Chapter 20
Twenty
Fear
Itook Cara to the day market. She looked around the many stalls, then clung to my hand in the crowd—I enjoyed that more than I should, now that there was no reason except that she did not want to lose me—and I cut through the crowd for her sake, wherever she wished to go, as if I were her shield.
The two of us bought pastries and ate them standing up in a gap between two stalls. The sun caught her hair, illuminating the fine golden strands.
Kami’s work still held; Cara looked not quite mortal anymore, although she was still so petite there was no mistaking her species.
I loved best the little bits of her that were so clearly mortal, though: her twisted right canine, the freckles on her nose, the scar on her jaw that was close enough to faded that Kami had overlooked it.
Her skin was perfectly even and brighter than it had been before.
Her hair was thick and shining, falling in perfect waves around her shoulders now instead of being tied back like usual.
But she had jam on her lip now and powdered sugar and crumbs everywhere.
She made an impatient sound, trying to brush them off. “I look like a mess.”
“You look perfect.” I bent down and kissed her.
She made another impatient sound, though it was hard to believe when she put her arm on my shoulder and pulled me closer the next second. I kissed her slowly, taking my time, and when I finally pulled away, we were both a little breathless.
Our lips just barely apart, I murmured, “You rubbed the jam off on my tunic, didn’t you?”
She let out a peal of a laugh that was not a denial, and I would have considered smearing a pot of jam across my chest myself to hear that laugh again. She laced her fingers through mine. “Can we look at the books?”
“Of course. We’ll be leaving the capital soon. We should stock up.”
“You’re so sure of Lightbringer?”
“I’m so sure of you.”
She pulled a face. She wasn’t able to accept my confidence as real, of course. It was maddening. “I assume I should pack light.”
“You should pack whatever you want. I’ll take care of it.”
She rolled her eyes. “Always so charming.”
The accusation didn’t sound quite so charged as usual. It almost might have been a compliment.
At the book stall, I stood back and watched her.
She moved gracefully, despite the knife belt I’d buckled around her waist with the twin scabbards this morning; danger was always a part of my life, and I had dragged her into that fully, and I couldn’t bring myself to be sorry for making her part of my world.
She danced her fingertips over leather spines, pausing on certain books, passing over others without hesitation, doubling back once or twice with the faintest crease between her brows as if something had called her attention and she wasn’t quite sure why.
I didn’t want to interrupt. I would have bought her the whole damned stall, to be delivered to our next mission’s home base, and she would have found that overwhelming.
I wandered to the next stall instead. She had worn amber jewelry for the Claiming, as was the custom: green amber at her ears and dangling from a lacy choker.
I wanted to dress her in Bismyth purple.
The urge to give her a thousand gifts remained strong.
“You owe her,” Shadowbane reminded me.
I turned at the aggressive footfall behind me.
Corbyn had not aged well. The years showed in his jaw, in the set of his shoulders, in the particular hardness of a face that had spent too long inside the queen’s walls.
His eyes were the same. That was what I always noticed about Corbyn: his eyes hadn’t changed since I was a boy, though the wrinkles around them shifted.
He crossed the last few steps and hit me.
I had been expecting it, which was why I managed to turn enough that it caught my jaw without his full force. Still rattled my teeth. Still moved me back a step.
“You found her. You found her and you said nothing.” His hand closed in the front of my shirt. “How long?”
“Corbyn—”
“How long?”
“We needed to protect her more than you needed to know—”
The second hit was harder. I caught his wrist on the follow-through but didn’t twist it, didn’t turn the motion into an attack as I would normally have.
“When did you find my daughter?”
The third hit snapped my head sideways, and I tasted blood. He wanted to hit me again, but my hands were raised to block, not to strike, and he stuttered to a stop. Reluctantly. He wanted me to hit him back; he wanted an excuse to hit me and hit me and go on hitting me.
“You should have told me.” Quieter now. More dangerous. Close to ready to hit me again, and he grabbed my tunic and fisted it in his hand, yanking me toward him. I was experiencing an awful lot of that sort of thing since Cara came into my life. “You—”
“Fear.”
Cara’s voice. An urgent call. She threw herself into Corbyn. She came in low and fast, the way I had taught her, angling for his center of gravity, her shoulder driving into his ribs before he had fully turned to face her.
It should not have moved him. He was twice her weight, and he had been a fighter since before she was born.
He fell back, his hand ripped away from my collar.
Partly because he did not brace. Partly because she hit him with everything she had. Partly because while she might have been ready to rip him apart, he was staring at her in wonder.
“Cara, stop.” I started toward them.
She’d drawn her knives. They glinted in her hands as she came at him again.
“Stand down!” I ordered. Sharper this time.
She hesitated at my voice, and that was the opening Corbyn needed.
He moved to seize her, to hold her before she could attack again.
She drove a knife at his gut; Corbyn caught it on his forearm with the armored bracer and deflected it away, and as she was preparing for her next blow, he wrapped her in his arms.
She moved quickly, pulling her feet up and throwing herself forward, forcing him off-balance. Her gaze swept to mine, confusion flashing across her face. Why wasn’t I helping?
“Both of you, stop it.” I held out my hand to try to de-escalate, though Cara did not really do de-escalation as a general rule. “Corbyn, let her go. Cara, don’t hit him.”
She drove a knee at him. He turned his hip, taking it on the thigh, still barely registering it, still looking at her face.
“Corbyn.” I reached them. My hand came down on his shoulder. “Let her go. Let her go.”
He released her arm.
She stepped back and came immediately forward again, knives up, putting herself between us—between him and me—her breathing ragged, her stance wide. She was still ready.
His eyes did not move from her face.
“Cara. Lower the blades.”
“You’re bleeding,” she said flatly, not looking at me.
“I know. Lower the blades.”
She finally looked to me. Her question was clearly written across her wide-eyed, furious face. Why are you telling me to stand down?
Corbyn said, in wonder, “Lightbringer.”