Page 36 of A Brat's Tale
Bayaden’s not letting me go just yet. “The spell will crush him and once you’re in … in there, turning back will be dangerous.”
“The spell will not crush him because he is no longer governed by the spell. Tristan is loyal to you of his own accord, and because of the nature of this particular spell, it trusts Tristan is devoted to you and does not feel it needs to coerce him.”
I tilt my head back to meet Bayaden’s dark eyes, asking him wordlessly if we can trust that. I don’t doubt his uncle believes the words he’s saying, but is he right? “If Uncle says it’s so, then it is so. I don’t know anyone with a greater understanding of magic than he has—he’s more powerful than Father.”
I turn to face him. “Does that mean it’s time to say goodbye?” I’m not ready.
“It’s time.” Bayaden kisses me, it’s hard and sensual and I grip him for dear life. He’s the one I was meant to fight on the fields with and fuck through the night and do it all over again the next day. Us warriors like the discipline in such repetition.
“I have something for you,” Bayaden says.
I haven’t noticed it at his hip, too distraught to perceive the non-anomaly as it’s not unusual for Bayaden to have three weapons on him—the two he usually has strapped to his back are there.
But there’s also a third.
I recognize the sword; my eyes widen as I take it from him to inspect. “Mysword.”
“I’ve been keeping it for you.”
“Sure, you have. Probably afraid I would gut you more like. Tell me, how many times did you consider tossing it into the kiln?”
He twists his lips, his eyes dance with amusement. “A few. And I do not fear a little human like you gutting me.” He would usually have a much better retort for me, but it’s all he can muster. Instead, he looks me over, like he’s memorizing every bit of me, ghosting his fingers up my arm and under my chin, which he uses to turn my head up to kiss him. Then he squeezes tighter, encircling me in his giant arms. Isqueeze with as much strength as I have around his torso. When I move to pull away, he won’t let me go. “Farewell my love.”
I’m a mess, a fucking mess as I let go. He has to help me onto my horse. When his hand is leaving me, I grip him by the wrist. “Wait,” I cry. I have to kiss his hand, his knuckles, I have to remember what it feels like to touch him forever. “Farewell, my love.”
His uncle mounts his horse and starts off on his own; my signal it’s time to go with him. “Go, Tristan,” Bayaden says, his voice hoarse. “May the Gods keep you safe, when I can’t.”
He slaps my horse on the arse so that I have to scramble to get hold of her. It’s the most natural thing in the world to scowl at him and when I see his face, it’s smiling, despite the silent tears dripping to the ground.
He did that on purpose.
I pull my horse to stop for a moment, now that I’m several feet away, smiling back while I let my tears flow too and then I head into the forest.
“I’ve never seen my nephew like that,” the gruff Elven rider says. Bayaden comes by it honestly.
“Never?” I say, sniffling, wanting to turn around before Bayaden makes it back to the palace and beg him to run away with me.
He shakes his head. “I would bring you back to him myself if you weren’t already married to the Mortougian prince. We do have to get you back Tristan; Andothair never should have taken you, my brother should have made him send you back, but he spoils the boy.”
I like Uncle Taj already especially when his energy feels like Bayaden’s, it soothes me, but in a more fatherly way. It also feels good to have a sword at my hip. I look at the long scar on my arm from wrist to elbow, from one of the days I trained with Bayaden’s warriors. Before I took up the bow with Deglan, I trained with his warriors, or as I called it, my daily beating. I couldn’t keep up with them, especially when they showed me no quarter.
Even with Baya himself showing me the technique, they were still too fast for me, but I went over and over what he taught me with sticks, with real swords, with the broom I used to sweep out Bayaden’s chambers, anything I could get my hands on. I thought that if I practiced long and hard enough, one day I could raise a sword to an Elf and give him something to remember me by.
No such luck. To do so, I’d have to become Elf. I suppose that’s another thing to look forward to; going back to Corrik means becoming an Elf. I try to come up with all the good things so I can stop thinking of how I won’t see Bayaden when I wake up in the morning.
“Yes, sir,” I say.
“That’s Uncle Taj to you. You will always be family.”
He’s an odd sort of Elf. His shoulders are as broad as Bayaden’s and when he speaks, his words are careful and heavy with purpose. His long white hair is bundled into thick sections, making it look like yarn, and he carries a presence that’s quiet, but certain. “You don’t live with the family?” I ask.
“No.”
He’s not very talkative. “Why not?”
“I should think that’s self-explanatory,” he says, his accent curling around the Elvish words.
“The king?”
