CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Inferiority clung to Thom like a leech, sucking all the life from his veins. For twenty-seven years, it’d been like this. No matter what he did, no matter how hard he tried, it was never enough. Today was just another reminder of that fact.
He couldn’t stop thinking about Evylin’s breakdown in the woods. He’d tried so hard to help her through it. He’d had soldiers go through similar bouts of panic after their first time in battle, struggling with the weight of death dealt at their hands and the threat of their own immortality.
Seeing Evylin face a similar crisis wasn’t completely unfathomable, nor was it even unexpected after her improved mood over the last several days.
It seemed she’d been shoving down her grief over Hewitt, and it had finally caught up to her.
Thom didn’t judge her for it, nor was he surprised by it.
Everyone dealt with grief uniquely. Helping Evylin through her panic was the natural course of action.
But all his heartfelt efforts failed.
Thom would never forget that feeling of inadequacy, watching her tremble and fight for every breath. He’d wanted to take her in his arms, to comfort her every pain. He would have given her the very breath from his lungs if he could.
Calling for help was a gut punch in and of itself. But Thom figured that if anyone could help Evylin, it would be Auden and his ability to heal through Day magic.
It turned out that Rafferty had made the right choice.
When Deckard showed up, Evylin had practically shoved Thom aside to leap into his brother’s arms. She’d clung to him like he was the shore and she, the sea, desperate to become one with the sand.
Deckard hadn’t said a word. He hadn’t done a thing.
His presence alone seemed to be enough to soothe Evylin’s aching heart.
Thom envied that most of all. How did Deckard do it? How was he so blessed that his mere existence made people feel cared for and secure? It was yet another proof in the comparison of his life that he could never meet the standard established by his older brother.
The small campfire sat in a heap of embers as they ate their meal. They took caution with all their fires, not wanting to risk being spotted by random travelers. Though they camped well off the road, there was no telling if Blount had Mages or even the army out looking for them.
Thom picked at his meager bowl of roasted hare and steamed barley. Despondent and embittered, he’d returned to camp with Rafferty, leaving Evylin in Deckard’s care. He’d hated leaving; it felt like admitting defeat. But he’d hated watching them entwined in one another’s arms more.
He knew it was wrong, feeling the way he did about Evylin. No man should want his brother’s wife as his own. What sort of scum did that make him, wishing she would choose him over Deckard? Yet, he always reminded himself that it wasn’t exactly his fault.
From the moment he’d first seen her, Thom knew Evylin was special.
Beautiful, quick-witted, strangely comfortable in a smithy, and the valued niece of a military legend—what woman could boast all those accolades?
She wasn’t some tedious girl whose only aspirations were the accumulation of pretty dresses and a husband.
Those things were nice, but Evylin wanted more.
Then Thom had seen the way his brother looked at her and spoke to her. And the way she looked and spoke back. He’d been disappointed, to say the least. But he hadn’t been dissuaded.
What recommendations did Deckard have that he didn’t?
In fact, given all of Deckard’s merits, Thom had them in heaps more.
Perhaps Thom was shorter by four inches; he was built more muscular and broad and, therefore, stronger.
He had hair so dark that it was almost black, contrasting with his subtle tan and sharp blue eyes—a quality many women had told him made him devilishly handsome.
He felt more deeply, lived with greater passion, laughed more readily, and sought out more daring experiences.
What more could a woman desire from a lover?
Deckard lived lightly. He didn’t seek adventure or feel with zealous fury. Fun wasn’t a word in his vocabulary. His whole existence was dedicated to service and implacable perfection. No flaws, no mistakes, no fervor. And who could love a man so dull?
No, whatever Evylin thought she saw in his brother, Thom hadn’t been concerned. Once she got to know him, she’d forget all about Deckard.
On their final night in Whickam Village, Thom decided to ask to write to Evylin. He’d been planning it out since he discovered his brother’s interest. If he asked her first, he’d ensure Deckard never got the chance. Then Hewitt had gone and ruined it all.
Why had he picked Deckard? That was what Thom never could figure out.
Hewitt hadn’t liked Deckard to begin with, yet he’d treated Thom with a nearly mentor-like hand from the start.
So why Deckard? His captaincy wasn’t that much more impressive than Thom’s rank as a lieutenant.
And Thom showed more military promise than his brother, so his future was clearly brighter.
Why wouldn’t Hewitt want to attach his niece to someone who could actually be her match?
Someone whose path ensured lifelong adventure and whose temperament exuded passion.
While they still traveled with the Third Volunteer Company, Thom had been brave enough—or, more accurately, drunk enough—to once ask Hewitt that very question. “Why Deckard?”
Hewitt hadn’t even needed clarification. He’d already known. “Because it was her only chance.”
“No, it wasn’t,” Thom argued. “You could have chosen any number of men. You could have—should have—chosen me.”
The flat gaze Hewitt gave him then showed equal parts repudiation and, shockingly, pity. He took several seconds before saying, “You weren’t the one she wanted.”
Thom couldn’t accept that. Not when it didn’t make any sense.
She trusted Thom more than she did Deckard.
It was plain for everyone with eyes to see.
She spent her days in Thom’s company, sought him out at every opportunity, and readily took him into her confidence.
It wasn’t her fault that her uncle had chosen the wrong man. Nor was it Thom’s.
There had been a moment on their journey to Loclight that granted Thom one last flare of foolish hope.
Evylin had unintentionally revealed that her marriage to Deckard had yet to be consummated, that the union could still be dissolved.
And for weeks after, Thom’s hopes were renewed.
He was determined to win Evylin’s heart and convince her to break free of his brother.
But then Evylin and Deckard returned from that damn Annaltide party at the palace, twisted up in one another’s arms, locked in a kiss that inevitably set flames to the future he’d been planning. She might not have been Deckard’s in full before, but she sure as hell was now.
And what could Thom do? He couldn’t just scratch out his feelings like a line on paper. Even if he tried, they’d still be there, inked into his soul, forever stained.
“You weren’t the one she wanted.”
How true that proved to be today. And how insignificant it made him feel.
Deckard and Evylin returned to camp while the rest of them finished their meals. To Thom’s surprise, the couple walked with a telling distance between them. He might have soothed her pain, but the damage of Hewitt’s death still kept them apart.
No one asked where they’d been or if Evylin was all right. Only Ethenn was aware that anything was wrong, having been with Deckard when Rafferty found him. And the boy was smart enough not to bring attention to it.
Now, Evylin sat at the base of a boulder near the back of the camp, staring apathetically into the bowl of food she held.
Rafferty had enlightened Thom to the situation on their walk back to camp.
He’d told him how Evylin had kept the Day Relic since they’d left the Night Keep and that it must have been the reason she’d been so chipper for the near-fortnight.
Then Rafferty explained how Deckard had pulled him aside last night and stood there like a disappointed parent as he made Evylin return the Relic.
Turning his gaze from Evylin’s huddled form, Thom glared at his brother across the dim campfire embers.
Deckard’s shoulders were rigid as he slowly ate his meal and talked quietly with Auden.
While the two men discussed the politics and cultures of Wauld, Rafferty had Ethenn and Ilain laughing.
All of them acted as though nothing was amiss.
Thom was too annoyed to join in on the revelry. He wanted to sit with Evylin and ask why she didn’t tell him about the Relic and promise he’d help her get it back if she’d like. He wanted to promise that he’d do anything—absolutely anything on Terraeus—if it would make her happy.
But Thom couldn’t make her happy. She’d made that clear an hour ago.
Deckard rose from his seat and checked on Evylin. Their conversation was short and obviously tense. He came away carrying her still mostly full bowl. After offering the leftovers to Ethenn, he cleaned both his and Evylin’s bowls and then took them to the packs by the horses.
Quickly, Thom got up to follow him. Perhaps he couldn’t comfort Evylin, but he could see to it that she wasn’t left so dejected.
He approached his brother casually, calling his name under his breath. Deckard looked up from the pack. He finished tying off the laces before standing to meet Thom’s gaze.
“Could I talk with you for a moment?” Thom asked. “Privately.”
Deckard hesitated, glancing over his shoulder at the others. “All right.”
They walked a handful of paces out of the camp, though keeping it still in sight. They’d have to speak in low voices to ensure they weren’t overheard, which wasn’t preferable, but hopefully, the conversation wouldn’t escalate.
Thom nearly scoffed at the thought. Of course, it would escalate. What serious conversation of theirs didn’t?