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‘Like what?’
‘Like he saw me. Not just a scrap of a girl training to be an alchemist, but… me. Or who I wanted to be.’ Thea laughed. ‘Sounds stupid, doesn’t it?’
‘No,’ Hawthorne said firmly. ‘It doesn’t.’
Thea smiled then. ‘From there, I don’t know… I saw him around a lot when he recovered. He was always so alone. I guess I felt alone too. Neither of us could be what we wanted. It wasn’t long after that he found me in the library. He… He wasn’t alright. His injury still affects him now. Sometimes there’s too much for him to process, sometimes he can’t remember things. Listening to me read seemed to help, so I’ve been doing it ever since.’
Hawthorne was silent. Thea could see the muscle working in his jaw, his hands fidgeting.
‘You read to him?’ he asked eventually.
‘Yes. What’s wrong with that? He likes it.’
‘Nothing is wrong with it.’
Still frowning, Thea went on. ‘I wondered if he’d once had a wife or a family. Maybe someone else used to read to him.’
‘Warswords take no wives. It’s one of the vows we make upon the Great Rite.’
‘Oh.’
Hawthorne hesitated a moment before he spoke again. ‘He’s lucky to have you,’ he said quietly.
His words caught Thea off-guard and she glanced across at him in surprise. He was a medley of contradictions, this Warsword. Rigid where he sat, jaw clenched, but those silver eyes… sadness brimmed there.
‘How do you know Malik?’ she asked, curiosity getting the better of her.
‘All Warswords know one another,’ he replied.
‘Does that mean you’ll tell me about them all? You could start with who trained you.’
A smile softened the harsh lines of his face for a moment. ‘A fair effort, Alchemist.’
A quiet laugh escaped Thea. ‘Can’t blame a girl for trying.’
‘I suppose not.’ Hawthorne stretched out and stoked the fire. ‘You should get some rest,’ he told her.
For once, Thea did as the Warsword said.
WILDER HAWTHORNE
Wilder warmed his hands by the fire as the alchemist slept, his brother’s dog standing guard at her side.
He had recognised Malik’s dagger at once and there was no way he believed it was a gift, not for a second. Warswords gave their weapons to no one, least of all Malik, but… perhaps that had beenthen.
Wilder met Dax’s yellow stare. The mongrel had appeared shortly after Malik’s return to Thezmarr and had barely left his side. He had stayed with the injured Warsword as he learned to walk again, as he learned to feed himself. The dog seemed permanently attached to his brother. Which was why Wilder hadn’t realised it was him in the outer lands of Harenth. For years the beast hadn’t travelled further than the fortress walls, and yet… Here he was, by the alchemist’s side, apparently with as much loyalty to her as he showed Malik.
‘Who is she?’ Wilder asked quietly, for there was no doubt in his mind that if Dax was here, she wassomeone.
A friend, she’d declared.
Wilder pinched the bridge of his nose and sipped from his flask, the fiery liquid warming his throat. Malik’s friends had abandoned him over the years, unable to recognise him as theman he’d once been – a legend amongst their kind, one of the best, who’d met a fate worse than death in their eyes. Worst of all had been Talemir Starling, who’d left Malik’s side at the lowest time, leaving Wilder to pick up the broken pieces.
Friends, they had once been, but no longer. And yet the alchemist had claimed Malik as hers, fiercely, openly, all the while clenching her fists as though she meant to spring to his defence.
Wilder’s hand drifted to the dagger. He had assumed it had been lost in the battle that had nearly claimed his brother’s life, trampled into the bloodied moors of Naarva. Unsheathing the weapon, he ran a finger along the flat of the blade where, in the flickering light of the fire, the words engraved in the ancient tongue of the Furies shone.
Glory in death, immortality in legend.
