“You don’t have to stay at the camp,” Carver says, letting his tent flap drop back down behind us to block out the bright splash of autumn sunlight. “You could live in Castle Tarva with the rest of the family.”
Without Griffin? No thanks. Although I am the only one without a real job here. Unless being stared at and incubating Little Bean count. And inspiring troops with rousing speeches like “Rise and continue!”
“I’ll stay here.” I grimace. “Maybe babysit Bellanca.”
Carver chuckles. Then his expression shuts down, darkening, as if he didn’t mean to let himself laugh.
I glance around, frowning. Carver’s tent is as disheveled as he is. I’ve never known him to be messy before, but he has to dig his only chair out from under a pile of disorganized weapons and other bits and things before I can even sit down on it. I’d wanted a better feel for the state Carver is really in, and judging by my surroundings, it’s not good.
Parched, I search the tent for water. All I see is a jug of wine, the thought of which turns my stomach and doesn’t tempt me in the least, even though my tongue is so dry it’s sticking to the roof of my mouth.
Carver blows out a long, drawn-out breath. “Bellanca is…”
I glance back at him, waiting for him to continue. He slowly shakes his head, his hands on his narrow hips. He doesn’t say anything else.
“Indescribable?” I supply.
He nods.
The Tarvan ex-princess is still with the Fisans. Although they’re not her people, I think she might feel more comfortable with them because, contrary to the other, larger contingents, there are Magoi among them. Not many, but some. I could feel their power in the air, scraping at my skin, beckoning me. It felt mainly like Healing Magic, which makes sense. Healers have never been given their due in Fisa, or any say in whom they can help. Their discontent is well known.
There’s also the distinct possibility that Bellanca’s own people hate her. I doubt Bellanca herself did anything to merit their loathing, but she was part of the family that terrified and terrorized them, although that was really Galen’s and Acantha’s handiwork. But I never heard of the younger royals doing anything to set themselves apart or to defy their brother’s authority. Not publicly, anyway. As for the rest, only Bellanca knows.
It doesn’t matter now, though. People will eventually find out she killed Galen Tarva with her own two hands, and they’ll forgive her. They might even love her for it.
Well, maybe. She’s a little hard to love.
Bellanca didn’t bother greeting Griffin and me. She just glared at us like it’s a damn good thing we somehow managed to survive without her help. I think her standoffishness is payback for driving her off the morning we left. There’s no way I’ll ever tell her how close we came to never coming back. She might not let us out of her sight again.
Just before Carver and I ducked inside his tent, Bellanca threw up her hands in disgust at a young Magoi’s floundering, bellowing out, “You call that fire? This is fire!” She promptly went up in flames. She’s probably still that way.
I wipe the sweat from my upper lip. Bellanca, Little Bean, the frankly uncalled-for afternoon heat… There’s not a drop of moisture in the air. It’s the rainy season, for the Gods’ sakes!
“Can I have some water?” I almost wish I were back at Frostfire with its bubbling mountain stream and constant breeze.
Then again, I could do without the gaping volcanic pit. Just the thought of that seemingly bottomless hole makes me shudder. At least the army encampment doesn’t have that. And it has Beta Team instead of a burned-out house. Wherever they are is home.
I sigh. I’m not sure why.
Carver rummages around, finally coming up with a waterskin that he finds under a pile of tack. It’s almost full. Knowing full well that Carver’s horse may have been the last to drink from it, I take a few long swallows anyway and then hand it back to him. He sets it aside and then drinks from a different container, one that leaves a small bead of red liquid on his lip. He wipes it off with the back of his hand.
Watching him, my stomach churns with worry. I want to say something about his wine consumption, but I don’t know if I should.
“That’ll kill you.” Decision made. Apparently.
Carver looks over sharply.
I get up, take the earthenware jug from him, and then sniff cautiously at its contents. The acrid punch makes my nose wrinkle. The wine inside is acidic and strong. Clearly, he doesn’t care how it tastes. It’s definitely not watered down.
I level a frank gaze at him. “The day you need to be clear-headed and sharp, you won’t be.”
He slowly reaches out and takes his wine from me. Putting the mouth of the jug to his lips, he tilts his head back, and I watch his throat work far too many times. To my shock, he must down half the contents of the container. When he lowers it, he wipes the back of his hand across his mouth again, his eyes glinting with something dark and challenging.
My eyes narrow in return. “Are you defying common sense? Or just me?”
Carver shrugs.
“Do you know what’s worse than getting yourself killed?” I don’t want his answer, and I don’t wait for it. “Watching someone you love get killed because you’re too drunk to stop it.”
“I’m not drunk.”
I cross my arms over my chest. “Yet.”
“Ever.” He looks at the jug in disgust. “This doesn’t even work.”
“Then throw it out.”
He takes another sip. Purposefully. Obstinately.
“That’s a crutch. Have you been crippled?” I ask. “Do your legs not work? Or is it just your brain?”
The look Carver throws me is part flinch, part snarl. “Back off, Cat!”
I unfold my arms and, without any real reflection, shift my balance, whip up my leg, and kick the jug. The piece of glazed crockery shatters in Carver’s hand, and the remaining contents splash all over him. Maybe I didn’t quite think that through. I kind of regret that it looks so much like blood. I’ve seen enough blood on Carver. And it’ll stain. But I don’t regret that the wine is gone. I’ll never be sorry for that.
“Gods, Cat! What in the bloody Gods damn…” Carver throws the jagged neck of the container to the ground with a growl. “What is wrong with you?”
“What’s wrong with you?” I shoot back. “Is the Carver I know tied up in a dungeon somewhere, and you’re his idiotic twin brother that no one knew about? The one who makes bad choices and doesn’t seem to care?”
He blinks.
“You have your family. And believe me when I tell you, you have a good one. You’re going to be an uncle. You’re the best swordsman in all of Thalyria. You have an entire army looking up to you, and especially a bunch of completely untrained Fisans salivating for your guidance and hanging on your every word. You have more than hundreds of thousands of other people will ever have, and you’re turning your back on them. On yourself. On everyone!”