Page 147 of Untempered
When she looked at me, her eyes were almost entirely black and sheened with tears. “I’m sorry you’re here. But—I’m glad, too.”
My heart felt heavy. I opened my arms, and she came in close, her hands clasped protectively over her chest. She rested her head on my shoulder and shook with silent tears. The answering grief in me burned my throat as I held her.
Circumstances had led us here, but we’d made choices along the way. We always did. And I was proud of a few of mine. I listened to the crackle of the fire, her quick, rasping breaths, and her muffled sobs.
Grand promises crowded in my mouth, but she wasn’t the sort to be soothed by make-believe. There was little I could give her except some small joys. There was no future and no hope.
But I did have something. “My pledge to you, freely given,” I told her, breathing the words through her scarf and hood. “Is the exact same as the one I gave you under threat of execution, Audrey. You’ve got me, until my heart no longer beats.”
She stiffened in my arms, shaking her head. Rejecting my words. I didn’t let myself worry about that hurt. Saying yes was hard. Saying no was hard. But this wasn’t a situation where either was needed.
“You don’t get to choose what I do with my heart,” I told her, injecting some humor into my voice, hoping she might hear it, not the tears. “It’s mine to give, and I’ve chosen to give it to you. You can decide what you do with it, but it’s yours, regardless.”
She stepped back, wiping her face. Her breath shook. Her hands did, too. “We should go. This isn’t helping us.” The words were thick with well-earned sorrow. “I don’t know if we ought to go to the keep, or…or…” I thought of that cold, foreboding castle that held only pain. “Can you please choose?” she asked, the words wavering, her eyes fixed over my shoulder.
The air didn’t want to squeeze into my lungs. I lifted my hand to my chest, pressing it over my heart as I bowed. “Yes, my lady.”
“Don’t do that,” she pleaded, shaking her head violently. “Don’t do that, please, Chay. Please.”
“Why?” I asked, the ache in my bones mirrored in my heart. I didn’t want to die with doubt in my mind. Better to face the truth.
“Are you—” she pressed a hand to her mouth. “This isn’t aboutyou,Chay. You don’t bow to a woman who’s failed ateverything.You don’t toss your life away for?—”
“You worry about whatyoudo,” I told her, cutting over her tirade before it could gather momentum. “And trust me to make my own choices.”
She fell silent, looking off into the distance with an expression that hurt to try to decipher. Before I could, the wind changed direction. Her cloak flurried toward me, and the smoke came a moment after, burning my eyes and coating my throat.
As I went to move her toward the horses, I caught the whiff of burning fabric. She coughed, her hand on my arm, and dragged me clear. Flames leapt where they hadn’t before.
And every ache in my body vanished.
She made a noise like she’d been gut-punched, and I whirled her around, my heart in my throat.
Big, whiskey-colored eyes looked at me. The black lines faded as I watched, and healthy color rushed in. Energy coursed through my limbs, like I’d just had sunlight poured into my very veins. I drew in a deep breath and realized I could breathewithout pain.
She reached toward me, fresh tears spilling from her eyes. “Chay,” she said. “Chay. Your face. Your face. Do you feel it?”
I lifted a hand to my face, disoriented. “You’re better.”
“You’rebetter,” she said on a sob. “The One, the Wife, and the Son, Chay—you’rebetter!” And she tore the scarf from her face, laughing as she wept. Her fingers were on my jaw like I was a god and she a newly found believer. And Ifeltlike one.
My world spun. We were going to be okay. But it had nothing at all to do with Barloc and his deities.
Her hands were on my face, pulling me close. I met her lips, cool from the wind and wet from tears. And our hearts kept beating as I lifted her and spun her around, glorying in our strength.
CHAPTERFIFTY-EIGHT
ISOLDE
“Make sure they’re downandout.” ~ La’Angi saying
She danced with frantic energy. The bruises under her eyes were a stark contrast to the smile that didn’t leave her face. Though her tears had decreased at the same rate as the cider in her jug, she still bore the red, puffy marks of an extended crying session.
Audrey didn’t miss a step. But it had cost her.
Thomas appeared at my elbow, offering me a mulled cider. I hesitated, but took it. After so long craving heat, even with the plague lifted, I was still cold. It was, after all, winter.
“Celebrations are widespread,” he said from beside me. “We ought to get her back.”
