Chapter Nineteen #2
He looks up when I take a seat on a log nearby. “Bickering like an old married couple again,” Marcus says, returning his gaze to his paper. “Why don’t you invite him to your room one evening? Maybe he’ll be less grumpy. You, too.”
“Excuse me?” I gaze across the innyard at Dietan, who is helping get the horses settled.
His laughter easily carries on the slight evening breeze.
He jokes that one of the horses is giving him an attitude, and so he feeds it an apple from his palm.
I pull my coat tighter around me, suddenly cold and grateful for the heat of the fire.
“The two of you, keeping separate quarters. You don’t have to. This isn’t the second epoch anymore. Nobody expects you to, ahem…wait until marriage, so don’t be concerned about keeping up appearances of propriety. No one really does that anymore, at least not in Loegria,” Marcus says.
“It’s not— He’s arranged it that way.” I feel embarrassed about the situation.
The men must think Dietan doesn’t really want me, that he’s just marrying a pliable country bumpkin to fulfill the treaty.
Then he can get back to being a man-whore, I overheard one of them saying.
I don’t think they know we’re keeping separate rooms because this is all a farce, a charade.
But surely Marcus must know that our relationship isn’t real.
“That’s what I meant about issuing him an invitation,” Marcus says meaningfully. “I know he has quite the reputation, but at heart, he’s a gentleman.”
“Oh…I don’t know…” I say, feeling hot at the thought.
“Well, I for one am glad the prince has decided to settle down,” he says, giving me a pointed look I can’t quite understand. “Between us, I thought he’d never find the one.”
“I find that hard to believe,” I say. “He likes everyone. He’s such a flirt.”
Marcus shakes his head. “That’s all an act. I’ve known him since we were kids. Trust me. He’s not like this with any woman. He’s usually not interested enough to spar. I suppose that’s why he chose you.”
I fall silent, glancing around at the others, a couple of whom are looking our way. I’ve come to trust the gentle giant. He’s keeping us all safe. So what on earth does he mean?
“How much do you know about…” I trail off as I try to recall what Dietan said about who he’s told about the Rings of Fate. Marcus is just pretending for his men, right? I shouldn’t say anything. But why is he giving me romantic advice?
“How much do I know about Dietan?” Marcus prompts. “I know he can be pig-headed, but I can also tell when he’s truly happy.” His smile is soft, and for a moment, it irons out the hard, focused lines on his young face. “He hasn’t been happy in a while. We’re all worried about war.”
So, Marcus has noticed Dietan’s worry. How much does he know about Dietan’s plan? I don’t respond, especially not when Dietan plops himself down on the other side of the fire, his elbows on his knees as he tears off a chunk of the garlic bread.
Marcus goes back to his paper, as if he, too, doesn’t want to reveal that we were talking about him. Dietan smirks like he knows, and it looks like it gives him immense satisfaction to be the subject of conversation. The man sure does love attention.
I refuse to give him any. I turn toward the fire, stoking it with a stick. The logs pop and crackle, sending wisps of embers up into the dark sky, joining the stars that glitter overhead in the moonless night.
Marcus scribbles away with a quill, his brow furrowed in concentration.
I’d assumed he was working, attending to whatever important correspondence occupies a general’s evenings.
The paper at the top of the stack next to him looks like a military briefing, and an alarming one at that, reminding me that our peaceful Wedding March is just a lovely illusion in more ways than one.
It’s meant to reassure the people in dangerous times.
But then I glance at his ledger and notice the name at the top of the page.
“Are you writing a letter to Sonja?” I ask.
Marcus plants his hand over the paper, but even the great width of his palm can’t hide it. “Pardon?” he says innocently.
“You are writing to my sister!”
Even Dietan seems amused. His smile grows broad. “Romantic bastard,” he says with the teasing tone that only comes with a decade or two of friendship.
“It’s nothing, really,” Marcus says. “I’ve just been thinking about her, and…” His eyes soften as he gazes into the fire. “Jared better make sure the girls and all of Evandale are safe.”
“He will,” Dietan says, his chin wrinkling when he frowns. “If there’s anyone I trust with my life, after you, it’s him.”
“Thank goodness for that,” I say, offering a silent prayer to the goddess.
A moment later, Marcus groans. “This is a disaster! I’m not a poet.” He holds the paper at arm’s length, as if distance will improve it. “It sounds like a field report.”
I laugh, which makes Marcus smile, despite his frustration.
“Would you like me to help you?” I ask. “Write the letter?”
“Really?” He looks up at me hopefully.
“If I know my sister, a letter coming from you would make her year.”
Marcus passes me the letter. I try not to laugh; it does sound like a report. It’s an oddly clinical itinerary of his day.
“It’s awful,” he says, seeing the look on my face.
“No, it’s not that bad!” I say, lying through my teeth. Dietan laughs into his hands, and I shush him.
“Marcus is much better at expressing how much he likes someone without words,” Dietan says, waggling his eyebrows.
Men. I press my lips into a thin line. “Not a detail I needed to know.”
Now they’re both laughing at me, and I laugh, too, more comfortable around them than ever. Since the journey began, I’ve felt like a fraud, like I don’t belong here. But in this moment, we’re all friends.
Marcus holds out his hand, and I give the letter back. He crumples it up defeatedly and tosses it into the fire. I realize there’s a smoldering pile of letters at the bottom of the pit. He’s been at this for some time.
“Let’s start over,” I tell him. “If it feels awkward talking about yourself, talk about her.”
“What would I say?”
“She likes to dance, so maybe write about how you would want to dance with her the next time you see her, and how you want to see her smile, and how you want to take her in your arms… How you dream of the rhythm of her heart like a song. Does that help?”
Marcus nods. “Okay, I can do that. Thank you. It’s still harder than letters to the families of the fallen, and that’s saying something.” He starts scribbling on a fresh sheet of paper.
When I smile encouragingly at the general, I notice Dietan watching me over the flames.
His lips curl up when I meet his bemused gaze.
I abruptly look away, suddenly feeling like the fire is too close to my face.
I don’t know what to think when he looks at me like that.
I try to imagine him writing a letter like that to me, and I can’t.
“Sewing, cooking, and now poetry… Is there nothing you can’t do?” Dietan asks.
I don’t glance back at him, especially since I can hear the smirk in his voice. I stoke the fire again. “One thing I’m not good at is putting up with people who annoy me, actually.”
“Well then, I’ve met my match,” he says.
“You’re putting up with me, are you?”
“Same as you are with me. And we’re not good at it, are we? Putting up with each other?”
I glare at him, but he only smiles wider. Why do I find him so annoying…so annoyingly attractive? I know where this leads, I tell myself, and I’m not going there.
With a great rush of air between his teeth, Marcus hides his laugh behind his ledger, like he knows something we don’t.
“Don’t worry, Aren, I am enjoying your company,” Dietan says.
Unable to come up with a suitably snarky retort, I bid them both goodnight.
Some things never change. The man is still a liar.