Chapter 30 On the Road Again
ON THE ROAD AGAIN
CEDRIC
Admittedly, he’d hit him harder than he intended.
Not that Cedric regretted it. If anything, he regretted not doing worse.
Even now, days later, his hand still ached where it had connected with Raefe’s face. The bastard had given them both wide berths since then, thank the stars, mainly keeping to Sephone’s company at the head of their little caravan as they made their way toward Dawnspire.
It wasn’t wide enough.
Especially given that every time the group broke to make camp, Raefe found some excuse to hover near Elyria with apologies spilling from his mouth like rancid wine.
As if she needed his fucking apology.
Cedric Thorne was not a violent man. Not one prone to letting his emotions rule, never inclined to join brawls—let alone start them.
But the moment he’d seen the look on Elyria’s face, when he’d sensed her body go taut, the tether between them tightening to the point of pain, when he heard her spit Raefe’s name?
Cedric had barely felt like a man at all.
It was as though a caged beast was ripping through the bars of its enclosure.
He didn’t remember making the decision to move.
There’d been no pause, no hesitation. No rational thought.
Only the broken sound of her voice in a moonlit corridor, only the sight of the scars mapped on the tops of both her thighs.
Heat flared across the back of Cedric’s neck, the spot on his shoulder where Elyria bit him pulsing dully. The mark she’d left on him had faded over the past few days, but there was still the lingering reminder of it. A crescent-shaped outline, just barely visible to the naked eye.
She hadn’t broken skin, so Cedric did think it a little bit strange that it was taking so long to heal.
Surely, it should have been nothing more than a bit of redness, the lightest bruise by now.
But it clung to him. Just like the memory of her skin under his hands, the feel of her clenching around his fingers, the sounds she’d made.
They had been building toward something so perfect. Could have been more perfect, still, with the gift of this extra time together. Were it not for Raefe’s presence.
Cedric’s bruised knuckles throbbed, like they had a heartbeat all their own, as he recalled the feel of Raefe’s face colliding with his fist, the sound of crunching bone and sight of splitting skin.
The knight smiled.
Served the bastard right for daring to hurt her. For daring to hurt what was his.
He quickly shook his head, wiping the grin from his face and inhaling sharply. This was so unlike him.
She did not need his protection.
She was not his possession.
Was not a thing to be owned or a prize to be won.
She was not, in fact, his.
But you are hers, his mind told him, and Cedric couldn’t help but sigh at the truth in that.
The weather had turned crueler with every mile they journeyed from Kingshelm.
If there’d been any doubt as to whether winter was on its way, there certainly wasn’t any more.
Not as the wind bit at Cedric’s cheeks, his horse’s reins slack in his grip as they picked their way down the tree-lined road.
“Easy, Polonius,” Cedric murmured, reaching down to pat his neck. The horse huffed and tossed his head as though irritated with the sound of his hooves squelching in the damp earth, the wet leaves crushed with every step.
The party had split into natural groupings as they traveled.
Sephone and Raefe kept to the front, while Young Shep, Thraigg, and Jocelyn followed behind.
Then came Thibault and Hargrave, toting along the packhorse and wagon.
Their assignment to the group had been a pleasant surprise—Lord Church hadn’t informed Cedric of their involvement in escorting the Arcanians, but after journeying with them to and from the Lost City, he’d come to enjoy their company.
Even if Thibault’s personal views regarding their traveling companions still left something to be desired.
The continued side-glances he gave Elyria, Jocelyn, Sephone, and Raefe, in particular, led Cedric to believe that, despite whatever accords might have been signed and declarations King Callum might have made, Thibault’s feelings hadn’t evolved much since the Crucible.
Cedric exhaled. He supposed he couldn’t expect the man to have changed overnight. Still, he wondered why Thibault would even have volunteered for this assignment. He supposed he and Hargrave were somewhat of a unit. At least the latter seemed perfectly at ease with the situation.
Polonius nickered, drawing Cedric’s attention back with a shake of his mane.
He shifted in his saddle to look behind him, where Tristan and Ollie brought up the rear and completed the trail of their little caravan.
Elyria, rather fittingly, seemed inclined to ride wherever she wanted, whenever she wanted.
Sometimes, she would push Fjaethe far past the group, as though scouting ahead.
Other times, it was like she’d fall purposefully behind.
Cedric suspected it was not just traveling in the same party as Raefe that had her so on edge.
She was clearly unhappy with how long the journey was taking as a whole, irritated that she couldn’t just soar straight to Dawnspire on those aurora-like wings.
Couldn’t step through the shadows and just be there.
Restraint was not her strong suit, Cedric was aware. So it really did make it all the more admirable that Elyria exercised so much of it. From the moment she’d stepped foot in Havensreach, really, she had been holding back. Deferring to the king’s rules, playing by the book.
Even dutifully ignoring the man who deserved so much more than the temporarily broken nose Cedric had given him. And the one Elyria had bestowed upon him herself a few days prior.
How convenient it must be to have the modicum of healing magic all fae possessed, Cedric thought. It made the idea of breaking Raefe’s nose all over again, should he step out of line, all the more enticing.
Cedric smiled again.
No, she definitely did not need him to fight her battles. But he would do so happily anyway. Even if she was still keeping him at arm’s length.
Cedric tracked where Elyria rode ahead of him, the hood of her cloak up around her face, flexing his fist around Polonius’ reins. They’d barely spoken since the morning they’d left Kingshelm. Not about anything that mattered, at any rate.
Not about Raefe. Not about how proud Cedric was of himself—how proud he hoped she was—for keeping his fire subdued, keeping it from leaping forth and setting the entire courtyard ablaze when he’d punched him.
And definitely not about what happened the night before they left.
Cedric didn’t know what he’d expected. That despite her claims of even slates and settled scores, things might’ve been different?
That the way Elyria’s body had curled into his in the dark, the press of her lips, their intertwining magic, the way she had whispered that she wanted to stay with him . . . that it all meant something?
It did, of course. To him, obviously, but he knew now that it meant something to her too.
It’s just that Elyria was Elyria.
And he—well, he was still a fool.
She’d hardly even looked at him in days.
Perhaps that wasn’t exactly fair. Cedric had, after all, felt her jeweled gaze on him many times when she thought he wasn’t looking.
And in the small slivers of conversation they had shared, he could hear so many things going unsaid.
It was as though he could feel Elyria’s indecision, her warring feelings, as real and bright and painful as if they lived in his own chest.
Maybe it was a good thing she was keeping her distance.
Otherwise, Cedric might not have been able to maintain his own composure.
Might not have been able to keep himself from reaching for her, touching her, taking her.
Might have made a true fool of himself by begging her just to tell him what she wanted again. To let him give it to her.
Stars above, he was pathetic.
Even now, he wanted to say something, to fill the silence, to break through the impasse between them. Wanted to call for her, question her, ask if she was all right.
Instead, Cedric simply watched as Elyria rode ahead of him, back as straight as the staff strapped across it. She hadn’t looked back once.
Sid, at least, had no such reservations.
The shadowcat darted beneath the supply wagon and trotted toward Cedric like she was royalty, tail held high, smug as ever. Shadows pooling under her tiny body, she leapt into the air, landing deftly on Polonius’ back behind Cedric.
“That was impressive,” Cedric said with appreciation.
Sid meowed as if in thanks.
Elyria pulled on Fjaethe’s reins, slowing the horse until she and Cedric were side-by-side. “She’s such a showoff.”
Cedric grinned, twisting in his saddle to scratch Sid under the chin. The creature purred loudly in return before pawing open the flap of one of Cedric’s saddlebags and crawling inside.
Elyria snorted. “Oh, honestly. You’d think she was your cat.”
“Can I help it if she likes me?”
“She’s made of my magic.”
“And yet,” he replied, allowing the corners of his mouth to twitch into a smile, “here she is.”
“Does she look bigger to you?” Elyria said, tilting her head at Cedric’s now-bulging saddlebag, shadows leaking from it like a dark fog. “Like she’s grown?”
Cedric shrugged. “Perhaps? Is that not normal?”
“What in all four hells makes you think I have any idea what counts as ‘normal’ when it comes to her?”
Tristan let out a snort from somewhere behind them. “As you already said, she’s made from your magic. You’re more likely to know than the rest of us.”
Cedric glanced over his shoulder to find Tristan leaning back lazily in his saddle, reins held in one hand, the other cradling a small crust of bread leftover from the morning rations.
Ollie grinned beside him. “Where’s Nox when you need them?”