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I yanked my red dress over my head so fast I almost strangled myself and hurried to the door on bare feet, flinging it open. Tared stood behind, slightly dishevelled but with his sword still sheathed – no urgent danger, then.
Nothere, at least.
My heartbeat refused to come down in the slightest.
‘Is he safe?’ The question burst over my lips with a violence that surprised me. ‘Agenor? Did he—’
‘He’s fine, Em. He’ll be here …’ A small, unexpectedly ominous grimace flickered over Tared’s face. ‘In a moment, probably.’
‘What?’ I bit out. ‘Is that a problem?’
Tared parted his lips, hesitated, then shifted his gaze over my shoulder without a word – into the corner where Creon was calmly and meticulously buttoning his shirt.
Something shifted in his eyes in the same moment. Something old and dark and very, very tired.
For just one staggering heartbeat, the room seemed to still between the three of us. I spun around, abruptly a helpless, powerless onlooker again – like that afternoon in Zera’s forest, flashing blades and magic, my presence nowhere near enough to soften centuries of bitter hatred. The air between them grew just as charged now, the silence just as pressing. Their gazes met with the exact same weight to them – or rather theawareness, so very alive in both their minds, of every old wound inflicted between them, every hissed insult and heartfelt threat exchanged over the course of centuries.
Creon’s scarred eyebrow twitched up ever so slightly. Not an attack. If anything, it looked like an invitation.
I could swear even the walls were holding their breaths around us.
‘First of all,’ Tared said, and he spoke the words with such visible effort that I wondered if he’d spent half the night rehearsing them to himself, ‘I owe you some overdue apologies.’
Creon’s expression didn’t change.
He continued to fasten his shirt, scarred fingers slipping button after button into place so excruciatingly slowly I wanted to shake him – as if it had been little more than a comment on the weather, an empty remark not even worthy of the faintest reply. But his eyes didn’t stray. And there was something in that look on his face that spoiled every attempt to believe himuncaring and unaffected – the shadow of an emotion held tightly in check.
I waited.
He lowered his hands, finally, and nodded – a single, barely perceptible nod, but there was no venom in it. His voice was carefully level as he said, ‘Appreciated. And mutual.’
And that was all?
My heart stuttered back into motion, relief flooding me as much as confusion. Tared merely nodded, too. Creon averted his gaze and began rolling up his sleeves with short, snappish motions – a clear enough message that anything of importance had been said and it was time to get on with the actual order of the day.
Weren’t they supposed to …actuallyapologise?
Or was this enough, a hard-won mutual declaration of intent, and had they quietly reached the unspoken agreement that there was no need to push themselves through the embarrassing work of actuallyspeakingthe apologies? Were they just planning to save each other’s lives a handful of times, get drunk together once or twice, and consider that enough of a truce?
Perhaps that was simply the way all emotionally constipated warriors understood each other, I decided at just the same moment Creon looked up from his busy work on his sleeves and added, ‘And second of all?’
There was a hint of relief in Tared’s joyless chuckle – as if he had been bracing himself for a painful conversation about both of their past failures and would rather stick his sword through his limbs a couple of times. ‘Second of all, I should perhaps have informed Edored about the two of youafterhe ran off to help evacuate Agenor’s people. Looks like he was so absorbed by the news that—’
The front door slammed.
And Agenor’s voice, louder than I’d ever heard him before, bellowed, ‘Whereis he?’
‘Well.’ Tared grimaced, an apologetic gesture at the heart of the house. ‘That. So I thought you might appreciate a quick warning. If you feel like getting out of here and postponing the joyful reunion, let me know.’
In the living room, I could hear a decidedly unamused Ylfreda snap something about manners and no bloody way to behave as a guest.
‘Ah,’ Creon said, the unwilling amusement in his hoarse voice so tangible that I had to make an effort not to laugh out loud with hysterical relief. ‘Much obliged. I doubt I’d calm him down much by vanishing on him, though.’
Tared gave half a shrug –on your head be it, that gesture said – and turned, raising his voice ever so slightly. ‘He’s here, Agenor.’
The heated exchange in the living room abruptly broke off, brisk footsteps hurrying closer.
Creon threw me a quick grin, looking utterly undeterred by the fae equivalent of a rumbling volcano marching in for his head – lookingamusedmore than anything, the bloody madman. I might have informed him of my doubts on his sanity if Agenor hadn’t stamped around the corner in that same moment, appearing impossibly more murderous than the thick red snake coiled around his neck.
