Damned if that didn’t somehow do more damage than good.
His core ached to find Helspira. He needed to ensure she was all right. Needed to verify with his eyes that she hadn’t bled out or been struck by a rogue stream of lightning or suffered any other creative pitfalls by the gods, or fate, or whatever omnipotent force seemed bent on siphoning the joy from his life over the last four years. Purposeful strides carried him forward toward Vinepool, toward her, and that felt right.
But why did his guts tighten in revulsion? What wasthatfeeling? Shame?
Benjamin’s clanking cuirass provided an audible accompaniment to their turmoil. Save for that, the howling wind, and the occasional cawing bird, it was the only noise since their departure from the Red Sentinel.
“So,” Sikras said without breaking stride, “Rowan really gave it to me back there.”
“Absolutely annihilated you, yeah.”
“On some incredibly macabre level”—Sikras stepped over a fallen log—“it’s a relief to know Rowan’s prickishness is due to the traumas of war and not, you know, just an innate desire to be a dick.”
“Loss affects everyone differently.” Benjamin paused, skull pointed toward Vinepool, which finally appeared on the horizon. “On the subject of trauma-induced propensities, are you sure you’re not just using this whole finding-Helspira thing as an excuse not to face Vessik? Or Imri?”
“I—” A thousand and one habitual lies flooded to the forefront of his mind, but he bit each of them back. “I don’t actually believe Helspira is in any danger, no. You and she are two of the most capable people I know.”
Benjamin came to a halt. “Sikras, stop. I need you to be honest with me. I know that’s not your forte, but look me in the eye sockets right now. You promised me that you’d aid the Red Sentinel in taking down Vessik. I’m okay with delaying things long enough to check on Helspira, but I need to know. Are you going to honor that promise?”
Sikras stopped as instructed but fell short of meeting Benjamin’s eyeless gaze. “I’m sorry we left. I know you wanted to aid the Red Sentinel.”
“You’re avoiding the question.”
“I’m avoiding a lot of things.”
“So, you admit it?”
His head snapped up, and Sikras donned a fake, forced grin. “Of course.” His arms spread at his sides, hovering, and he freed a miserable laugh. “Of course, I am, Benjamin. Do you think Iwantto kill my oldest friend? You think I want to see the state in which I left my wife, your sister, for four fucking years? I can handle being a shit friend or a shit husband, but both simultaneously in a single setting is a little more than my fragile brain can manage.”
Calmly, patiently, Benjamin slid his hands to his hips. “With respect, Sikras, don’t you think your refusal to aid Nyllmas makes you a shit friend to Saelihn?”
His gaze flicked down, and he frowned. “I’ve been a shit friend for so long, Benjamin, that I’ve forgot how to be anything else.”
The two stood motionless in the flat open field leading to Vinepool, wind carrying the faint scent of amethystle and musty owligator feces. In the distant horizon’s fog, the washed-out towers of Saelihn’s castle waited. The thought of her disappointed face twisted Sikras’s stomach. Saelihn and Imri were such dear friends; if Imri wasn’t a walking corpse, she would be rolling in her grave over the grievances Sikras had caused the queen throughout the years. But Saelihn wasn’t the only one he had let down, was she?
“You know,” Sikras mumbled, rubbing the back of his neck, “you didn’t have to come with me. I know how much you wanted to see things through with the Red Sentinel. Oaths and whatnot.”
Benjamin shrugged. “I still have legs. I can walk back any time I want.”
“Will you?”
“Eventually. But Helspira is a vital member in our abomination alliance. I have to make sure she’s okay. Which reminds me”—he punched Sikras in the shoulder—“that’s for inviting her to sleep in our tent while you slept outside like a moron.”
“Blood and bone.” Sikras rubbed his arm and scrunched his nose. “How can you strike a man in good conscience when he’s writhing in self-pity?”
“How do you managed to get a woman in your bed and still find a way to muck it up? I may not have eyes, but I can see there’s something between you two.”
“She’s a friend.” A friend he was inexplicably, undeniably attracted to on every conceivable level.
Benjamin wagged a finger. “Nice try, pal. You may be a talented liar, but that one wasn’t believable for a second.”
The hair on Sikras’s arms raised as discomfort spread through him like venom. “This may come as a shock to you, Benjamin, but I’m married to your sister.”
“She’s dead, Sikras. You’re a widower. You have been for four long, sedentary years.” The words came fast and cutting, but the severity of Benjamin’s voice turned to empathy when he squeezed Sikras’s shoulders. “I miss her with all that I am and all that I used to be. I do. But she’s gone.”
“Til death do us part,” Sikras said, raspy voice breaking. “That’s what I agreed to, and last I checked, she was only mostly dead.”
“What you saw the second time we returned to confront Vessik”—Benjamin shook his head—“those were just bones. They might move. They might walk. They might even step to some of the dances you two used to do together. But you know as well as I do that the best parts of Imri Nikabod aren’t in there.”
