CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO #2
Ready to be out from under the highlady’s inspection, Evylin suggested they get their rest. They agreed to stand watch in pairs, the men together during the first period and the women during the second.
She and Ilain stretched out under their shelter-half while the men sat up under theirs.
But Evylin’s attempt to escape the conversation failed to provide any comfort.
As she lay in the heather under the canvas of the tent, Evylin felt lonelier than ever.
She wrapped her cloak around her like a blanket, trying not to miss the warmth of Deckard’s chest or the weight of his arms. Over the short months of their marriage, his presence became vital to her ability to sleep.
She squeezed her eyes shut, attempting to ignore the startling emptiness beside her.
Her mind whispered cruelly, reminding her of the sound of his heartbeat and the gentle circles he used to draw on her back.
A burning sensation filled Evylin’s chest. She gritted her teeth, barricading her heart against every pang of longing. Yet, the pain only grew. Her lungs spasmed. Once again, she found herself drowning in a well of tears.
Ilain’s words chastised Evylin harshly. “If she had released his ghost and let him rest—perhaps she would have had a happy life.”
Evylin tugged her hood farther over her head, burying her face in the heather. Ilain was wrong. There was no letting go. There was no happiness. Because love only brought pain.
15TH OF CHRONOS, 1574
Evylin woke, groggy and emotionally hollow, to join Ilain on the second watch.
They remained in the small cluster of trees, the horses nickering softly in their sleep.
With the men sleeping close by, the women didn’t bother to converse, making the seconds stretch into hours within hours. Evylin had no heart to speak anyway.
Finally, the sun rose, and they continued their journey.
In the daylight, Evylin had to agree with Ilain; the moors were far superior to the rest of Wauld.
Though unvaried, the landscape stretched for miles with a quiet beauty.
A gentle fog drifted in the distance, low enough that the western mountains could still be seen above its haze.
The soft purple of calluna flowers dotted the ground, with patches of honey-yellow and ivory-white buds interspersed amidst the scrub.
Perhaps most superior of all, the sky above them was a light blue with only patches of clouds dotted overhead. Though Ilain warned them that it could still rain, she promised it would only be light, intermittent showers. The reprieve was a blessing after nearly a month of torrential downpours.
Traveling with a small group felt strange to Evylin.
After so much time with such a large number, it was unusually easy to keep everyone engaged in the same conversation.
They rode with natural comfort, talking and laughing readily.
Ilain and Ethenn took the lead for most of the trek; she gave loose directions as he kept a keen eye on the horizon.
The winding Oulon River spread before them as Ilain predicted, and they stopped to fish.
Ethenn and Thom made quick poles from branches they’d procured from the copse of trees they’d spent the night in, using the spare bowstring Ethenn brought for the fishing line.
They planned to dry their catch for long-term preservation, ensuring a steady ration for the days ahead.
Unsurprisingly, Ethenn caught the better part of their bounty, though Evylin did well herself.
“I didn’t know you fished,” Thom remarked as she drew in her fifth.
Evylin smiled but hesitated to reply. Keeping her attention on removing the hook they’d fashioned from random bits of metal scraped together from their supplies, she struggled for an answer.
It was Hewitt who taught her to fish—her and Ryen.
Together, she and her cousin spent much of their youth playing by the creek near Whickam Village.
They pretended to be soldiers or pirates, fishing—often, fruitlessly—or basking in the sunshine while they made plans for the future.
Instead of explaining, Evylin handed Thom the fish and said, “There’s lots you don’t know about me.”
The day wore on as they moved at a steady pace.
Though they didn’t make it across as many miles as usual, thanks to their fishing excursion, they stopped well before sunset, intent on a better night’s rest. They rode a mile off the road toward a small rise in the landscape.
Though there was no tree coverage, once over the ridge, they were hidden from ready view.
After their arrival and preparation of the camp, setting up the shelter-halfs, and laying out the fish for filleting, Evylin wiped her hands on her trousers. “All right, Ethenn,” she said, turning to the young man. “You and I stayed together so that I could train you. So let’s get to training.”
“Wait,” Thom said, looking up from the fish. He motioned toward them with his knife. “We’ve got scaling to do.”
Evylin smirked. “And I’m sure you’ll do a lovely job.”
Thom’s mouth dropped open in disbelief. “You can’t take Ethenn. This is what the boy lives for!”
Ethenn scoffed. “I can assure you, it’s not.”
“You’re a hunter.”
“Doesn’t mean I enjoy the cleaning part.”
Ilain sat down next to Thom. “Don’t worry, dear,” she said placatingly. “I’ll help you.”
Thom frowned. “You’re willing to clean fish? Aren’t you too delicate for that?”
“The next time you call me delicate, it’ll be you I’m filleting.” The highlady held out her hand toward Ethenn. “May I have one of your knives, please?”
Ethenn slipped one of the shorter blades from his belt. “They’re daggers,” he remarked.
Her brow quirked in amusement. “Knife. Dagger.” She shrugged. “Same thing.”
Ethenn looked about ready to correct her when Evylin grabbed his arm. “Come on,” she said, tugging him toward the horses to retrieve the practice swords.
They walked out across the open moor, looking for a section not overgrown with brush. Several hundred feet away from the camp, they found a wide patch of mossy grass. With spring readily approaching and the terrain flat around them, the sun cast the field in a bright golden glow.
Tossing the training swords down into the scrub, Evylin faced Ethenn. “Ready?” she asked.
He pushed some of his overlong hair from his eyes. Like the rest of the men, his face was now scruffy with a beard, though it was thin and hardly constituted the term. “I guess,” he said.
“Don’t sound so excited,” Evylin remarked.
“Sorry.” A small, apologetic smile came to Ethenn’s face. It shifted his features, and suddenly, he looked much less serious than usual. “It’s just . . . this isn’t supposed to be happening—me having magical abilities.”
Evylin tipped her chin up, remembering his reluctance in the Wind Keep. His adamant refusal was almost as strong as Deckard’s. She considered him. “You didn’t want us to know you were a Warrior,” she noted. “Why not?”
Ethenn took a deep breath, settling his hands on his thick weapons belt. “Because I don’t want to be a Warrior.”
She pursed her lips. “And Jonn doesn’t want to be a Mage.”
“It’s—” Ethenn sighed. “It’s different for me, I think, though I don’t know the colonel’s reasons.”
Evylin didn’t bother to enlighten him. She wasn’t so sure she knew Deckard’s reasons herself.
“For me, it’s . . .” Ethenn paused, then dipped his head as though ashamed. “I don’t want to spend my life working for some higher cause, becoming some weapon for someone else’s ends. I want a small existence where I can disappear and be insignificant, as suits me.”
Frowning, Evylin couldn’t fathom such disparaging feelings. “I don’t think you’re insignificant,” she said, hoping to bolster the young man’s self-worth.
Ethenn gave her a cynical grin. “You don’t really know me, Evie,” he said calmly. “Of no fault of your own. I don’t let people know me.”
“Because you think people don’t want to know you?”
“Because I don’t like people.”
Evylin raised her brow. “You don’t like me?” she asked teasingly.
“Well . . .” His neck turned crimson. “No, it—it isn’t that I don’t like you, but—”
“You don’t trust me,” she realized, then nodded. “You don’t let people know you because you don’t trust them. I can relate.”
“You can?”
Tapping a finger against the handle of her sword, Evylin decided the conversation was getting too personal—for both of them. “Yes, I can,” she said. Then she changed course. “And while I sympathize with your plight, I’m afraid you can’t stay untrained. Would you like to get started?”
At Ethenn’s nod, Evylin opened her mouth, then closed it. She furrowed her brow, stared at the ground, and let out a “hm.”
“Hm?” Ethenn repeated.
Evylin met his dark gaze. “Turns out, I don’t know much about how to train a Warrior. I hardly know how to be one myself.”
“But you seem to do it so . . . easily.”
“I think that’s why Ilain says it’s innate,” Evylin replied. “When the time comes, the magic takes over. I’d guess that’s what happened to you, too, in the fighting rings before and in the Keeps now. You just didn’t know it. Or . . . you did, but you tried to ignore it.”
“I only figured it out recently,” Ethenn said. “It was when you mentioned the feeling you get when you fight. Only, I still wasn’t sure because . . . well, because it’s different for me. Or—maybe not different, but it’s . . . compulsory.”
Evylin wondered at that term.
“And,” Ethenn added, interrupting her thoughts, “not as strong, I don’t imagine. Though it’s getting stronger.”
That made Evylin pause another moment longer. “I know what you mean,” she said at last. “My whole life, training with—with Hewitt, I experienced the rush, but not in the same way as now. It wasn’t until we saved Prince Ephren that I truly felt it.”
Ethenn nodded. “I felt it then too.”