Long after dark, after the horse had been rubbed down and fed hot mash, after the fire had worn itself down to shadow and ember, I offered, by way of apology, “Bastard.”
You shrugged without looking at me.
I tried again. “It was—merciful of you. To spare him.”
Your mouth twisted. “You would call it mercy, to take the right hand of the only hale man, in a family already hungry?” You shook your head once, sharply. “The only mercy I have ever shown is that I kill quickly, and I did not even grant him that.”
“He shouldn’t have touched you. None of them should have dared.” The Drawn Blade of Dominion shouldn’t have to hunch and duck among her countrymen, shrinking herself down to mortal proportions. I found myself gesticulating, restless and angry. “They should be grateful. They should be falling to their knees, crawling after you to apologize. They should—”
“Can’t you bind that properly?” You pointed with your chin toward my hand, which was oozing again. “Come here.”
I edged toward you around the fire. You reached out slowly, deliberately, as if giving me time to withdraw. I didn’t.
You turned my wound carefully to the light, the crease deepening between your brows. My hands looked fragile in yours, long boned and ink stained against the cracked callus of your palms. I searched your face for contempt or derision, but found it curiously absent of all expression.
You began to unwind the bandage, with a sound like a boot being drawn out of deep mud. I turned my face hastily away.
I spoke to the low line of hills, their shape visible only by the absence of stars. “They should at least show you respect. They owe it to you, as—as citizens of Dominion.”
“They were not born citizens of Dominion.” You said it mildly, without reproach. “They were Hyllmen, once, and they did not come eagerly to the queen’s banner. Even when they knew their cause was lost, they would not open the gates of the Black Bastion.” I heard the click of your throat as you swallowed. “Those people lost their sons to the war, their gods to the Savior, their land to the crown. They’ll turn to banditry soon, if they have not already, and then they will be hanged, and their children made into beggars.”You tossed the soiled bandage into the fire, eyes flashing red. “The cost of peace, she tells me. Sometimes I wonder whose peace she means.”
You fell silent, dripping cold water into the mess of my palm and dabbing gently at it, wiping away blood and lymph. Your fingers were so thick with scars they were hard to the touch, like hand-shaped stones, and your motions were uncertain, as if you didn’t trust yourself not to hurt me.
There was a prickling, restless sensation growing just beneath my skin. Anger, perhaps, because your speech had sounded very much like one of my father’s, or fear, because it hadn’t sounded untrue.
I took a bracing breath. “Still. Yvanne is the rightful queen. She’stheirqueen—”
“And I am her drawn blade.” The words came quick and bleak as the fall of an ax. “It wasIwho beheaded the False Kings, one by one, though they cried mercy.Iwho set the crown on her brow, with blood still crusted around the jewels. I who rode at the front, who struck first and last, who drew every border in red. Do you know what they call me, in the north? What that man called me before I crippled him?” Your lip curled, and I couldn’t tell if the contempt was directed at them or yourself. “The Knight of Worms. Because I feed them so well.”
You tore a strip of fresh linen with your teeth and spat it out. “Theyshouldfear me, boy.” You bent over the work, hair falling to one side and baring the pale nape of your neck to me. “And so should you.”
I watched you bind the fresh cloth around my hand—clumsily, gently, frowning hard—and thought maybe I would head back to the village and raze it after all. It was a shame, really, that I only had three shots.
You began to draw your hand away from mine, but I caught and held it instead. You looked up sharply, eyes dark as silt.
“Well,” I said, enunciating very clearly. “I don’t.”
Your lips parted, and I saw again that phantom smile, berries bursting between sharp white teeth. I had never heard you laugh, but I knew then it would be low and rough and wild.
And I knew, too—from the subtle shift in the air between us, from the catch in your breath—that you were not like that army nurse I’d known, after all.
I permitted myself to imagine it, just for a moment. I would turn your hand palm up, press my lips to the soft, secret center of it. I would reach up and bury my fingers in your hair, pull you down to me. You would let me. Then you would let me go to my knees and give you what you wanted, foras long as you wanted it, until your thighs were slick and the line between your brows was finally gone, and afterward you would sleep deeply, without dreaming.
The images arrived with such vivid assurance, such fine-grained detail, that they felt more like memories than fantasies. You met my eyes and I felt myself tilting toward you, the woman I had wanted since before I knew how, the woman I was just now coming to want—
The woman I was leading to her death.
I recoiled.
You saw it. I watched the knowledge of that flinch move across your face like an early frost, killing whatever had been in bloom. It wasn’t pain. It was closer to relief: You had wanted me to be afraid, and I was.
You pulled your hand away from mine and rubbed it hard against your hip. I watched in awful, cowardly silence as you wrapped your cloak around yourself and lay down with your back to me.
I stayed awake most of the night, sick with guilt and want. I smoked three Lucky Stars in a row, heedless of the waste, before I turned to the book.
The words came easily, pouring from the pen in a hot, spiteful rush. It was all lies, but what did I care? If I couldn’t have you or heal you or save you—if I couldn’t love you—then I would make all of Dominion love you, forever and ever.
UNA AND THE GRAIL
