CHAPTER SEVEN #2
The woman retrieved the Night Relic from around her neck, and Evylin suddenly remembered the two she carried. She’d grown so used to their warmth and comfort that she’d forgotten their very presence. Now, she realized that she’d be expected to give them away.
Evylin forced a smile on her face as she replied to Ilain. “Of course.”
Taking a seat on the roots, Deckard ran a hand through his damp reddish-brown curls. “So where do we begin?” he prompted.
Auden and Ilain began to speak, passing sentences back and forth as they explained the lilting Waulden accent.
Their rounded tones always sounded melodic to Evylin, but the accent carried a definite edge.
While it was not very different from the Ephrian accent, it had a far more nasal and far less refined air.
However, she also thought it suited storytelling and dramatics better than an Ephrian’s more controlled tones.
Moving across the small camp, Evylin loosened her jacket and tunic collars.
Her fingers brushed the twin chains of the Day and Fire Relics.
She should give them back. There was no real reason for her to keep them.
They’d served their purpose, and it was best that Rafferty kept them hidden on his person, safe from prying eyes or potential attackers.
But then, Evylin reasoned, am I not the best defense against attackers? She was the Warrior amongst the troop. She could utilize the Relics to their full potential if someone were to find them. Why shouldn’t she keep them?
Rafferty dug through the packs, scrounging up the remaining rations. “Two strips of jerky and four dried apricots apiece,” he lamented when Evylin reached his side. His white-blond eyebrows rose dubiously. “After a day like ours, that hardly seems enough.”
“It’s all we’ve got,” Evylin replied.
“True enough.”
She crouched next to him. “Here,” she said, handing him the Night Relic first, then reaching up to lift the Fire Relic’s chain over her head.
The amethyst and ruby necklaces sat with a dull luster in Rafferty’s hand. He held the hand aloft in expectation. When Evylin didn’t move to add the Day Relic to the stack, he cocked his brow.
“You gave out two Relics,” she whispered to him. “And you’re getting two back.”
With a wink, Rafferty tucked the necklaces into his jacket. “Understood, Eve.”
Whether he truly understood or if he assumed she was trying to keep one from the Mages in case they proved untrustworthy, Evylin didn’t care. She couldn’t give the Day Relic back. Not yet. Not while she was finally finding a way past the grief that had been so suffocating to her.
Once Rafferty had appropriately stowed the Relics, he handed Evylin her share of the rations. They watched Deckard attempt to master the Waulden accent as they ate, sniggering as he struggled to capture its lilting tone. He sent them a disparaging frown, then cleared his throat.
“It’d be much easier to practice if you two weren’t hecklin’ me,” he said with a near-perfect Waulden cadence.
Ilain let out a cheer, reaching over to pat his arm. “There you are! You’re a natural.”
Deckard shrugged, seemingly unimpressed with his improvement.
They continued practicing for a long while, even as they ate.
Evylin found it strangely amusing to hear Deckard speak with a Waulden accent.
She couldn’t decide if it suited him or not.
His sharper features and red-tinged hair certainly fit in with the Calders.
Still, she couldn’t quite imagine him saying her name or whispering to her in the night with his words swaying melodically like that.
Ethenn and Thom returned empty-handed. While the rest of them bedded down, Ethenn and Rafferty took their places on watch at the front of the camp.
The cool night had grown cooler, and Wauld’s drizzle never ended.
While the trees provided a semblance of a canopy above them, droplets still broke through.
They all pulled their hoods up, huddling to stay dry.
Tucked against the roots of a large tree, Evylin relaxed into Deckard’s embrace.
The warmth that radiated through her body was her confirmation that she’d been wise to keep the Day Relic.
She couldn’t fathom sleeping in this icy downpour without it.
Even Deckard’s typical warmth wouldn’t be enough, confirmed by a sudden shiver that shook his body.
Head tucked under his chin, Evylin slipped her arm around his waist and scooted closer. Though one arm still rested between them, she angled so they were otherwise wholly pressed against one another. “Does that help?” she whispered.
Deckard lay rigid and unmoving. Even his breathing seemed to halt for a time. Then he softly cleared his throat and muttered, “Yes, but . . . it presents a different problem.”
“What’s that?”
“Evie. . . .”
The simple intonation of the way he said her name took a moment to sink through Evylin’s naivety.
Then she blanched, realizing just how she’d pressed herself against him—how she was leaning into him—their arms, chests, hips, and legs closer than ever before.
“Oh,” she murmured, loosening her grip to ease back. “I’m . . . sorry.”
“No, you—it’s fine. I appreciate, uh. . . .”
Evylin snorted at his discomfort. “We are married,” she reminded him. “It’s probably a good thing. You being attracted to me.”
Deckard hesitated. “That has never been in question.”
Feeling emboldened by the cheery comfort of the Day Relic’s warmth, Evylin tipped her head back to look up at him. The hood of his cloak cast such heavy shadows that she struggled to catch his cool, green-blue gaze in the darkness. “Is that so?” she teased. “Did you work up an infatuation for me?”
“Admittedly, yes.” Deckard’s voice was low and, surprisingly, reluctant. “I . . . Well, truth be told, I had considered asking to write to you.”
Evylin fought to comprehend what he was telling her. “You mean in Whickam Village? Before our marriage?”
“There would be little cause to write to you after our marriage.”
“You liked me?” Evylin surmised. “All the way back then?”
His eyes flashed between hers. “I did.”
A bashful smile pulled at her lips. Deckard had liked her after a mere three days of knowing her. What a lovely thought. “I suppose it was my pretty face that won your favor?” she quipped.
There was a cautious pinch between Deckard’s eyebrows as he stared down at her. “Your beauty played its role,” he confirmed judiciously. “But it’d be more accurate to grant the accolades to your charming personality and snide remarks.”
“When have I ever been snide?”
“Constantly.”
They were smiling now, faces close together to allow for their hushed exchange. Fondly, Evylin regarded the pleasant slope of his nose—a strong, almost regal nose, with its sharp bridge and narrow tip. An impulsive voice within her suggested that she ought to kiss it.
Before she got the chance to enact the impetuous plan, Deckard shifted, drawing back. “Are you all right, Evylin?” he asked, a thread of worry in his voice.
Confused at the shift in his demeanor, she frowned. “I’m fine. You seem to be colder than I am.”
Deckard shook his head. “No, I don’t mean the cold,” he whispered. “Are you all right? After what happened to . . . what happened in Ephria?”
Realizing that he meant Hewitt’s death, Evylin paused.
Was she all right? Strangely, she hadn’t been thinking much about Hewitt for the last two days, not more than in passing.
And while she still sensed the sorrow of his absence deep within her, she couldn’t quite feel it, not since the soothing presence of Day had been with her.
Evylin placed her hand on Deckard’s arm, rubbing reassuringly. “I promise, I’m just fine. I’m still grieving, of course, but . . . I think I’m ready to live again.”
The pinch returned to his brows, unsure if he should believe her.
Endeared by his concern, Evylin planted a small, quick kiss on his bristly chin. Then she tucked her head back against his chest and snuggled close. “Thank you for taking care of me,” she whispered.
Several seconds passed before Deckard relaxed, his embrace drawing her closer. “Always.”
Of that, Evylin had no question. Deckard would always be there with her. He would always care for her. And so long as she had him, she could be happy.