Page 19 of Sword & Shadow
“Mm?” he murmured in reply.
She drew her head back, tipping up her chin to look at him. Her eyes took on a darker brown than usual in the shadow of her hood and the ever-growing night. “Your hand will freeze if you leave it out there.”
Rather certain there was only one other option in their current sleeping arrangement and equally confident she would disapprove of it, Deckard lifted his shoulder with a shrug. “I’ll be fine,” he lied.
Evylin heaved an exasperated sigh, then knocked his arm off her side. She grabbed his wrist, tugging it under her cloak as she drew near again. “There,” she said, satisfied.
His arm remained rigid around her back as Deckard tried to understand why Evylin was suddenly so comfortable with him. Over the last twelve days, she’d never relaxed so fully in his embrace. And she’d certainly never encouraged it.
“Are you sure?” he asked.
Evylin tucked her head down, her temple pressing into his chest. “Yes. Now, go to sleep.”
With his hand resting against her back, Deckard tried to follow her command. He stared into the darkening forest around them, struggling to process how to behave. In the past, he’d grown into the habit of letting himself rub her arm or brush his thumb in small circles against her back. Since Hewitt’s death, he’d stopped, knowing the action would not elicit his intended soothing sensation.
Evylin’s breathing deepened, her muscles relaxing as she fell asleep. She was abnormally warm, Deckard realized, as she subconsciously burrowed deeper into him. Almost too warm for his comfort. But he didn’t pull away, unsure if this moment would last if he moved.
Holding her as close as he dared, Deckard scanned the trees one final time. Their comrades were all either asleep, attempting to sleep, or on watch. He could hear the light murmur of Ilain’s voice as she talked with Ethenn. The young man’s deeper, steady voice occasionally joined the conversation. Deckard was sure his hunter’s training would miss nothing in the forest around them.
Nothing . . . except for the singular shadow that Deckard alone could see.
A figure stood in the pines and alders, arms crossed and eyes on the camp. Massive. Burly. Bear-like.
With a self-deprecating smile, Deckard forced himself to close his eyes. He was going mad, he knew. Slowly sinking into insanity. The figure wasn’t real but a simple figment of his imagination. But somehow, the vision gave him peace.
And resting with the knowledge that the ghost of his guilt watched over them, Deckard found his way into slumber. Darkness surrounded him in his dreams. A shadow of the deepest amethyst encircled him. He could see a horde of Shades rushing toward him. Yet, he stood steadily, absorbing them into his body.
The dichotomy of Night filled him with each Shade that became part of him. Bliss and fright. Pleasure and panic. Rest and violence.
Then, suddenly, he stood in the Night Chamber once again. His fingers brushed the pitch-dark pedestal where the Relic lay, veins of silver glowing in its marble. The amethyst pendant beamed with power. Its facets and golden setting were warm as his fingers brushed the necklace.
He’d had this dream before, after the Day Keep. It made sense, he supposed. The chaos of the fight, the heart-pounding sprint to freedom, the worry for Evylin’s life—his brain needed some means of processing it all.
Deckard’s eyes drifted up to the metalwork on the door behind the dais. The sun and moons glowed bright yellow and deep purple. The door began to open...
33RD OF GALATAE, 1574
Deckard woke with each changing of the watch. As Thom and Auden took Ethenn and Ilain’s places, he immediately checked the trees, again spotting the figment that haunted him. He drifted back to sleep, assuring himself for the hundredth time that it wasn’t a problem. So he was seeing things? It wasn’t altogether surprising when one was grieving.
In his years with the Ephrian Army, Deckard had experienced far too many deaths. Ones with seemingly little purpose too. And while he’d never had this reaction before, he could honestly say that, except for his first kill, no death had ever rattled him as much as Hewitt’s.
Seeing visions of his mentor and Evylin’s beloved uncle made some semblance of sense even when he wasn’t exhausted.
When Thom woke Deckard for the final shift, the sky remained deep gray. Rain splattered on the large ferns and pine branches around them. With Evylin tucked against him, he stayed warm, but he knew that would change in moments.
Rousing both Evylin and Rafferty was more difficult than Deckard had anticipated, but eventually, they took their place atthe front of their camp. Since Evylin tended to be in a groggy and silent mood in the morning, she didn’t take to Rafferty’s low chatter like she normally would. Instead, she sat on Deckard’s other side while he conversed with the weasel.
“I’ve had a thought,” Rafferty began quietly.
Deckard raised an eyebrow at him. “You were asleep two minutes ago,” he commented in a whisper.
“I’ve a quick mind, Colonel. Try to keep up.” Rafferty angled toward him, but his eyes continually scanned the forest. “You’re a reasonable swordsman these days, what with your secretive training. By the way, I am impressed that you managed to hide that fromme. No one hides anything from me.”
Tucking his hands underneath his cloak, Deckard settled in for an ambling discussion. “What’s your point?”
“My point,” Rafferty continued, “is that despite your improved skills, you’re still notthatgreat on the battlefield. Would you concur, Colonel?”
Deckard dipped his head in a nod, causing a droplet of rain to drip from his hood onto his cheek. He wiped it away as he admitted, “I would.”
