: Chapter 26

The cool breeze wraps around me as I walk. I think I’ve left Tycho with a half dozen of my arrows, but I don’t care. I’ve reached the edge of the woods, and I cast a look down the lane. Callyn’s bakery has a dozen carriages and horses out front. I’ve never seen her place so busy, and this has been going on for weeks. At this rate, she’ll have her tax debt paid in no time.

It’s a new level of bitterness for my thoughts, and I wish I could shove it away, but I can’t.

Hoofbeats and booted feet are jogging up behind me, and I swing my crutches forward again. “Don’t follow me.”

He does anyway. “Why are you angry?”

“I’m not angry.” But I am, and I sound like I am.

“Jax?” He sounds nonplussed.

I round on him so quickly that Mercy throws her head up and tugs at the reins. Tycho murmurs, “Steady,” but his eyes are on me.

“Don’t follow me,” I say again.

He frowns. “I don’t—”

“Maybe you seek a reminder of what it felt like to be just Tycho, but I will never be anything more than just Jax. So if you need nothing from the forge, my lord, then please, just go away.”

He looks like I’ve slapped him.

For just an instant, it makes me regret every word. Not all of this anger is about him. Not even a quarter of it. But I turn away before emotion can tighten my chest and wring out my voice.

He doesn’t follow this time. My crutches stab into the ground with every step, my breath hot in my lungs. When I get back to the workshop, I recklessly shove the bow and arrows under the table. Wood cracks, but I don’t care. I don’t know what I was thinking.

I shove a lock of hair out of my face and stoke the fire in the forge, then drop onto one of the stools. When I look up, Tycho is still in the lane. Mercy is tugging at the reins again, pawing at the ground.

“Go away,” I shout.

After a moment, he nods. His expression closes down, turning as cold as Lord Alek’s. “As you say.” He turns for his horse, drawing up the reins. He swings aboard, but I look away. I’ve seen him leave often enough. I don’t need to watch it again.

The door to the house slams behind me, indicating my father is home.

Excellent.

I don’t turn and look at him, but I can smell the ale from here.

He speaks from behind me. “What are you doing, boy?”

“I’m working.” I shove an ingot into the stove, even though it’s nowhere close to hot enough.

My father grabs my arm from behind, dragging me upright so roughly that I have to hop to keep my balance.

“Did you just yell at that lord?” he hisses in my face, and his breath is nearly enough to get me drunk.

I try to jerk free. “Just go back to the tavern,” I growl.

He cuffs me across the cheek. It’s not hard enough to knock me down, not with the way he’s gripping my arm, but it snaps my head to the side and I taste blood.

Today is not the day. I hit him back.

This time he hits me so hard that I crash into the work table, and papers and bits of iron and equipment go everywhere. I grip the edge and scrabble for the tongs, but he’s quicker. He swings me around and cracks me in the jaw again, and I land in the dirt. Before I can decide which way is up, he kicks me right in the stomach, not once, but twice, and my body starts to reflexively curl into a ball. He grabs hold of my shirt and drags me upright again, and my vision spins. I see his fist coming, and I know this time is going to put me out for good. There’s a part of me that’s glad.

But the hit never comes. My father is jerked away so roughly that I go sprawling again. I put a hand against the ground and cough. Blood speckles the dirt. My breathing is ragged.

My father makes a sound that’s half-rage, half-roar, and I force my head to lift just in time to see him take a swing at Tycho. The young lord ducks the strike, then returns two of his own. Before I can blink, my father drops to the ground and moans. He tries to put a hand against the dirt, but it looks like he’s having trouble figuring which way is up.

“Jax.” Tycho is looking at me, extending a hand. “Jax, can you stand?”

I don’t know. I swallow and it hurts. Blood is bitter on my tongue, and my vision is blurry. There’s a chance I might empty my stomach right here in the dirt.

But my father is trying to shove himself upright.

“Watch out.” I stumble over words. My jaw doesn’t want to work. “He’s—he’s going to get up again.”

Tycho’s eyes are like fire. “Then I’ll put him back down. Here. Take my hand.”

I have to put an arm against my belly, and it takes me a while to get to my knees.

My father is groaning in the dirt. “You lazy boy. I’m going to—”

“You’re never going to touch him again,” Tycho snaps, his voice so cold that it sends a lick of ice through my body—but also a bolt of warmth, too.

“Please,” I say, and it comes out like a whisper. I’m not sure what I’m begging for. For help? For Tycho to not kill my father? For something I can’t even fathom?

His hand is right there, and I grab hold. I’m not sure how I manage to get myself upright, but Tycho gets my arm across his shoulders. He’s all but carrying me, and I don’t even know where until I practically faceplant into Mercy’s shoulder.

“I need you to help me,” he says, and his voice is lower, rougher than I’m used to. “Grab hold of the saddle.”

Everything hurts and I can’t focus. “Where—where—”

“Jax, if I don’t get you out of here, I’m going to do something I’ll regret, and I’m already in enough trouble. Grab hold.”

I blindly grab hold. I’m in the air, and then I’m in the saddle. I curl over and clutch sweet Mercy’s mane. It’s horrible. Agonizing. Embarrassing sounds are coming out of my mouth. My eyes feel damp, but he’s so fierce and fearless that I don’t want to cry in front of him.

“Just hold on,” Tycho says. “Tuck your hands under the breastplate if you need to.”

I slide my hands against her fur, and it’s all I remember doing until Tycho’s voice is soft and low. “Jax? Jax. We’re almost there. I’m going to help you down.”

My foot hits the ground, and it sounds like I’ve landed on a plank of wood. Tycho has my arm over his shoulder again. We’re surrounded by noise: the clamor of voices, the rhythmic clopping of hooves on dirt and cobblestone. Someone somewhere has a hammer, and I hear a woman calling for a child. We’re in town, but I’m not sure where.

I blink, and Tycho pushes through a door, and the noise quiets. I know I’m hopping, but there’s a good chance Tycho is fully supporting my weight. A man stands behind a counter, and I see him look from me to Tycho and back. I must look even worse than I feel—or maybe exactly the same as I feel, because his eyes are wide and alarmed.

“We do not want any trouble here,” he says in a rush. “This is a peaceful boarding house.”

“No trouble,” says Tycho. “You have my word. I simply need a room.”

The man inhales sharply, but Tycho slides half a dozen silver coins across the wood.

That changes the man’s tone immediately. “Yes, my lord. Of course.”

Tycho flips another coin onto the counter. “And I need a message sent to the tavern. Or maybe the gambling house. Tell Lord Jacob of Disi that he’s needed here.”

“Certainly. Right away.”

My heartbeat is a roar in my ears, and I don’t hear what else they say. I have to press an arm to my stomach again. I feel as though my ribs are caving in. Or maybe I’m inhaling shards of glass. My breathing seems thin and reedy. Suddenly, Tycho is walking again, all but dragging me. But soon we’re in a room with a low fire and a locked door, and he eases me into a lavishly plush chair that might be nicer than anything I’ve ever sat in.

Too bad I can barely appreciate it. The room spins again, and I choke on my breath.

“Don’t vomit,” he says, and I wince, because it’s exactly what my body feels like doing.

“Forgive me,” I say, and my voice sounds garbled. I can’t tell if the problem is my ears or my mouth. I draw a slow breath and try to make the room stop swirling.

“No, I don’t care if you do. But it’ll hurt like hell with broken ribs.”

Oh. His voice is so practical that I’m nodding before he’s even finished speaking—and that’s all it takes for my body to start dry heaving.

He’s right about the pain. I’m doubled over, and that’s almost worse, but my body won’t stop curling in on itself. Tears are on my cheeks and I can’t speak. I can’t think. I taste blood again.

Tycho kneels beside me and lifts my shirt, and then his hand is against my chest. Like the day he healed my hand, at first it hurts so badly that I involuntarily jerk away, my teeth clenched. But the pain softens into something warmer, something easier. My body was so tense, tighter than a bowstring, but I can suddenly breathe without feeling like my bones are coming through my skin. I sag in the chair and try to force my thoughts into order.

“Forgive me,” Tycho says, and I can’t possibly imagine what he’s apologizing for, but he adds, “I should have done this before I made you get on Mercy. I didn’t realize how bad it was—and I was worried your father was going to come after you again.” He grimaces. “When you carry a lot of weapons, they start to look like the only solution. Ribs all right now?”

Does that mean he would’ve killed my father? Or something else? I stare at him, dumbfounded, and I have to force myself to nod.

He sits back on his heels, and only then do I realize that Lord Tycho was touching my bare chest, and all I could think about was not emptying my stomach onto the floorboards. My thoughts scatter wildly again. He might have fixed my ribs, but my head won’t stop spinning.

Tycho lifts a hand as if he’s going to touch my face—but he hesitates. “I know you hate the magic,” he says carefully. “Or … or me, maybe. But your face doesn’t look very good either.”

I have to stare at him again. “I don’t hate you.” I swallow, and all I taste is blood. “You don’t like my face?”

“That’s not what I meant.” He smiles, and it’s half amused, half sad.

“He got you good. Noah would likely say you have a concussion.” Tycho lifts that hand again. “May I?”

He could be offering to set me on fire and my thoughts wouldn’t be able to process it. “Yeah,” I breathe.

Despite what he said, and despite what I said, I’m still startled when his fingertips settle on my cheek. My whole body gives a jolt, but his other hand catches the good side of my face, forcing me still.

“Shh,” he says gently. “It just hurts for a moment. You remember.”

And he’s right. I do. A quick flare of white-hot pain sears through my cheek and my jaw, followed by that honey-sweet warmth. But then I’m healed, my head is clear, and I’m staring at Lord Tycho from inches away. His eyes are so dark in the dim firelight, his hair flickering with gold. When his thumb brushes against my lip, my breath catches.

“Better?” he says quietly.

Yes. No. Both. Much like every other memory I create, this one is only going to bring pain. For a lot of reasons. But seeing as I’m only good for misfortune anyway, I close my eyes and lift a hand to hold his palm to my face.

I expect him to jerk away, but he doesn’t. He goes still, then lets out a long breath. After a moment, he shifts his hand, his thumb tracing the arch of my cheekbone.

Too late, I realize he’s brushing away tears. I frown and duck away.

He lets me go and sits back on his heels again.

“Forgive me,” I say again, and I swipe at my face. I’m not crying over pain anymore, and I’m not sure how to reconcile it.

“It’s not the first time I’ve seen a man cry,” he says. “There’s no shame in it.” There’s a kindness to the way he says that—but also something sharp and dark. It reminds me of the moment I asked if he liked being a soldier, how he said, The actual soldiering, not so much.

I shift in the chair until I’m more upright, and then I rub at my face, swiping the last of the tears away. Surely whatever tears he’s seen have been for bigger reasons than this. My shoulders feel tight suddenly, as if he’s seen too many things I keep hidden from everyone but Cal.

“You should take me back,” I say softly.

That breaks whatever spell kept him quietly at my side. Tycho uncurls from the floor, and he runs a hand along the back of his neck. “Your father should be dragged in front of the magistrate, Jax.”

“It was a misunderstanding. He didn’t know why I was yelling at you.”

“I didn’t know why you were yelling at me either, and I didn’t break your ribs over it.”

That makes me flush, and I look away, into the fire. “Thank you,” I say. “For what you did.”

“You’re welcome. Maybe next time we should work on how to block a punch instead of shooting arrows.”

Next time. I don’t know how to unravel any of this. I’m trapped in this horrible middle ground of never wanting to go back to the forge—and worrying that the longer I’m gone, the worse it will be when I get back.

“I need to wait for Jake,” Tycho says, and there’s a note in his voice that’s a bit rueful. “He’ll have some thoughts, I’m sure.” He’s moved across the room, and I hear something land on the bed with a soft thump. I glance over to discover that he’s unbuckled his sword belt to toss the weapon on the quilt, followed quickly by his knife-lined bracers. His hand goes to his side next, flipping the buckles loose that hold his breastplate, and he only undoes half before dragging it over his head. He’s wearing a linen tunic beneath, and it’s pulled to his neck with the armor, revealing a long stretch of muscled waist before he catches the fabric to drag it back down.

What I see makes all the breath leave my lungs in a rush. Long ropes of scars cross his lower back.

He must hear me, because he looks over. I jerk my eyes away.

He says nothing. I say nothing. The silence swells between us. Eventually, he breaks it, heading for the washbasin in the corner, where he splashes water on his face.

Your father should be dragged in front of the magistrate.

And then what? He can come home and do worse? He won’t be imprisoned for long. I know from experience.

I don’t want to think of my father. But the alternative is thinking about Tycho and his hand on my cheek or those scars on his back or his easy smile or—

The latch at the door clicks. We both jump.

It’s Lord Jacob, and his watchful eyes search the room when he enters. They settle first on Tycho, and I can see the spark of relief when he sees that his friend is unharmed. But then his gaze lands on me.

I’m not sure what to read in his expression, and despite the healing, I’m aware of what I must look like: filthy and blood spattered, with the distinct possibility of humiliating tearstains on my cheeks. I tense, but Lord Jacob only sighs.

“Silver hell, T.” He runs a hand back through his hair. “I knew this one was going to be trouble.”