CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Evylin could practically hear Hewitt’s voice in her head. “Rubbish,” he’d say. “Deckard’s no more magical than I am.”
And yet, there was no denying the bright glow of the Night Relic when it touched Deckard’s hand.
Not when it had filled the whole camp with its radiant amethyst glow.
Evylin wasn’t even sure if he’d noticed that detail, just how strongly the magical glow had been projected.
He was so focused on refusing the revelation that she doubted he saw the luminous beams that cast a purple tint over each of their comrades and the forest around them.
It was as though the Night had grown stronger simply by Deckard’s touch upon the Relic.
No, the truth could not be denied: By the hand of Allore, Deckard had been born a Mage.
And it made her chest squeeze like a vise.
Evylin’s hands trembled as she rose from her seat beside Rafferty.
She followed Deckard into the trees, her mind roiling with confusion, and .
. . was that fear? She didn’t know why she should be afraid of this discovery.
If anything, it should bring her relief.
Deckard was a Mage, and their mission was sure to succeed.
“A Mage who’s married to a Warrior.” Ilain’s words repeated like a warning bell. “Warriors and Mages are meant to be together.”
Meant to be. As though Evylin had never had any say in the matter at all.
She had been unknowingly born a Warrior and he a Mage.
Of course, they’d meet and marry. Of course, they’d fall in love.
Of course, they’d want to enter that sacred Bond, tying themselves together so intimately that parting would bring literal death.
Why wouldn’t they want that?
She remembered Auden’s words when they’d gone into the Water Keep, just the two of them.
He’d told her about the tie between Warrior and Mage, that they sometimes chose to be a binding force, dedicated to one another by an oath.
While he’d assured her that they would never choose to make such an oath with each other, she now knew that even if the Calders wouldn’t make them Bond, the Alliance would.
“They fuse their souls, becoming of one power, one mind, and one heart,” Ilain said. “. . . it’s a binding of hearts. If the pair weren’t already in love, they would be shortly after.”
Evylin glared at the dirt, following the depressions of Deckard’s boots. But she felt no joy in it this time. Intentionally, she stepped around his footprints.
The Calders clearly didn’t understand the nature of their relationship.
They couldn’t know their marriage was in name only or that she intended to keep it that way.
Only yesterday, she’d completely given him up.
She couldn’t lose herself to him through something as irrevocable as a magical Bond.
She was beginning to wonder if she could be with him, or even be around him, at all.
Evylin’s eyes drifted to the hem of Deckard’s cloak.
It flapped around his ankles heavily, splattered with dirt.
Though he’d vehemently rejected the idea of Bonding, her heart clenched with worry.
Why had he wanted to speak with her so immediately?
Was he already intending to use his newfound magical status as a lever to ensure their marriage?
Would he try to appeal to her sense of religious duty as divinely gifted individuals?
She didn’t think she could bear that. Even if Deckard didn’t mean to manipulate her, there was a chance his altruism would feel a compulsion toward their cause.
All too soon, Deckard came to a stop. Gray shadows crept around the forest, coloring the trees and foliage with a soot-like appearance. Under the thick canopy and cloudy sky, not even the light of the two moons seeped through. It seemed the night chose to mimic their heavy mood.
Drawing back his shoulders, Deckard turned to face her. His eyes were piercing, and his pale skin contrasted sharply with the darkness all around them. With his hood down, his hair had a deep brown cast. He looked like a haunted version of himself, devoid of his usual optimism.
Deckard opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. He shook his head, pacing the moss-and-mud-covered forest floor.
Evylin watched silently. Whatever he had to say, she wasn’t in any rush to hear it. She crossed her arms against the frigid air and waited.
“This is impossible,” Deckard muttered at last.
When she didn’t respond, he looked up. “Isn’t it?” he asked as though in need of her validation.
“What do you want me to say?” Evylin asked. “Based on the evidence, I can’t refute it.”
He scoffed brokenly. “I can’t . . . be that.”
Something in his voice struck Evylin. Its lifted pitch, almost as if he were questioning her—begging her to confirm it wasn’t true—drew her a step closer.
She didn’t think she’d ever seen him so undone.
Even after Hewitt’s death, when he’d been on the verge of tears, he’d remained solid and steady.
Now, he was unraveling, becoming a version of himself that she hadn’t known existed.
Unable to give him the confirmation he sought, Evylin let sympathy fill her voice. “Whatever we thought we knew before,” she said, holding his gaze, “it’s changed now. The Relic can’t be wrong.”
“I’m not like you, Evylin,” he said falteringly. “I’m not magical or special. I’m only a soldier.”
“Clearly, that’s not all you are.” Seeing his disappointment, she shook her head. “I don’t understand this any better than you. But the Calders are right. Looking back, you have shown signs since the start of our time with them.”
“That’s—” He cut off his own argument with a frustrated sigh.
Evylin tossed her arms to the side, irritated as well. “Why did you bring me out here? To complain that you’re magical? To refuse the obvious truth?”
“It doesn’t make sense,” he insisted.
“No, it doesn’t. It’s too convenient. Yet, however it happened, it’s true. So why are we out here?”
Deckard ran both hands through his overgrown curls. “Because,” he mumbled.
“Because what?”
“Because I don’t know what to do, Evylin!
” he exclaimed. His eyes searched the forest frantically, as if looking for an escape.
“This shouldn’t be happening. You’re supposed to be the magical one, and I’m only here to stand by your side.
That was why Hewitt chose me. I’m not the one who matters; you are.
It’s my job to protect you, not to become some—some . . . magical legend.”
Evylin drew back, one of Hewitt’s earliest assessments of Deckard returning to her.
After his speech in Whickam Village, Hewitt had concluded that the then-captain had left his home village to do just that—become a legend.
In the face of reality, her uncle said, the soldier had told himself that his greatest desire was to be a servant, making his inability to achieve such a lofty dream easier to bear.
As Evylin and Ryen had vowed to become legends worth five hundred tales themselves, she could understand such a dubious hope.
Yes, she wanted to follow her and her cousin’s dreams. But they, too, had seemed impossible.
She, too, had mitigated her expectations by telling herself that she was happy enough with the independence life in Whickam Village offered her.
Until she met Deckard, and he offered her a chance at her and Ryen’s dreams.
Though Evylin had never decided whether or not she agreed with her uncle’s assessment of Deckard’s personal goals, she considered it anew.
Was that why Deckard was so opposed to being a Mage?
In the sudden realization of his dreams coming to life, did he fear it?
When you relegated your ambition to fantasy, its reality was sometimes too frightening to accept.
Whatever the case, Evylin knew that the truth wouldn’t help in the moment at hand. Not when Deckard was so frantic and irrational.
Instead, she looked up at him with a steady gaze. “I still don’t know what you want me to say.”
Pleadingly, Deckard held out his hands. “I want you to tell me what to do.”
Evylin furrowed her brow. “I fail to see how that’s my responsibility.”
“This—all of this,” he said, voice thick and insistent, “is for you. I lost the bet, remember? The whole point of our marriage was to get you out of Whickam Village and to give you the life you wanted. So I need you to tell me: What do you want?”
Evylin gaped at him, her pulse spiking. “You promised that I wouldn’t have to make a decision yet.”
“That’s not what I’m asking.”
“Then what are you asking?”
He stepped closer, a fierceness in his stare that frightened her. “Do you want me to be a Mage?”
Her lips parted before she even knew what she wanted to say. “No,” she breathed.
His expression eased.
“But I don’t think we have a choice,” she concluded.
Once more, Deckard’s jaw tensed. “I don’t have to train. If this is all true, then I lived thirty-two years without using magic. That doesn’t have to change.”
Though sure he meant well, Evylin couldn’t help feeling annoyed. He was too ready to sacrifice himself for her. Too willing to give up something of great benefit to him and the rest of the world, all to make her happy. There were bigger futures at play than simply their own.
“We are fighting a war, Jonn. One that’s lasted for more than a century. Whether we like it or not, the discovery of your powers, whatever they may be, can help us win. You can’t ignore it because you want to convince me to stay with you.”
He flinched as though she’d hit him. Then he drew himself up, his gaze growing flat. “That’s not what this is,” he said without emotion.
“Then what is it?”
He scoffed; whether at himself or her, she didn’t know.
“I’m tired, Evylin. And I don’t particularly enjoy trying to persuade my wife to stay married to me.
So, no, this is not about convincing you.
If you told me you wanted to go home today, I’d happily escort you back to your father and tell him to annul the damn thing. ”