . . We need to discuss some things.”
At her side, Deckard cupped her arm gently. He gave Thom a grateful nod, trusting him to take care of the others.
Thom returned the gesture. “I’ll have a glass in your honor,” he teased. He tilted his chin toward the stairs. “We’ll make your excuses and see you in the morning.”
Though the others shifted with disappointment behind him, the appreciative and relieved smiles of Deckard and Evylin were all Thom cared to see.
While the couple made for the staircase, Thom turned to Brea. He proffered his arm. “Shall we drown ourselves in Schonese wine, mi’ambrosá?” he said.
Pulling her dark, watchful stare from Deckard and Evylin’s retreating forms, Brea took his arm. “Those names are getting better,” she quipped dryly.
“I consulted my Schonese dictionary for that one.”
“No wonder it sounded forced.”
Vayden shook his head, coming alongside them as Ethenn and Ilain led their way to the ballroom. “May I give you some advice, Thom?” Vayden said.
“By all means,” Thom replied.
“Schon is a playful yet direct country. Poetry is seen as frivolous. Delicate nicknames like ‘my stunning one’ are regarded as flippant.” A flicker of wistful sorrow passed over his expression as he likely thought of Isla, before his face resumed its wry tilt.
“If you want to woo a Schonese woman, don’t use flowery speech. Be candid. She’ll like it better.”
Though Brea showed no signs of discomfort, Thom struggled not to tense at Vayden’s pointed comment.
Thom hadn’t thought his true feelings for Brea were that obvious.
He liked her, he desired her, but he never intended to “woo” her.
Even after his revelation of loving her, he knew he’d have to let her go. Why give himself false hope?
Plastering a smirk on his lips, Thom kept his head high. “Then it’s decided,” he said and clutched Brea’s hand in the crook of his elbow dramatically. “I shall henceforth call you mi’stelá briantes.”
Brea immediately scrunched her nose. “Brilliant star?” she said incredulously. “I’m nothing like a star.”
“That’s the point,” Thom said.
As they reached the ballroom, Ethenn paused to guide Ilain in first, tossing Thom a knowing look over his shoulder.
Thom held the young man’s gaze. It didn’t matter what anyone else thought. He wasn’t going to take Brea from a life filled with joy, luxury, and power so she could dally with him in the dullness of normality.
Their arrival sparked enthusiastic cheers.
Many rushed forward to greet them, eager to share drinks or a dance.
Amid shaking hands and receiving manifold introductions, Thom quickly lost sight of Brea as he lingered near Vayden’s side.
The older man recognized all the Alliance members who came over, skillfully carrying the conversations for Thom, who smiled and nodded, contributing only the necessary comments.
Shortly, Cris Lohen approached with Calyn at his side. Her cheeks were flushed from the heat of the room and wine, but she looked clearheaded and uncorrupted enough. Perhaps Brea’s nephew really was honorable.
Calyn stepped away from Cris with a thankful, momentary farewell and grasped Thom’s arm. “Where are Evie and Deckard?” she asked brightly.
“My brother has polluted your sister, I’m afraid,” Thom remarked. “He’s taken her off to bed.”
Calyn wrinkled her nose. “But it’s only nine o’clock,” she said innocently.
Thom decided not to make his euphemistic jest clearer. “Jonn is a tremendous bore.”
“No matter.” Calyn brushed her hand through the air, her newfound composure diminished in the festivities. She tugged on his arm. “You must dance with me. This is the grandest party I’ve ever attended. And the musicians! They’re divine.”
Thom smiled at her, grateful for the escape from the politicking and small talk. “Yes, yes,” he patted her hand, “I’m yours to do with as you please.”
Letting Calyn carry him into the heart of the room, Thom tried to remember his minimal dance lessons with his mother.
He’d never been a skilled dancer, though he enjoyed the levity of a reel or an up-tempo waltz.
He tended to stand at the back of the party, drinking and making snide comments.
But tonight, he preferred the distraction of Calyn’s effusive, sweet chatter over the scornful ruminations of his thoughts.
“Cris asked me to dance with him,” Calyn said as Thom attempted to lead her with grace across the polished wooden floors. At his raised brow, she concluded, “I told him no.”
He frowned. “Why?”
“I didn’t think I should say yes.”
“Again . . . Why?”
Calyn chewed on her lip—a bad habit on the dance floor when a clumsy trip could cause painful consequences. “Well, we’ve just been acquainted.”
“You’ve never danced with an acquaintance before?”
“I have.”
“Then why not him?”
She gave Thom a bashful look. “I find myself . . .”
At her hesitation, Thom smirked. “You’re attracted to him?”
Her expression grew worried. “Are you angry?”
Thom huffed. “Why would I be angry?”
“Because you—” Calyn paused, and her eyes narrowed. “You’re courting me. Men are usually jealous when their intended is attracted to another man.”
“My intend—” Thom nearly tripped, baffled. “Calyn,” he said sharply, “we are not courting.”
She looked genuinely surprised. “We’re not?”
“No.”
“You’re sure?”
Thom worked to withhold his incredulous laughter. “Quite sure.”
“Oh.” Calyn stared over his shoulder as they danced, deep in thought. Then she said, “Father said you had intentions toward me. That’s why he allowed me to come with you all—so I could win your heart and marry you.”
Pressing his lips together, Thom cursed Deckard’s likely hand in that farce. “Mm, yes, well . . . No, my only intentions toward you are to help you find a good husband who is not me.”
With a steady nod, Calyn continued to look thoughtful. “Do you mind if I say I’m glad?”
Thom grinned dryly. “You don’t want to marry me?”
She gave him a playful look that reminded him quite a lot of Evylin. “To be honest, I did want to once. But over time, I realized that I don’t find you all that attractive beyond your looks.”
“I’m hurt.”
She heard his sarcasm, used to the Shires’ banter. “That’s one of the reasons,” she admitted, pinching his shoulder. “You’re too mocking. It makes me feel naive and slow-witted.”
Thom’s expression softened. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I don’t mean to make you feel that way. But I’m glad you don’t have any more designs on me than I do on you. And if you’d like to dance with Cris, I won’t stop you.”
He considered it further, then added, “Though if he’s anything like his aunt, I warn you, his remarks might be even more cutting than mine.”
“Oh, no!” Calyn insisted. “Cris is the model of a gentleman. Though he’s clever, he was very attentive too.”
Thom smirked. “That could have something to do with his attraction to you.”
Calyn blushed. “Do you think so?”
“He’s watching us presently,” Thom noted. “As he’s done constantly for the last half hour. I’m quite certain.”
Calyn giggled lightly, her bright smile filling Thom’s heart. He liked this young, impetuous girl. She reminded him of the best parts of Meria and Evylin. She was a wonderful sister to add to his life.
“Come on,” he said, twirling her toward the edge of the dance floor. “It’s time for you to dance with your Schonese caréso.”