Chapter 28
Carver
“I don’t like this,” Carver said, knowing it wouldn’t change a bloody thing.
Amryn glanced up at him. She’d just finished slipping her shoes on, and he couldn’t help but notice the way the morning sunlight caught in her fiery hair as it streamed in from the balcony behind her.
His fingers itched with the desire to touch those soft curls again, like he had five nights ago.
He’d nearly done it again every morning since, because he always woke before her.
In the perfect stillness of those moments, holding her while she continued to sleep, it took everything he had not to do more than just stare at her.
He’d been able to study every light freckle that dusted her skin.
Watched as the morning sunlight played over her shining red hair.
He’d also tracked the healing wound on her arm, which no longer needed a bandage.
Just the memory of her being in pain made his gut clench.
Amryn’s eyes softened. She rose and crossed toward him, her light blue dress skimming the floor as she walked. Her sea green eyes were fixed on him, and he struggled to keep his emotions from rioting as she drew near. Her gentle scent of citrus and mint surrounded him, and he breathed in deeply.
“It’s just a meeting,” she said, her tone soothing. “I’m introducing Ivan and Samuel to Bram, and I’m learning what the rebels in the palace are planning. That’s all.”
Her words did little to calm him. His protective instincts hadn’t relaxed since they’d arrived at the palace, but ever since Bram had slipped a message to Amryn yesterday—telling her to meet him in the library this afternoon—he’d been grappling with the impulse to stop this entire thing.
How was he supposed to just let her walk into a meeting with the Rising?
He knew he didn’t truly have a choice.
He released a heavy breath. “Stay close to Samuel and Ivan.”
“I will.” She didn’t even tease him about his request. Which probably meant she could feel his anxiety. She reached out, twining her fingers with his. “I’m wearing the dagger you gave me in Esperance,” she reminded him.
“Would you actually use it?”
She winced. “If I had to, yes.”
He hated that she’d feel any pain she managed to deliver. She needed a more effective way of defending herself. Especially if she kept insisting on putting herself in danger.
A knock on the door made him tense.
Amryn rolled up on her toes, pressing a kiss to his hard jaw. “Everything is going to be all right.”
He wished he shared her faith.
He followed her to the door but insisted on opening it himself.
Ivan stood on the other side, looking as intense as ever. He didn’t wait for an invitation, just stepped into the room and closed the door behind him. He paused as he caught Carver’s hard stare.
“Nothing happens to her,” Carver told the Wolf. “Understood?”
He had no idea a grunt could convey such offense until Ivan did it now. “No one will touch her while she is under my protection.”
Amryn patted Carver’s chest, and heat shot through him at even that casual touch. “See? I’ll be perfectly safe.”
There was another knock on the door, announcing Samuel’s arrival. Saints, the prince of Wendahl looked nervous. He needed to be more convincing if he wasn’t going to give everything away in an instant. How had he ever fooled Carver at Esperance?
“Ready?” Samuel asked.
“Yes,” Amryn said. She spoke for the benefit of the two guards standing nearby as she added, “I’m excited to see those old manuscripts you mentioned.”
Ivan’s voice was even as he said, “I am as well.”
They didn’t know how many spies the Rising might have in place, so they needed a good reason to be seen together. Since their meeting with Bram would be in the back corner of the palace library, and Samuel had a reputation for being a scholar, this was the best excuse they’d been able to think of.
Samuel turned to lead the way.
“Good luck with Berron,” Amryn said softly.
More tension coiled inside Carver at the reminder. But he’d been putting this off, and this was as good a time as any to finally talk with his brother. If nothing else, it would keep him from shadowing his wife’s every step.
Which was probably why Amryn had encouraged him to seek out Berron now.
Still, it took everything in him to remain in place as he watched Amryn, Samuel, and Ivan walk away.
Yesterday, he’d confided his misgivings to Ford while they’d sparred. His friend had listened sympathetically before saying. “You’ve always struggled with this part.”
Carver had frowned. “What part?”
“You’ve never found it easy to send anyone into danger.
As a general, it’s probably your biggest weakness.
” Ford’s stare had been unyielding, though his tone had been soft as he said, “You can’t always be the one to take the risk, Carve.
You can’t go on every dangerous mission, even though you want to. ”
Carver hadn't been able to deny the truth in Ford’s observation. Letting his men take risks had never been easy. But this wasn’t a normal battle, and Amryn wasn’t one of his soldiers. She was his wife. If anything happened to her . . .
He summoned up the image of the mental bridge, just as his grandfather had taught him. It grounded him, as nothing else could. Then—shoving aside the urge to go after Amryn—he turned instead to the door next to his own.
He allowed himself one bracing breath before he knocked.
There was no answer. Which wasn’t exactly surprising, since his father had warned him that Berron rarely answered. His father had also told him if Berron wasn’t meeting with Janson, he would be in his room. And since Carver knew Janson was in a meeting with some other chancellors right now . . .
He knocked again. “Berron?”
Nothing.
Carver tried the handle and found it unlocked.
He walked right into a suite that was a mirror of his own.
It was hard to make out much of anything, however.
The drapes were pulled across the windows, drenching the room in darkness.
There was a stale, musty smell that assured him Berron didn’t often air out the room.
It competed with the nearly overwhelming stench of brandy.
Slowly, Carver’s eyes adjusted to the dimness enough to make things out. A large bed—unmade—sat on his left. Clothing was scattered over the floor, nearly hiding the blue and gold rugs.
“Entering without permission is rude.”
Carver’s focus snapped to the back corner of the room where two armchairs sat angled toward each other. Berron was sprawled in one, his legs sticking out over the floor as he slouched low in the chair. Carver had no idea what he was doing, sitting there in the dark.
He straightened his spine. “You didn’t answer.”
“There may have been a reason for that.” In the shadowed room, Carver could just make out his brother’s bearded face.
His left hand was fisted on the rolled arm of the chair, the only thing revealing any tension.
His voice remained unconcerned as he drawled, “But then again, when did the rules ever apply to you?”
Carver ignored that. Ignored every barbed memory that was trying to gut him as he looked at his younger brother. A brother who had once played with him. Trained with him. Grinned freely, laughed loudly, and lived.
This bitter, wrecked shell of a man wasn’t his brother.
Carver closed the door and crossed to the window. He dragged back the heavy drapes, just a fraction.
Berron growled at the invasion of light, but made no move to get up. Merely squinted a one-eyed glare at him. “The rudeness continues.”
Carver sat in the opposite chair, facing Berron. His brother had barely stirred, though he blinked fiercely against the light. His eyepatch was firmly in place, but it only made the redness rimming his remaining eye all the more obvious. Carver’s gut dropped. “Are you taking sonne again?”
Berron snorted. “No. I just have a brother who insists on blinding the only eye I have left.”
The eye in question was watering fiercely. Who knew the last time Berron had seen sunlight. And according to Cregon, Berron had difficulty sleeping. Carver decided to accept those reasons for the bloodshot eye, though it was more likely due to the nearly empty decanter sitting nearby.
At least it wasn’t sonne.
“How are you?” he asked.
Berron’s lip curled. “Is that a bloody joke?”
“No.”
His brother raised his right arm, the missing hand glaringly obvious. “You can’t see this, because my hand was cut off, but I’m making a gesture right now that got us a slap on the back of our heads when we were children.”
The humor was dark. Sarcastic, yet edged with derision. It made Carver’s throat tighten. All he could think about was the last time he’d spoken to Berron before leaving for Harvari. He’d tried to tell his brother goodbye. That he loved him.
“I blame you. I hate you.”
Those were the last words Berron had spoken to him. And when Carver had been carried back to Westmont, brutalized and nearly dead, Berron had never come to see him. Just as Carver hadn’t gone to see him before leaving for Esperance. They were strangers, now. Enemies, in Berron’s mind.
“I need to ask you some questions,” Carver said, fighting for neutrality in his expression and his voice.
“Then you’ll leave?”
“Yes.”
Berron didn’t respond, only watched him with that reddened eye.
It took everything Carver had to hold that horrible stare. “Have you ever had any dealings with King Jamir of Xerra?”
If Berron was surprised by the question, he didn’t show it. “No.”
“Have you ever spoken with King Jamir?”
“Probably. Nothing I recall specifically.”
“Have you ever had dealings with the Rising?”
There was a beat of stillness. Then Berron chuckled, low and dark. “You think I’m part of the rebellion?”
“Just answer the question.”
“No.” His expression was defiant, and it took a second for Carver to realize he wasn’t refusing to answer—he was answering.
“Do you have any sympathy for the Rising?” Carver asked.
“No.” His head cocked to the side, his matted hair shifting lankly around his face. “Although you might. Elowen mentioned your wife was a traitor for a little while there in Esperance. But of course, she abandoned her ideals for you.”
Carver’s eyes narrowed. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Berron ignored that. “Did she tell you we met the other night? She’s beautiful. Delightful even. Congratulations. But I suppose it’s no surprise—the emperor’s favored general only ever gets the best.”
He gritted his teeth. “Do you have any enemies who might want to damage your reputation?”
“What reputation?” Berron gestured to himself. “I’m the useless second son of the great High General Vincetti. A glaring disappointment and utter disgrace to the Vincetti name.”
Carver ignored the tug in his gut, as well as the pang in his heart. An old instinct that wanted to rise up and comfort his brother.
The man sitting in front of him didn’t want comforting.
“Any further questions, General?” Berron asked.
The title—layered with mockery and hatred—burned Carver’s too-tight skin. He’d considered asking his brother some questions about Chancellor Janson, but he didn’t think he could stand being in this dark, depressing room a moment longer.
He pushed to his feet. “No. If further questions arise, Morelli will be in touch.”
Berron stared up at him. “Do I get to learn why you thought I was a rebel?”
“King Jamir named you during his interrogation. Probably as a way to get to me.”
Berron’s lips twitched. “Ah, that makes perfect sense. Everything is always about you, after all.”
Frustration roared through him, making him snap, “Wake up, Berron. You’re wasting your life.”
“Ah, the self-righteous sermon. I knew it was coming.”
Carver glared at his brother. “This bitterness and hatred is destroying you just as much as the sonne did.” He nodded to the nearly drained decanter. “That stuff isn’t helping.”
“You have no idea how much it helps, brother mine.”
“You were drunk the other night, weren’t you? That’s why you yelled at Carina.”
Pure rage hardened Berron’s face, crushing out every hint of his dark humor. “Get out.”
Carver snorted, shaking his head. “You think everyone around you leads a perfect life. That you’re the only one suffering. But no one’s life is perfect.”
“Yes, it must be so hard to be you,” he shot back. “The beloved firstborn son. The favorite brother. The emperor’s shining general. A war hero. Married to a beautiful wife. What a terrible life you lead.”
Images flashed, each more painful than the last. Bloody battlefields. Blood-soaked hands. Burying children in shallow graves. Watching his men die horrifically in a sweltering jungle. Raza’s smile. Wrists bleeding as he fought his chains. Back burning under the cutting pain of the lash—
He closed his eyes, forcing those memories away.
“You may have spent months being tortured,” Berron said with quiet, blistering anger. “But you have both your hands. Both your eyes. You’re a bloody hero. You didn’t truly lose anything.”
Carver’s eyes opened slowly. “You have no idea what I lost in that hell.”
Berron held his stare, but only for a moment. He looked away, his jaw tight. “Get out,” he clipped, repeating his earlier request.
Carver strode for the door, a dull roaring in his ears. It was only as he grasped the handle that he remembered there was something else he’d intended to say. “I’m sorry about Rivard. I know you considered him a friend.”
Silence behind him. Then, “So did you, once.”
The words he didn’t say were clear enough. You’re the reason he was in my life. It’s your fault he gave me sonne.
“Did you ever wonder what Rivard and I bonded over?” Berron asked.
Carver didn’t turn. He didn’t want to see his brother’s expression. Didn’t need to see it, because he felt the scorn in it. It burned between his tensed shoulder blades.
“We had something in common,” Berron said. “Perfect older brothers. Saints, what a curse they are.”
Carver’s hand trembled as he yanked open the door. He left the shadowed room behind, along with the man who had once been his younger brother.