Bran stares at him. His ruddy face has gone a shade paler, and his hands have dropped to his sides, and he looks, for the first time since Evran has known him, genuinely at a loss for words.
"Lad," he says finally, and his voice is rough.
"I know what you're going to say."
"I don't think you do." Bran takes a step forward, and despite his size, despite the fact that he could snap Evran in half without effort, his presence is not threatening but protective, looming, every instinct visibly screaming at him to put himself between Evran and danger. "I don't want to put you in there. I don't want you anywhere near that man's chambers."
"And I don't want Vaike dead." The words come out sharper than Evran intends, and he sees Bran flinch, the words hitting him where they are aimed. He softens his voice but not his resolve. "If I don't go, if I don't get Torsten to trust me enough to invite me to his rooms, then how will we find it? Who else can get in there without raising suspicion?"
Bran has no answer, and he knows there is not one, and the truth of it sits between them, ugly and undeniable and immovable.
"What happens if we bring our findings to Vaike?" Evran asks, though he already knows the answer.
"There's nothing he can do," Bran says, and the resignation in his voice is heavy. "He can't publicly accuse Torsten without tipping him off and giving him time to hide the evidence. If Torsten knows we're onto him, the vial disappears, the conspirators scatter, and we're left with an assassin's testimony and no physical proof. It becomes a he-said situation, and Merrik's influence ensures the Windfar delegation closes ranks."
"Then what are we supposed to do?" Evran throws his hands up, the frustration finally cracking through his careful composure, and his voice rises before he catches it, pulling it back down to a whisper that vibrates with urgency. "If I don't go, if I don't get into that room, then we have nothing. And the summit ends in two days, Bran. Two days, and then Torsten walks out of here and disappears back to Windfar, and whatever evidence he has goes with him, and the next time he sends someone after Vaike it won't be at a summit with doubled guards and four clans watching. It'll be on a dark road, or in the dead of night, or somewhere there are no witnesses and no one to stop it."
He stops. He is breathing hard, his hands curled into fists at his sides.
Bran watches him for a long moment. The big man's face is a map of conflicting emotions, fear and admiration and reluctance and resignation all fighting for dominance, and none of them winning. His jaw works, the muscle flexing, and he seems to be arguing with himself about something that has no good answer.
Then he sighs, and it is a deep, resigned sound that seems to come from the bottom of him, from the place where his duty to protect collides with his respect for Evran's choice.
"If you go," Bran says, and his voice is careful, measured, each word placed with deliberateness, needing every one to land, "you go armed. You take the dagger I gave you. You strap it where he won't find it easily, and you keep it within reach at all times." He holds Evran's gaze. "And you are prepared to use it. Do you understand me? If something goes wrong, if he discovers what you're doing, if he tries to take more than you're willing to give, you use that blade. You don't hesitate."
"I won't hesitate."
"Promise me."
"I promise."
Bran nods, once, a sharp downward motion of his chin. Then he reaches out and grips Evran's shoulder, the same grip he uses on warriors before they ride into battle, firm and grounding and full of a faith that Evran is not sure he has earned but is grateful for nonetheless.
"You're the bravest foolish person I've ever met," Bran says. "Or the most foolish brave one. I haven't decided."
Despite everything, despite the fear and the fury and the weight of what lies ahead, Evran almost smiles.
"I'll let you know which one it is when this is over."
Bran squeezes his shoulder, holds it for a breath longer than necessary, then releases him. He steps back, and the soldier's face recedes, and the ruddy Bran that Evran knows reasserts itself, battered and worried but present.
They part ways in the shadow of the wall, Bran heading back toward the tournament grounds, Evran toward the eastern wing, both of them carrying the weight of what comes next.
The corridor is quiet, the evening light fading. Evran walks alone and feels the braid swing against his neck with every step and thinks about Vaike's hands in his hair, carving promises into the strands, and the wordhusbandburning in his chest.
Two days.He has two days to end this, and the knowledge sits heavy and urgent and real, pressing against the inside of his ribs with every step. He walks faster.
Chapter 14
Evran leaves the Keep the next morning with the intention of finding Delia or the twins.
The air is crisp, the sky a pale, washed blue that promises warmth later but has not delivered it yet. He wraps Aether's cloak around his shoulders and takes the path through the inner courtyard, past the fountain, he does not look at the fountain, does not let his eyes linger on the bench, and toward the family wing where the twins usually spend their mornings.
He does not find them. He finds Dane.
The man materializes at the junction of two corridors as though he was waiting there, which he probably was. Evran recognizes him immediately, the lean, dark-haired man from the ale room, the cautious one, the one who had glanced at Evran and suggested they should not discuss treason with the Warlord's husband present. He is dressed in Windfar grey, a short sword at his hip, his narrow face set with purpose, an assignment accepted and intended to be completed.
"Looking for someone?" Dane asks.
