“Of course not,” Evain says easily. “Despite our differences, I knew at once you were perfect for this expedition. Your skills are unparalleled and would be a valuable asset, which I am prepared to value monetarily.”
Exhaling a frosty cloud, Leth regrets how far away the training hall is from the building his guest room is in. He’s certain Ronan put Evain up to this. The Locksmiths have disbanded, but Ronan still acts like he’s in charge when he’s not bowing to Karis’s every whim. Just the other day, he asked if Leth had any plans for a career change. Like he’s a parent or teacher, and Leth is his listless, unemployed charge.
Maybe Ronan feels guilty for persuading Leth to join the Locksmiths in the first place. Or maybe Leth just looks so fucking useless right now, Ronan can’t help himself.
“I’m not interested.” Leth’s boots crunch on gravel, and he pauses at a fork in the path. The correct building rises to the left. Will Evain follow him all the way to his room? Maybe he has enough strength left to punch him.
But Evain just halts next to Leth. He’s a candle of vivid color in the gray and white cathedral grounds. “Alas, you wound me.” Evain’s usual flirtatious tone bleeds back into his voice. “The offer stands, though. If you change your mind—or if you simply want to bid us a fond farewell—we’ll be departing from the northern gate at dawn, three days from now. You’ll want a horse.”
“Fuck off.”
“See you then,” Evain says, and walks away. Leth doesn’t know how long his red coat is visible in the distance; he very intentionally doesn’t watch him leave.
Back in his borrowed room, the first thing Leth does is pour a glass of water. Afraid to sit down in case he never stands up again, he leans against the table and sips slowly. The room is simple. A bed, table and chairs, and an adjoining bathroom. The only hint of gold is the framed painting of the sun hanging over the bed. He hasn’t turned the lamps on, but enough light shines through the wide windows.
The Bright Cathedral’s guest rooms are usually reserved for visiting priests. Pilgrims with nowhere else to stay—and that describes Leth himself better than he likes to admit.
Feeling a little more stable, Leth sets the water down and peels off his gloves. His wrists ache from practicing too hard. His whole body is going to ache by tomorrow. Bending over to unlace his boots, he wonders what the fuck he’s doing here.
He can’t hide in the Bright Cathedral forever, even if Karis would probably let him. He can’t return to his family. Anton’s left the city, but the rest of the ka Tariels don’t think any better of him. Last month’s letter to his mother hasn’t received a reply.
Besides, Ostaris holds too many memories now. Leth has spent his entire life honing his emotions, digging them deep into safely controlled channels. But his visit home this morning proved he won’t be able to maintain that for long if he stays.
He’s too weak.
Leth sets his boots by the foot of the bed. After another sip of water, he begins a set of cooldown stretches he’s rehearsed since he was a child. He doesn’t have to think about the movements, which leaves his mind free to continue ruminating over his future.
That’s being generous. He doesn’t even know what his present looks like either.
He could join the Riverswords again, like he did after failing to enlist at age eighteen. Lose himself in the mercenary life, following orders, never having to make decisions. Fighting for coin as his only purpose.
Seated on the ground, Leth bends over one outstretched leg. Presses his forehead to his knee, breathes into the stretch, and can’t help thinking about Evain’s offer.
He doesn’t like Evain. Some people are inherently incompatible, and Evain annoys him like no one else. But a quest to the fallen empire of Lyrisenia, facing demons and wild magic—he has to admit, the idea appeals to him.
It sounds worthy. Heroic.
Maybe if he rides that far north, he’ll escape the shadow of Fort Tarhaeg.
“Sparks and ashes,” Leth swears, sitting up from the stretch. “I can’t actually be considering this.” He slumps back against the bedside, arms wrapped around his knees, and can’t keep his eyes open anymore.
Exhaustion bleeds the strength from his body. The release of a day’s worth—a month’s worth—of tension. Huddled on the floor, he drifts off into an uneasy half-sleep, dreamless gray patches of unconsciousness in between idle plans of what he’d pack and where he’d buy a new horse if he wanted to leave within three days. Whether he should stop by the university library and brush up on rift theory. Whether he needs new gloves for the northern winter.
Delirious fantasies, nothing more. He absolutely isn’t following Evain to Lyrisenia.
?
CHAPTER FOUR
EVAIN
Before dawn on the third day, Evain swans through the perfumed parlor of the Veiled Rose. A set of saddlebags hangs from his shoulder, and he hums a light tune to himself.
The woman at the front desk covers her ears with a groan. “Not you too. All the drunks have been singing that fucking ditty. It’s been stuck in my head for weeks.”
“Blame the bard-priests for being inspired.” Evain flips his long braid over his shoulder. “Their new material is very catchy.”
A series of thuds interrupts their conversation: a man walking unsteadily down the stairs. His clothing is rumpled and expensive, his cheeks stubbled and his neck dotted with lipstick and bruises. He pauses at the landing and waves a bejeweled hand up the stairs, calling out, “Goodnight, my beautiful prince!”
