Leth’s blood runs as cold as the river. He casts a basic detection charm for confirmation he doesn’t need, because he wants to be wrong. But traces of familiar wards linger around the perimeter.
“What’s the problem?” Evain asks. Daziroth nibbles his sleeve.
“This is a Dravan campsite.” Leth tries not to let his shoulders knot up with tension. “They came from the southeast, and headed west after leaving here.”
Evain shoves Daziroth’s head away. “Your brother’s troop?”
Given the size of the campsite, plus Anton’s passing through Lanwatch, Leth has to assume so. “I don’t know why he would be here. This is farther north than he should be, if he’s just hunting vaidkos near the border.”
“There are only two reasons foreigners visit Lyrisenia these days,” Evain says. “They’re running from something, or they’re looking for something.”
Anton doesn’t run. He’s not like me.
Shoving Daziroth’s head away again, Evain moves to inspect the campsite. Daziroth turns his attention to nuzzling Leth’s pockets instead. Watching Evain and absently petting the horse’s massive neck, Leth tries to remember the details of the last day he saw Anton. What cabinet was Anton closing when Leth walked in? What book did he carry out? Was it even related to this trip? But all Leth remembers clearly is the impact of his brother’s hand against his cheek.
“They must have stopped at the same village we’re heading towards.” Leth’s eye aches with the echo of a bruise. “We should keep going and ask questions when we get there.”
It’s a weak excuse. The truth is he just doesn’t want to see Anton.
The tense, prickly feeling doesn’t ease from his skin until the camp lies miles behind them.
***
“Something’s wrong,” Evain says suddenly the next day. There’s a sharp edge to his voice that Leth hasn’t heard often before.
Leaving off from subtly pressing the bruises on his neck, Leth pulls his scarf up over his chin. Their surroundings seem the same as before—yet more snow-frosted forest clinging to crags of stone. But he trusts Evain’s instincts and Daziroth’s animal sensitivity. The stallion’s ears prick forward, focused intently on the crags north of the road.
“Is it another rift?” Leth asks.
“I don’t think so. It’s demonic in nature, but not a rift.” Red light flickers around Evain’s hands. “Wait here with Daziroth. I’ll take a little look.”
Leth’s annoyance flares as bright as Evain’s magic. “You can wait,” he says with forced calm, and sets off away from the path.
Behind him, Evain swears and orders Daziroth to stay put, like he’s talking to a dog instead of a horse. He follows Leth off the path, and as the trees close around them, he says, “You’re annoyed at me.”
“I am not.” Leth tries to count his breaths, but it doesn’t help. Nothing really helps him control himself when it comes to Evain. His shoulders tense, and he can’t stop himself from saying too much. “I just want you to stop treating me like I’m weak. Just because I have less magic than you, and Marta and the rest with your contracts. I don’t need to be left behind like a child.”
Evain touches his shoulder, and Leth lashes out on instinct. He knocks Evain’s hand away, shoves—and Evain doesn’t resist. The next moment, Evain’s back is against a tree, and Leth’s hand is on Evain’s throat. Snow and pine needles shower down around them. Leth feels Evain’s pulse even through layers of glove and coat, and Evain’s dark eyes soften with something more dangerous than desire.
Leth’s anger vanishes in a surge of want.
His hand loosens, and his eyes close as Evain leans down. Leth opens to the kiss. Like a rune of binding flame, Evain’s tongue paints heat into his mouth. Every breath evaporates between their lips, and Leth’s blood rushes downwards. Evain is just as hard against him.
Reluctantly, Leth breaks the kiss and presses his forehead to Evain’s chest. Unknown danger lurks in the forest, but Leth just wants to rest here a moment longer with Evain’s hands sliding down his back. Tightening around his waist.
He feels better after letting himself be angry. And he feels safer being angry or sad or upset with Evain than he ever has with anyone else.
“I used to think you were annoying,” Evain says, his voice light. “I thought you were an uptight prude with no sense of humor. Hardly worth the effort of riling up. Overly rigid and blind to the value of other experiences.” He chuckles. “I thought it was a waste for such an attractive man to be so fucking joyless.”
Leth laughs. “Your sweet-talking needs work.” But for some reason, the litany of insults is comforting. Maybe it’s the clear, overwhelming fondness in Evain’s voice. Leth wants to say more, but his throat feels blocked.
“I’ve seen plenty of faults in you,” Evain says, “but never weakness.”
Maybe the stinging in Leth’s eyes isn’t weakness. He still waits until the urge to cry passes before extricating himself from Evain’s embrace. “We should keep moving.”
“Clever, though,” Evain says brightly. “I always knew you were clever.”
They continue side by side until the grove of trees gives way to a rocky hillside, gaping open in a deep-shadowed cave. The forest around them is far too quiet, and Evain’s face is paler than Leth’s ever seen it.
