CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
It was his fault. That was the conclusion Thom had come to. If he hadn’t been such a monumental ass, none of this would have happened.
But he’d goaded Ethenn, he’d stalled them in the forest, and he’d caused the delay that allowed Caustin and his men to capture them. Now, they rode in the back of a wagon to their certain death, and all he could do was sit in his own filth.
A scout. That was how Caustin’s men had discovered them. Thom had realized the origin of their discovery while they were all bound and loaded into the wagon.
“Where are the other two?” Caustin demanded of a small, lithe man—the Waulden version of Rafferty.
The scout led him to Deckard and Evylin then, and Thom knew they’d failed in their surveillance of the Keep’s land. They’d looked for a band of Mages or mercenaries. A single man had slipped easily through their nets. And once they’d entered the Keep, the scout returned for his comrades.
Caustin and his men were lying in wait. Sent away by Hewitt’s ghost—a fact Thom still couldn’t process—Thom, Rafferty, and Ethenn followed the Calders back to the camp where their horses remained.
On the walk back, Auden took pity on Thom, healing his broken nose but refusing to fix any of his other injuries. “On principle,” he’d said.
Thom hadn’t even bothered to roll his eyes. He didn’t need reminders of his failings. They were already cutting lines of guilt through his gut.
Then the mercenaries attacked. Or whatever they were. Thom supposed they might be more officious with how efficiently they were run.
Over the past day and a half, Thom had more than enough time to ruminate. He reflected on every action in his life that had brought him to this point. And he officially concluded that, yes, it was all his fault.
Not in a technical capacity, he supposed. It wasn’t as though he alone missed the presence of Caustin’s scout or allowed Blount to follow them through Ephria, sight unseen. Those things weren’t really anyone’s fault.
No, the disastrous division within their troop was his fault. All because he couldn’t get over his petty jealousy.
That was the crux of it, Thom now realized.
With hours and hours to contend with his demons, with a bruised face and aching muscles as tormentors, he could suddenly see with brutal clarity.
Everything he thought and everything he felt over the last three months was spurred by envy. None of it was real.
Glancing to the far side of the wagon, Thom caught sight of Deckard and Evylin. They sat across from one another, staring longingly into the other’s eyes. Her legs were propped on his as though they were on some splendid holiday ride. Their silent affection was enough to make a man sick.
Yes, it made Thom blisteringly jealous. But not because he wanted Evylin. Because he wanted what they had.
He wanted what Deckard had.
Thom stared down at his lap, long hair falling into his eyes.
Yes, he was jealous of his brother. Yes, he resented his goodness and perfection.
But at the core of it all, he knew it was only because, more than anything, Thom wanted to be like his brother.
He wanted to be good enough for his brother. He wanted to be worthy of his respect.
And instead of earning it, he’d tried to steal that respect—making his brother see his value.
Thom wasn’t worthy. He’d always known that. He was less. And what lesser man could ever earn the respect of someone like the flawless, magnanimous Jonn Deckard?
Everything Thom had done had been an attempt to prove himself to his brother.
Like some foolish boy, he’d thought that taking what he wanted was the only way of garnering it.
Instead of helping Deckard foster his relationship with Evylin, he’d supplanted it.
He’d tried to win Evylin’s favor, lauding their relationship over Deckard.
He’d attempted to secure her affection to show Deckard his value.
For if Thom could procure the heart of the woman Deckard loved, his brother would have to see his merit then.
What a fool.
Thom’s wrists burned as he wriggled in his bindings. He tried to sit upright, his back muscles pinched from the great length of time bound against the bars. He used his feet as leverage, scooting back just enough to get a semblance of more comfort.
In the process, his shoulder bumped Ilain’s. Jostled, her head drooped, lolling forward at an awkward angle.
Thom muttered a curse through his gag. Ethenn glared at him from across the wagon.
Thom ground his teeth, ignoring the accusatory look. Then he dropped his head, leaning toward Ilain.
“Hey,” the guard grunted, “quit that.”
Dipping his head farther, Thom pressed his forehead against Ilain’s. He struggled against his ropes, slowly nudging her head back.
“I said,” the guard rose, “quit that!” He drew a club from beside his stool, advancing on Thom.
Thom growled and kicked out, connecting with the guard’s hand. The brute dropped the club, shaking out his hand. Thom took the distraction to complete his task, working Ilain’s head back against the bars just long enough for him to guide it to rest on his shoulder.
The guard surveyed them as Thom kept her head in place with his bruised cheek. The pressure sent jabs of pain across his face, but he deserved it. After what he’d done to her. . . .
Deeming Thom’s subterfuge to be meaningless, the guard sat back down.
Thom could feel the stares of his comrades around him. He didn’t care. He settled in, keeping Ilain’s head from drooping again.
Guilt drew a heavy sigh out of him. Why hadn’t he let it go? Because of his own torturous disappointment, he’d ruined Ilain’s chances with Ethenn.
“We were never anything. But that’s more than you could ever be to her.”
Ethenn would never believe the truth now. No matter what she said, it would all sound like backtracking. Any excuse she used would come across as a play for his usefulness as a Warrior, not as a genuine interest in him as a man.
All because Thom was hurt.
He wanted to blame Ethenn. After all, the kid had struck first. But in reality, wasn’t it Thom who struck the first blow? Be it with words rather than fists, Thom had given Ethenn reason after reason to be angry with him.
Thom had taunted Ethenn about his relationship with Ilain. Ethenn knew of his feelings for Evylin, making him protective of Ilain—as any man should have been. And rather than telling Ethenn the truth, Thom had gotten angry.
It wasn’t Ethenn’s fault at all.
Everything came back to the same cause: Thom desired his brother’s respect, and he had never been man enough to earn it.
“I’m under no illusions about your worth.”
Ilain’s coppery-red hair tickled Thom’s face. He closed his eyes, letting her voice become his new conscience.
“People like you; you’re just not willing to see it.”
She was right.
Thom didn’t want to let go of the bitterness. He didn’t want to admit that he had friends and admirers. Because if he did that, then he’d have to accept who he was, and that would mean being less than Deckard for eternity.
No, not less than.
Different.
He didn’t want to be different. He wanted to be like his brother. His immaculate, steady, incredible big brother, whom he’d idolized since the first day he could remember. Anything less was . . . less. Inferior. Failing. Deficient.
Yet, no one saw Thom that way but himself. He couldn’t deny that. Not when he really thought about it.
Hewitt accepted him from the start, inviting him to spar in Whickam Village and handpicking him to train with Evylin, Rafferty, and Ethenn during their travels with the army.
Evylin herself had befriended him readily. She’d confided in him and invited him to do the same with her. Though it’d displeased him at the time, she’d taken him on as a brother.
Even before that, Rafferty had eagerly become his companion. Ever since joining up in Rasnaack, they’d been nearly inseparable, though he’d always assumed that had more to do with Thom’s penchant for tomfoolery rather than his true self.
And Ethenn, he put up with Rafferty and Thom’s constant teasing, choosing to become their friend despite his quiet nature.
The kid, who was really no more a child than Thom, didn’t shy away from Thom’s volatile temperament or biting comments.
He stuck around, laughed along, and proved to be a better man than the two of them put together.
Then there was Deckard, the brother who loved him despite all his failings.
That was the worst of it. Thom knew Deckard loved him, and it rankled within him. He didn’t want to be loved for who he was; he wanted to be loved for who he wanted to be.
A better man.
“I’m under no illusions about your worth.”
Despite the pain in his body, despite the fear that his selfishness had drawn them into great danger, despite regret piled upon regret, Thom found himself smiling into Ilain’s hair.
She, too, had accepted him, wretch that he was.
And he let her words give him hope. Perhaps he didn’t need to be a better man.
Maybe he simply needed to be himself, and that would somehow be enough.