The worst part is that it’s not unlike the way Alek behaves.
As soon as I think it, I internally recoil. I resent the idea that I am anything like him at all. But this awareness leaves a bitter taste in my mouth that refuses to go away. I probably drank too much ale earlier, and that’s not helping.
But the instant I havethatthought, I remember the mugs full of tea that Jax and Sephran chose for some inexplicable reason.
Ugh.Maybe fresh air would help. I should walk a patrol anyway. I push off from the wall, pull my bow off my shoulder, and unlatch the door.
Once I’m outside, however, the air doesn’t feel fresh at all. Heat still clings to the shadows, humidity making everything sticky. It’s usually cooler this far north, but summer seems to have settled over Emberfall with a vengeance I can’t escape.
Maybe it’s a stroke of luck. Scravers hate the heat.
I can’t say I’m much of a fan myself. Back when I worked in the tourney with Grey, we were two hundred miles south of here, and summers were downright miserable. I still remember the night old Worwick, the man who ran the place, showed up with a scraver in a cage. The creature was half dead from exhaustion and dehydration.
Iisak.My heart gives a tug, and I have to shrug it off. My friend has been dead for years.
I wonder what he would think of everything that’s happened. Iisak wanted to find his son so desperately— and then when he did, he died to protect him.
This trail of thoughts is going nowhere. I have no idea where Nakiis is, and I have no idea what Iisak would think of any of this. He was always friendly, always fatherly, always kind and thoughtful in a way that Nakiis is . . .not.
But maybe that’s not Nakiis’s fault. He had his reasons for being wary of others.
Just like I do, I suppose.
These memories cling, and I try to shake them off. I walk a loop around the inn, letting the tiniest hint of my magic seep into the ground, seeking any sign of an enemy. When I’m near the back quarter, I check the stable. As I ease down the aisle as quietly as I can, the sleeping horses barely pay me any notice, with the exception of Mercy, who offers me a low nicker, hoping for a caramel. Of course I give her one. She presses her warm muzzle against my jaw, the heat of her breath sneaking along my throat to whisper under my armor. I pat her on the neck and move on.
But there’s nothing. No sign of danger, no magic in the air, no whisper of sound to carry on the night sky. Nothing at all.
It should be a relief, and itis, but it’s also a disappointment. I’d kill for a distraction.
When I cross the dark stretch of ground between the stable and the inn, a cool breeze whips between the buildings. The light shifts, revealing movement in the shadows. A person in the darkness.
Before I can think, I have an arrow nocked, the string drawn tight.
“Tycho!” The figure lifts its hands. “Tycho.It’s me.”
I freeze, then carefully loosen the bow, lowering the weapon to my side. “Jax,” I breathe, because itishim, the shadows still cloaking him in the moonlight, though the stars find a tiny gleam in his eyes. His armor is gone, leaving him in a tunic and loose trousers. He’s lucky I didn’t shoot him. “Thank fate,” I whisper.
“I not mean to scare you,” he says.
“What are youdoing?” I snap— and because Iwasscared, the words come out ten times sharper than I intend.
He looks a bit affronted, and honestly, I can’t blame him.
“Looking for you,” he says, his voice equally sharp. “What else?”
That makes me feel like an idiot. I jam the arrow back in my quiver and hang the bow over my shoulder. “Fine,” I say. “Come on. I’m on watch.”
Without waiting, I turn and head for the front of the inn. Jax falls in step beside me.
He walks with a slight unevenness due to the false foot, but it’s more of a heavy step than a limp. It’s fascinating to me that he’s grown so used to it that he was able to abandon his crutches entirely. I still don’t know the story of how it even happened. Did Rhen order it? Was it one of the soldiers?
Much like that little moment over the tea or the thickness of his accent when he speaks the language here, it serves as a reminder that Jax has built a life for himself that I know nothing about. Even now, we’re speaking Emberish and I hardly even realized it.
As we turn the corner to come back around to the front side of the inn, there’s more light. A lone lantern hangs over the doorway, the wick trimmed low. Down the road, the tavern hasn’t closed up shop yet, because light spills through the windows. The voices of men and women carry on the night air, but they’re faint. A horse is trotting somewhere in the distance because I can hear the clopping from here, though the road is empty all the way down the lane.
I don’t know what Jax wants or why he was looking for me, but this echoing silence emphasizes just how vast the distance is between us.
“Can we sit?” he finally says. “Or you need to stand?”
