Page 2 of Sword & Shadow
She kept her gaze drifting somewhere around his shoulders and where the high collar of his coat rose onto his neck. “Yes?”
“Due to the restrictions in Wauld,” he began, his voice steady and calm as though speaking to a soldier rather than his wife, “I thought it would be a good idea to visit a smithy for repairs and possibly more weapons. Do you agree?”
Adjusting in her saddle, Evylin forced herself to shut off her emotions and focus on the question. Deckard had begun doing this days ago—seeking her advice on tactics and giving her strategic tasks. Usually, he’d have relied on Hewitt for such things. With him gone and her as the sole remaining Warrior of the troop, it was only logical that the charge of weaponry and strategy should fall to her. But Evylin knew the real reason he’d transferred the responsibility into her hands. He didn’t care about her qualifications or her magical predisposition for strategy. He knew she needed the distraction.
As Rafferty had instated himself as Evylin’s companion, it seemed that Deckard had become her guardian, always watching, always alert. The instant she began to feel the void of sorrow sucking on her thoughts, Deckard would notice. Before that void could leach her dry, he would step in and give her a job. Something more tangible and distracting than Rafferty’s jests could provide.
Deckard’s ability to read her pain annoyed her at first. Whenever despair attempted to latch onto her mind, he would inevitably be there, reminding her of his goodness. Each time, a surge of anger shot through her, desperate to wallow in her misery—to forget his very presence. Then, just as quickly, she’d find herself impossibly grateful to him for saving her from herself.
Her heart was in constant turmoil. After losing Hewitt and Ryen, she was broken beyond repair. Despite the feelings she’d begun to foster for her husband, despite the yearning that had grown within her, the soil of her soul was barren. It couldnurture no more affection for any man, not when he would inevitably leave her too.
Yet, with the weight of her grief, Evylin had somehow come to require Deckard’s help for the most basic of functions. Even rising from bed often required his order to get up, reminding her of their task to save their people.“You are a Warrior, and the people of Ephria and Wauld need you. You’re supposed to save them.”His charge didn’t hold the same sway over her moral conscience the way he expected, but it did give her a sense of resolve, a goal. She’d already lost everything in the pursuit of Ryen’s dream; she might as well see it through to the end.
Though Evylin hated to admit it, she’d begun to find herself relying on Deckard. She fought it the first few days after Hewitt’s death. As members of the Order of the King, the personal soldiers of King Ephren, their status earned them lower rates everywhere they went, allowing them to survive more comfortably than the average traveler. At each inn, Evylin and Deckard acquired a separate room, which provided her the freedom to pull away from him to a degree she couldn’t in the company of their troop. For the first several nights, she went nearly sleepless, curled away from him on the far side of the mattress. She’d grown so used to his arms around her while they slept that her body had forgotten what to do without him.
Deckard noticed. One night, as they got into bed and she moved to turn away from him, he gripped her arm loosely. She refused to meet his eyes but could feel his steady gaze scanning her as he whispered, “If you keep this up, you’ll never sleep again.”
“I don’t know what else to do,” she whispered back, feeling a sob welling up in her tense throat.
“I do.” Gently, he pulled her closer. Evylin had grown weak in her resolve, too exhausted and distraught to maintain the distance. He’d carefully wrapped his arms around her as healways did, tucking her head under his chin. And she’d fallen asleep within minutes.
As the gates of Norhels loomed above their heads, Evylin forced herself to meet Deckard’s stare. Patient and steady as ever, he watched her. “That seems wise,” she agreed, her voice hollow to her own ears.
Deckard gave her a firm nod. “In that case, I’ll leave that to your charge,” he said with finality. But he didn’t move away from her side even as they entered the city, as though knowing she needed him.
Tightening her hands on the reins so she wouldn’t twist her wedding rings, Evylin stared at her horse’s mane. Did she need him? She didn’t think she should. The last two men she’d needed, she’d lost. The last two men who meant that much to her broke her. Could she risk needing someone that much again?
The city of Norhels hardly constituted the status in Evylin’s mind. Its large populace granted its qualification, but compared to Loclight or even Virwoud, it lacked the grandeur she thought a city should require. Its walls were short, only about the average man’s height, more for controlling the comings and goings than real protection. Its houses reminded her of the cottages in Estshire, and most of its streets were made of dirt with the occasional stone pathway worked into the wealthier areas. As a port city, everything smelled heavily of fish, dampness, and salt.
Coming to a stop in the main thoroughfare, shops located in a wide radius, the troop dismounted. Deckard gave his final orders, and they split off. Deckard and Auden went to sell the horses to the stablemaster. Thom, Rafferty, and Ilain went to sell whatever else they might and then purchase rations and other necessities for their time in Wauld. And Evylin and Ethenn went to the smith with the weapons.
The smoke of the forge singed Evylin’s nose, calling forth memories of Hewitt and Whickam Village. Her skin warmed asthey stepped into the interior. The tang of iron and soot filled the air. She could almost imagine her uncle, the bear of a man he’d been, laboring at that anvil.
Instead, a bald, barrel-chested smith looked up at their arrival. He scanned the pair of them warily, their arms laden with swords. “May I help you?”
Dumping their haul onto a clear-enough workbench, Evylin took the lead. “Yes, sir. My comrades and I require repairs. We’d also be interested in seeing what you have in stock.”
The smith looked at Ethenn with a frown. Apparently deciding that a man barely in his twenties held little more qualification than a woman, he turned back to Evylin. “That’s a load of weapons there, lass. What sort of business are you in?”
Pushing back her braid, Evylin uncovered the insignia on the left breast of her gray coat. “The King’s,” she replied.
The smith’s mangy eyebrows rose in shock as he gave her another scan. “My apologies, ma’am,” he stammered, then glanced at Ethenn, taking in the patch on his coat as well, and added, “Sir. How soon do you need these done?”
“Immediately,” Evylin said, clasping her hands behind her back as she’d seen Deckard do when he was addressing those under his command. “We need to leave as soon as possible.”
The smith’s brow furrowed nervously. “Yes, of course. One of my assistants is out on deliveries, and another is home with a cold—the youths are rather unreliable these days. My son and I will work as fast as we can, but as this is quite the order, it will take three hours, at the least.”
Readily, Ethenn stepped forward, unbuttoning his coat. “I’ll help,” he offered.
The smith and Evylin both stared at him in surprise. “You will?” she asked.
Tipping up a shoulder in a shrug, Ethenn continued to work off his coat. “My uncle is a smith,” he explained. “When I wasn’t hunting, I was at the forge.”
A subtle memory sprang from the recesses of Evylin’s thoughts. Vernon Loxley was the smith in Trollenston, and though she hadn’t known him then, Evylin had seen Ethenn working as an assistant when they’d said goodbye to his uncle. Remembering the smith brandishing a poker at his nephew during that occasion, she understood why Ethenn hadn’t bothered to claim the relation before now.
“That explains the muscle,” Evylin teased. Of a stocky, short build, Ethenn was the picture of a Shireman. “I always chalked it up to the fighting.”
Carefully rolling up the cuffs of his tunic sleeves, he gave a dry grin. “That was just for fun.”
