Page 58 of Esperance

He ground his teeth so hard his jaw cracked.Thosewere thoughts he refused to dwell on.

But others snared him.

Ever since finding Cora’s body, he’d been haunted by memories he’d tried to leave behind. Women and children sprawled out in poses of death. Burying them. Mourning them even though they were strangers, because they were innocent. They hadn’t deserved to have their homes turned into a battleground, just because their leaders wanted war.

He needed another of Amryn’s stories. He needed the distraction of her; her grounding presence, her comforting voice.

The fact that he wanted her was undeniable—and a bit terrifying.

His walk through the jungle lasted nearly two hours. The distance was enough to ensure Ford’s location wouldn’t be scouted out by one of Esperance’s guards, but not so far that Carver couldn’t reach him for these meetings.

The cabin was one of many Carver had glimpsed tonight, but this one had a lamp glowing behind the window. These small, scattered houses had been built for soldiers who required accommodations away from the main temple, so having Ford hole up in one wasn’t really a misuse of the place. Not that the high cleric would see it that way, since he thought they’d all been cleared out.

Carver climbed the wooden steps that protested underfoot and crossed the narrow porch. He knocked on the door—two times, a pause, then three.

Silence greeted him. Then a floorboard creaked inside, and the door swung open.

Ford’s grin was all Carver managed to take in before his friend grabbed him in a hard embrace. “About time you showed up,” he griped. “I know we said two weeks, but I was starting to talk to myself!”

Carver grunted, his ribs straining against Ford’s crushing grip. “You’ve always talked to yourself.”

Ford released him with a clap to the shoulder and a chuckle. “Maybe. But now I’m talking to monkeys, and that’s definitely new.”

They stepped inside and Carver blinked quickly as his eyes adjusted to the low-burning lamp. There wasn’t much to the cabin. One room, a bed with rumpled blankets in the corner, a table with four chairs, and a small stove for cooking. The table was covered in art supplies, and canvases littered the room. Oil paintings of the jungle, animals, and even some of Westmont and the sea. Ford had been busy.

“It helps pass the time,” his friend said by way of explanation as he moved to clear off two chairs for them. “And I didn’t know when you’d manage to come tonight, so I wanted to keep busy.”

Carver’s eyes caught on a painting of a dark-skinned little boy with closely shorn hair. He was grinning, his brown eyes too big for his head. He held a dagger in one hand and a whittled figurine of a horse in the other.

The image was a punch to Carver’s gut. His fingers twitched at his sides, feeling the memory of the wood in his hands. He remembered how the grin on his own face had felt as he’d handed the carving to the boy. The sound of the boy’s excited chatter, speaking a language Carver had not yet fully learned, still rang in his memory.

He’d buried that boy a week later. He’d pressed the blood-soaked figurine into his small, folded hands, and then he’d wrapped him in cloth and covered him with dirt.

“It helps,” Ford said quietly. “The dreams aren’t so harsh after I’ve painted their faces.”

Carver’s throat clenched. “I’m glad,” he said, his voice too tight.

Ford was twenty-four, one year younger than Carver. They’d met as teenagers, and Ford had served as one of Carver’s scouts in Harvari. They’d saved each other’s lives on the battlefield more times than either of them bothered to track. Ford’s steadiness, humor, and loyalty had gotten them both through Harvari, but that didn’t mean he hadn’t been stained by the war, too. Their scars were different, but they both had them. Ford had clearly found an outlet for his demons, and while Carver was happy for him, he definitely didn’t want to talk about the war tonight.

Ford must have sensed that, because he turned his attention back to moving the paintings, including the one of the Harvarian boy.

Carver breathed a little easier once the boy’s face was gone.

After the table was cleared, they settled into the chairs, sitting across from each other. Ford was from the northernmost part of Westmont. He had brown hair that curled over his ears, bronze skin, and a slender build that made him perfect for his job of infiltrating dangerous places. Whenever sneaking wasn’t appropriate, he used his good looks and charm to get the information he needed. He also relied on humor to loosen tense air.

He smiled slowly at Carver. “Your father stopped by after the wedding. He told me about your wife. Red hair and all.”

Carver rolled his eyes. “Did he tell you about the attack at the feast?”

“Yes, but let’s focus on the important things first.” His friend leaned in, his eyes dancing. “I won the bet. She’s got flaming red hair.”

“You’re an idiot.”

“I’m awinningidiot.”

“That really doesn’t sound like a good thing.”

Ford shrugged. “So, what is she like? Is she a rebel?”