He’d shone. The tall, handsome, wholesome farm boy, the earnest companion of her journey and the diligent servant of the gods, had blazed with starlight and glory for a few moments, even before the Silver Wind had made Himself manifest for Olvir’s protection. The actual divine radiance had seemed almost redundant.
And now he was actually blushing. It was also a relief to see that: his skin had looked nearly bloodless when Vivian had found him.
“Thank you,” he said. “I’m not so vain that I’d say you’re right, but I tried. Besides, I wanted to…to make it clear where I stood, I suppose. I never really had the chance until then. That doesn’t mean I’m glad any of that…” He hesitated, trying to choose a word. Vivian would’ve expected various forms of profanity from others. She didn’t think Olvir was avoiding it as such. It just didn’t come to his tongue as readily as it did most people’s. “…situation happened. I suppose I’m thankful that I found the words when the moment arrived.”
“And I’m glad I was there for it. The questions were good too. Unnerving, but good.”
“I wish I could’ve warned you.”
“It was more convincing without any advance notice.” She hesitated, then looked straight into his hazel eyes. “I know you’d never willingly sign on with Thyran.”
Ulamir was absent. Likely he’d stay that way for longer than usual, given the combined effort of channeling the lethal blessing and summoning the rocks. Everybody else Vivian knew was far away. The land stretched off alien and empty beyond where she and Olvir sat. In all of it, there was no anchor for her except Olvir himself, and she couldn’t let him serve that role.
All she could allow herself was the brief interlude while they sat with their arms around each other and the slight emphasis she’d placed onyou. If not for the speech and Tinival’s grace, she very likely wouldn’t have dared that.
For a little while, Olvir was silent. Vivian could hear the river running past them in the distance. They hadn’t run so far, or perhaps they’d come back farther than she’d realized. She hadn’t paid any attention to the geography.
“Iwouldn’t,” Olvir said slowly, meeting her gaze steadily. “But I’m honored by your faith. You don’t owe it to me. I know that you have your duty, and I wouldn’t want you to swerve from it for a second. Not for my sake.”
Vivian knew one fact in that moment, heart-deep, and figured out another.
From the way Olvir regarded her, the thoughtful precision of what he said, and all the empty space where he kept silent, she was fairly sure of what he was telling her: that he knew, as much as he could let himself know, the mission she hadn’t told him about. He might not be able to put it into words, even in his head, for fear of revealing too much to his other self. Still, if their quest didn’t end well, it would be no shock to Olvir when Ulamir came down.
He was saying, as clearly as he believed it was safe to say, that it was all right.
That was the conclusion Vivian figured out. She nodded, said “Thank you,” and knew the other fact with every breath.
If worst came to almost worst, if Vivian had to kill Olvir to keep Gizath from returning fully to the world, she would do it. She wouldn’t hesitate. There was a larger world at stake, full of people who loved each other as deeply as she’d come to love her knight. For their sake, she would strike without flinching if it had to be done.
She knew, as she sat with Olvir on the edge of the river, that the act would break her.
Part IV
Now Veryon knew how little regard Gizath had for him. The god had made that plain. Still, he had no suspicion. None then living would have thought of treachery—none but Gizath himself.
“Who is that coming toward us?” asked the Traitor. Veryon turned, all amiability, to greet whatever new arrival Gizath might have sighted.
The tragedy is, in part, that murder was so easily accomplished.
—The First Betrayal
The Dark Lady weeps forever, for a love she’ll see no more,
And the gods say nothing of the cause.
To this day, the world winds on in shadow and in pain…
—Lines from “Shapes of Wind and Night,” by the poet Elyan
Chapter 33
There wasn’t time for pain: not for Olvir’s, which was obvious, or for Vivian’s, which she hoped she hid.
Neither of them had broken bones, all their bruises would heal, none of their cuts needed binding, and Olvir’s pupils were both the same size. That would have to suffice.
“My armor,” Vivian said as they got to their feet, “is probably a loss.”
“Mending it would take a day or two, from what I can tell, and a fair bit of a cow,” Olvir agreed. Carefully, he stretched his arms, put weight on his legs in one stance and then another, and rotated his head. The last motion made him grimace but not cry out.
