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 withyou?” 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 agoodone. 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 willeverhave, and you’re turning your back on them. On yourself. On everyone!”
Carver moves toward me, prowling menace in his swift steps. I hold my ground, craning my neck to look at him. Although his face is leaner and his nose straighter, the similarities to Griffin are startling. The storm-gray eyes. The stubborn jaw. The way his expression flattens when he’s feeling too much.
Carver lifts his hands as if to grab my shoulders, but then his fingers clench into fists and drop back to his sides. “I thought you of all people would understand.”
“Understand what? Being an idiot?”
That seems to surprise him enough to add something new to his countenance. A trace of humor softens the stark lines of his face. “No.” A wry smile just barely curves his lips. “Maybe.”
“I am an expert idiot,” I say. “I practice all the time.”
Little Bean chooses that moment to agree—or maybe disagree. In any case, a strong ripple of chaotic baby magic rocks me hard. I hiss in a breath and grab my lower belly.
Carver turns whiter than a realm-walking spirit. “What is it?”
“Little Bean,” I gasp out.
