CHAPTER FIVE #3
She stood and unhooked her cloak, dropping it onto the log next to Deckard.
With deft, swift movements, she unbuckled her weapons belt, removed her harness of throwing knives, and freed the clasps on her coat.
Deckard attempted not to overtly appreciate her well-formed figure as she shrugged the coat off, leaving her only in her dark trousers, gray tunic, leather armor vest, and vambraces.
Rafferty, however, sniggered. “Don’t stop on my account.”
Deckard sent him a withering glare.
Evylin ignored the innuendo, beckoning Rafferty to join her. “Come on,” she said, voice still hushed. “We don’t have to duel. We’ll just exercise.”
“That’s my least favorite part of life.”
Evylin reached over and hauled the weasel to his feet. Then she looked down at Deckard with one of her more charming smiles. “Can we leave you here for ten minutes while we run a mile?”
“You need ten minutes to run a mile?” Deckard returned. “I’d imagined you’d be faster than that.”
“The ten minutes are for Rafferty’s sake.”
As the soldier in question grumbled through the removal of his cloak and weapons, Deckard found himself grinning.
His initial reaction was to tell her no; splitting up wasn’t a good idea, especially if she left her weapons behind.
However, it was just a mile; she’d have Rafferty with her, and he knew perfectly well that Evylin was never without a weapon.
If nothing else, she had the blade hidden in the ankle of her boot.
But he imagined she’d concealed several others on her person as well.
And Deckard relished the opportunity to be alone for even ten minutes.
“Be careful,” he charged.
Evylin dropped her chin in deference, a bright smile warming her expression. “As you wish,” she replied sweetly, then grabbed Rafferty’s arm and started off at a jog.
Watching until the pair ran out of sight, Deckard swallowed his instinctive nervousness.
He didn’t like being separated from Evylin these days.
An anxiousness now swelled within him until he saw her again, and he was reassured that she was safe.
But he shoved down the feeling to glance over his shoulder at his sleeping comrades.
With only four of them asleep at the moment, they each had more room than before.
Auden and Ilain slept nearest one another.
The brother and sister looked comfortable, despite the damp and chilly night.
Ethenn curled up in Thom’s old spot, having traded out when their watches switched, leaving Thom to huddle against the rock outcropping for shelter.
A healthy ten feet away from the nearest member, Deckard didn’t fear that their conversation had woken anyone.
Which gave him all the courage he needed to turn back to the shadow that lingered in the trees. “It’s an interesting theory, isn’t it?” he asked, voice even quieter than when Evylin and Rafferty had been with him.
The figment stepped out from the densely grown trees, wholly unchanged: dark brown beard unruly, massive forearms crossed, steel-gray eyes unyielding. “If you believe in magic,” Hewitt’s ghost said—Deckard’s personal form of insanity manifested.
With some emotion between annoyance and amusement rising, Deckard shook his head at himself.
Ever since he’d dug Hewitt’s grave, he’d started seeing the vision.
Out of desperation, he’d spoken to it. And even though he knew he was merely soothing his conscience, he couldn’t help holding onto the apparition.
Deckard saw Hewitt’s ghost everywhere. It had become his constant companion since they left the man’s grave—a shadow always lingering in the trees, at his side, in the distance.
Whenever Deckard looked for him, Hewitt was there.
That’s how he knew he was going mad—he only saw him when he wanted to see him.
“You know magic is real,” Deckard said, feeling idiotic for arguing with his imagination. “You’ve seen it. You’ve fought it.”
Hewitt’s ghost leaned against the large, gnarled oak near Deckard’s side. “It killed me.”
The acknowledgment cut deep into Deckard’s chest. “So you agree then?” he asked. “You think Rafferty’s theory is correct?”
“No,” Hewitt rasped, “I don’t.”
Deckard breathed out a humorless laugh. “Why am I not surprised? What’s your theory then? Why am I better in the Keeps?”
Knowing he was asking himself these questions, Deckard wondered why he didn’t believe Rafferty. What was within him that held such a cynical perspective on something reasonably put forth?
“I told you weeks ago,” Hewitt grumbled. “You think too much. When you’re in the Keeps, you act on instinct. It makes you better.”
“And you think it’s the same for Ethenn?”
“The boy was trained as a hunter since infancy,” Hewitt said. “He’s been fighting in the streets since he was thirteen. Magic doesn’t play a role in it. His skills have been honed over two decades, and the Keeps give him a place to show it off.”
This was why Deckard talked to the vision.
Whether it was insanity or not, his subconscious managed to provide him with clarity of thought to process his challenges, most of which concerned Evylin.
And who better to talk to about his wife than the one man she trusted above all else—even if he was actually talking to himself at the end of the day?
“I think something’s wrong with Evylin,” Deckard heard himself mutter.
Hewitt’s ghost hovered menacingly in his peripheral vision. “Why?”
“Ever since we entered Wauld, she’s been different,” he said. “She’s laughing and acting happy. She’s even touching me as though she hasn’t flinched away every time I’ve stepped near her the past twelve days.”
Tugging on his scraggly beard, Hewitt let out a thoughtful hum.
“I considered that it might be the change of scenery,” Deckard continued, knowing his subconscious would interject when it came up with a better idea. “Perhaps a place so new as Wauld is enough of a distraction. Or maybe the fight in the Keep gave her some life back.”
Hewitt let out a grunt.
Deckard looked up at him. “You don’t think that’s it, do you?”
“It took her an entire month to smile again after Ryen died,” the ghost said. “She wouldn’t speak to anyone but me; she wouldn’t leave the house without me at her side. Loss destroyed the girl she was. And even the woman she’s become has never fully recovered from that.”
Nodding, Deckard felt the truth in his gut. “She’s not over you,” he muttered to himself. “Whatever this is, it’s a fluke. She isn’t better. She’s momentarily altered by her distraction.”
“A fight isn’t enough to distract Evylin.”
Deckard stared up at Hewitt, confused. “Then what is?”
A rustle in the forest drew Deckard’s attention back to the task at hand. His vision vanished, returning to the void of his insanity.
Hand on the hilt of his sword, Deckard stood. He scanned the trees, watching and listening. The steady, rapid gait informed him that Evylin and Rafferty were returning, but he remained ready until he caught a visual of their approaching forms.
Assured they weren’t being chased nor was their camp under attack, Deckard resumed his seat on the mossy log.
Rafferty staggered over, dropping unceremoniously at Deckard’s feet, while Evylin easily reined in her jog to pace before them.
Catching her breath, she smirked at Rafferty’s melodramatic, languished display.
“How did it go?” Deckard asked.
“Invigoratingly,” Evylin replied, her braid wet from the constant drizzle. “I don’t think Raff enjoyed it much, though.”
Deckard looked down at the weasel, his ghostly pale face coursing with sweat and rain. “Did she give you any magical assistance?” he asked.
Rafferty snarled. “If she did, it wasn’t good enough.”
Sitting at Deckard’s side, Evylin tugged the leather tie free from her hair. She unfurled the dark brown plait, squeezing out the excess moisture. “I don’t think it worked,” she admitted. “But I don’t know if that’s due to a failure on my part or a failure of the theory itself.”
After discussing with his subconscious, Deckard concluded internally that it was probably the latter. Instead of offering that thought, however, he said, “Then I suppose Rafferty will have to run another mile to prove it.”