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“Maybe you’re the only one who can answer that.” He grunted, a grimace crossing his face.
“Is the pain very bad?” I jumped to my feet. “Do you need help getting to your bedroll?”
He waved a hand at me. “I can walk.” He stood and I saw him pause to get his bearings. “Goodnight.”
“Goodnight.”
I sat by the fire alone a while longer, staring into the flickering flames. Then I let myself do something I had told myself I wouldn’t do.
I thought of Camelot and Arthur. I thought of Galahad and Lancelet. Sir Ector and Dame Halyna. I thought of the sparring ring and the practice yard and my room and my books.
I even thought of my uncle, Caspar Starweaver, Master of Potions, who had seen fit to poison his own niece when it served his purpose–and Arthur’s.
I thought of Florian and touched a finger to the fading scars on my chest. Were they all that was left of him? Did anyone miss him? Did anyone know what I had done?
But mostly I thought of my little brother. Kaye. I missed him, desperately. He was so young. With me gone, who was looking out for him? How was Arthur treating him?
I had to get back to him. We were traveling quickly, as quickly as we could. But suddenly it didn’t feel fast enough. I had to reach Valtain... If Draven said it existed, well, he hadn’t been wrong yet. And once we reached it and found the sword? What then?
Finding the Blade of Perun or Excalibur–to me it seemed impossible. Where would we even begin to look? But clearly Draven knew much more about the sword’s whereabouts than he was telling me. Just as he knew precisely what route we should follow to get to Valtain.
And once we found it? What then?
Arthur wanted it.
So did Draven.
As the weeks passed by, especially with Whitehorn gone, it had become easier and easier to see Draven as merely a traveling companion. Less enemy, more... Well, I wouldn’t have gone so far as to say friend. But less enemy.
But Draven was only here because he wanted to steal Arthur’s prize.
And if he did, I’d return to Arthur empty-handed–and face my brother’s certain wrath.
What would become of Kaye then?
I looked over at where Draven lay, very still and hunched under his blankets, and shifted uncomfortably on my log.
What if Draven died?
Would that be better in the long run?
In the short term, at least I would no longer be his hostage.
Did Draven simply see me as a tool to get the sword? Did he see me as a person at all?
And once I had helped him get it, what would he do with me once he had it?
He had claimed he had no plans to kill me. But was I really going to accept his claim at face value?
Perhaps Draven was not quite as ruthless as Sir Ector had claimed. But he was still a paid killer.
I looked at him sleeping, his chest rising and falling with each labor breath.
If I were as ruthless as Draven supposedly was, I could kill him now and save myself before it was too late.
He was weak. Injured. For all I knew, he would die no matter what I did.
But the thought of doing what Whitehorn had nearly succeeded in doing and sliding a knife in the dark into Draven’s sleeping back left me filled with disgust.
