I hand his knife back. “I don’t see how I couldn’t now.”
Taran slides it onto his belt, and his face softens with a boyish grin that wraps my heart in the warm feeling of home.
Why is his presence so comforting?
He goes over to his pile of things, and I briefly watch Reid and Emlyn, still sitting on the opposite side of the fire. They’re likely discussing hunting, as Emlyn’s miming shooting a bow. A moment later, Taran returns with a white blade laid out across his lap.
For a sword, it’s definitely on the short side—the sabers I trained with were almost twice as long. Like the knife, its bulky handle is wrapped with leather and lacks a hilt. The blade smoothly transitions from thick near the handle to a sharp tip, and despite one side having a slight edge, it’s clearly intended to stab, not slice.
I run my fingers along the intricate carvings of leaves that decorate its side. “It’s beautiful.”
“It’s my grandfather’s thigh bone.”
My hand recoils in a flash, and I grab his shoulder to keep from falling over.
“Your grandfather?” I sputter. “You—you make weapons from your dead?”
“It’s considered a great honor.” He lifts the blade and turns it over, showing me the other side. “He died fighting Gareth Arandur. My mother had this made so our family would never forget. It passed to me when she was exiled.”
That’s… morbid.But strangely captivating.
“May I?” I straighten up as he hands it to me. The weight’s awkward, completely unbalanced compared to the swords I trained with. “It doesn’t seem very practical.”
“It’s not—it’s mostly ceremonial. A symbol of the throne.”
He takes it from me, tracing its carvings absently with his fingers as he sets it in his lap. A gentle smile fills his face as his head tilts toward mine. At some point, I must have leaned into him, his solid presence building a steady heat where my shoulder presses into his.
Panic flares in the green of his eyes. His body tenses, and I barely keep from losing my balance as he scoots away, setting his sword on the grass between us. He grabs at the stick holding the cooking hares.
Shame boils within me. I didn’t intend to get so close—it just happened. Again, just like him taking my hand last night. But the fact that it keeps happening must mean something. Perhaps all the unease it brings is simply nerves from my lack of experience? As wrong as it feels, this pull… it’s getting harder to ignore.
Taran pulls our dinner away from the flames. “I think the meat’s done.” He nearly drops everything, shaking his hand as if he burned himself.
Emlyn takes half and splits it between him and Reid, leaving Taran to divide what remains with me. I try not to cringe as Taran carves through it with his sheep-bone knife, then hands me my share.
The meat’s tougher than our previous meals, which results in my gnawing at it in a very unladylike fashion. But Reid and Emlyn are still squabbling away, and Taran’s looking everywhere except at me. A tension stirs within me—I don’t like this. Maybe I should find a way to talk to him about it before things become too awkward.
That won’t be uncomfortable at all.
To keep my anxiety at bay, I focus my attention on Reid and Emlyn’s spat.What could they possibly be fighting about now?
“You didn’t split the meat evenly, did you?” Reid asks, his cut sagging between his fingers as he eyes Emlyn.
“Huh?”
“The meat. Yours is bigger.”
“How could you possibly know that? You haven’t seen it.”
“I can see it right now, ass,” Reid snaps.
Emlyn looks down at the front of his pants, and Reid flushes bright red, forcing me to hold back a snicker. I’d hate to interrupt Reid being on the receiving end of someone’s teasing for once.
“No! Not—you know I’m talking about the rabbit!”
Emlyn’s eyebrows pop up. “Do I?”
“You do. And you’re avoiding answering, which means you did.” Triumph shines out of Reid’s eyes.
