Page 22

Chapter 22

Elliot

T hey were further north than the capital, meaning the air had some bite behind it with the sun down. But it felt cool and refreshing to Elliot. Inside the cottage, the future had felt stifling and impossible, but out here, it stretched before him, full of possibilities. Or maybe that was because Avery was at his side, and they were alone again for the first time in days.

He couldn’t shake off Sylvia’s ember of hope or the spark of a future it had planted in him. Was it possible that two people of differing tastes could find enough of a settled home to give them roots while still traveling enough to keep that life from feeling closed off and stifling? Would Avery ever consider such a compromise?

His hand brushed inadvertently against hers, sending a different sort of spark racing through him. She turned to smile up at him, the last of the day’s light glinting in her eyes and dancing through the waves of her dark hair. His gaze traced her perfect face, and it was a struggle not to linger on her full lips. She had never looked more beautiful to him than in this moment, when the tantalizing possibility of a future between them—no matter how tenuous—danced before his eyes.

She stopped, turning toward him, and placed a light hand on his arm. “I’m so sorry, Elliot,” she murmured, and his heart clenched. “If there was any way I could avoid asking for the lamp back…”

She looked close to tears, but he felt light with relief. He had gotten ahead of himself in his mind. Avery was thinking of the lamp and asking for it back as he had known she would.

“It’s all right.” He smiled down at her. “I knew you didn’t give it to me to keep.”

She smiled tremulously. “I hope you know I meant what I said at the beginning. Once I’ve completed my mission with Bolivere, I will help you. It’s unfortunate that our best hope lies in Halbury, but we can easily travel there after Bolivere.”

“If the people of Bolivere are willing to give up the lamp,” he said lightly, unable to feel his usual fear at the question.

Avery was standing so close, the sunset rays dancing over her, and his mind was too full of her to focus on anything else. He took a small step closer, and she didn’t pull back. She didn’t even seem to notice, despite her hand still resting on his arm. Her mind was elsewhere, and she bit down on her lower lip. He swallowed.

“Elliot, I—” She looked up at him, her words dying as her eyes widened.

Had she finally noticed how close they were, or could she read everything he was feeling in his eyes? He took the final small step that closed the distance between them, and her eyes darkened.

She licked her lips and tried again. “Elliot?—”

His name sounded different on her lips the second time, a world of meaning behind the simple word. Looking into her eyes, he saw his own heart reflected back at him. His heartbeat crescendoed, robbing him of breath—or perhaps that was the way Avery shone in the last of the day’s light.

Without thought or intention—as naturally as if breathing—he lowered his head to hers. She tilted up to meet him, her hand tightening on his arm as his wound around her.

It was the perfect kiss, their lips a perfect match. Soft, but with a hint of passion—the beautiful weaving of hope and desire. His heart soared in his chest at the confirmation that she was drawn to him as he had been to her from the very beginning.

After a long moment that was both timeless and too short, she drew back slightly. He rested his head gently against hers while his chest heaved with the effort of steadying his breath.

“Elliot,” she whispered, the name somehow carrying yet another layer of meaning.

“Avery,” he said back, a smile in his voice. He could have said the musical syllables of her name a hundred times.

Avery’s cheeks tinged pink, and she stepped away from him. He couldn’t bear to completely let her go, however, keeping hold of her hand. She smiled down at it, as he wove his fingers through hers.

Tugging her gently along, he led her to a carved wooden bench at the edge of the cottage’s garden, pulling her down to sit beside him. The bag at his side bumped against the seat, and with a jolt he pulled it off.

He draped it over one of her shoulders, smiling down at her. “Your lamp, my lady.”

She stroked the length of the bag, her eyes suspiciously moist. “It means everything that you trust me with this. Thank you.”

“Of course I trust you,” he said. “You trusted me first, after all.”

She nodded slowly, her eyes still on the bag. But drawing a swift breath, she looked up at him.

“You don’t have to worry about what happens after Bolivere,” she said. “The townsfolk have a particular need for this lamp, but they’ll be willing to sell it to you afterward.”

“After what?” he asked, not really thinking about the words. His mind was still too full of their kiss.

“After they kill the beast,” she whispered.

“What?” His head whipped around, and he stared down at her. “What did you say?”

“Not a Glandore Legacy Beast,” she hurried to say. “This one was never a person.”

He relaxed slightly, but the new knot in his chest didn’t entirely unwound. The Glandore Legacy had an unfortunate habit of turning young men into Beasts, but if it wasn’t the Legacy’s work …

“This Beast is a vicious, dangerous creature that lives in a cave just outside of town,” Avery continued, her voice gaining confidence now that she had committed to telling him the full story.

“It came from across the mountains—a true beast fueled by a foreign Legacy. I don’t know how it found a path across, although perhaps it was in less of a maddened state then. Maybe it’s the separation from its home Legacy that has turned its mind so vicious and feral.”

“This creature is killing the people of Bolivere?” Elliot asked, horrified. Had it taken people he knew? His mind ran through the many possibilities. “Why haven’t they banded together and fought it?”

Avery winced. “After it took the first man, they tried to do just that. That’s how it got the second man. The problem is that the creature isn’t one that should exist in Glandore, and its presence has confused the Glandore Legacy.”

Elliot’s breath quickened. In Glandore, the Legacy protected Beasts.

“We’re not sure what is a remnant of its home Legacy and what is the work of Glandore’s own, but it’s proven impossible to catch.”

“Then they need to storm the cave!” Elliot said, his voice rising as he thought of the threat to his home town.

Avery shushed him, looking back toward the cottage. “Of course they’ve tried that, too. But the cave where it dwells is pitch black, and any light source they take inside is instantly extinguished.”

“The lamp,” Elliot said, understanding at long last.

Avery nodded. “Precisely. They commissioned me to purchase a lamp that is also fueled by two Legacies—one that combines the properties of both Sovar and the kingdom over the mountains and that won’t go out, no matter the circumstances.”

“I can see why you’ve been so anxious to get back,” Elliot said. “But I don’t understand the need for secrecy. Or why anyone would hire Rene to prevent your return.”

Avery worried at her lip before sighing. “Their desire for secrecy relates to something else entirely. And it might be the same reason someone wants to keep the town in a state of unrest and uncertainty. The townsfolk want to keep from drawing any attention because…because the local lord is dead.”

Elliot stiffened, his mind going blank at the unexpected mention of his father. His father had been dead for three years already. How could it still be a secret?

“They didn’t kill him,” Avery hastened to reassure him, misunderstanding his tension. “He died of a heart attack. But he was an incredible man and did a lot for Bolivere. In particular, he was a famously effective negotiator, and over the years he arranged all sorts of advantageous deals for the town. It had reached the point where he didn’t even need to be present when agreements were being made—any agreement entered into under his name was automatically given with good terms. So when he died, the people banded together and decided to keep his passing a secret. To the rest of the kingdoms, Bolivere is still under his guidance and support.”

Elliot drew a shaky breath. The whole town was maintaining a charade that his father was still alive. Was that why he hadn’t received his proper inheritance? Had his father been the one to hatch the plan before his passing? An ache started deep in his chest, and he hunched over, rubbing at it.

“Are you all right?” Avery disentangled her hand from his to place it against his forehead. “You don’t look so well.”

“I’m—” His lips formed the word fine, but his body wouldn’t let him say it.

He wasn’t fine. He hadn’t been fine since the day word had arrived that the father he hadn’t seen in nearly five years was dead. The message had arrived the day before his eighteenth birthday.

He had already made his plans and packed his bags before it reached him. When morning dawned—bringing with it his birthday—he was going to start the journey back to his home. Back to Bolivere. Back to the father who loved him.

That had been the deal. His mother had claimed that since his father had already had the first thirteen years of Elliot’s life—and thirteen of her years alongside him—it was only just that she be given a mere five. Elliot had even left Bolivere with her willingly at first—if reluctantly—determined to stand as her protector. But by the time he reached eighteen, he had long since learned the true nature of her selfish character—the character his father had previously shielded him from.

The lesson hadn’t come from the black eyes he received from the various groups of local youths whenever he attempted to defend her honor, but from her own mercurial and callous treatment of both Elliot and the string of people she leached off. Whenever one protector or town began to see through her string of lies—their admiration for her beauty and charm turning to disgust—she moved on to the next sympathetic target.

By the time he neared eighteen, he was counting down the days until he had completed his time with his mother and could return to his father. Except when the day finally dawned, his father was already gone.

In her never-ending selfish quest for new levels of excitement and admiration, his mother had robbed him of his father’s final five years. Elliot had endured for years in the knowledge that he had a home waiting for him and at least one parent who truly cared for him. But in one message that had all been stripped away.

The blow had been almost enough to fell him on its own, the words of the short letter swimming before his eyes. His father’s steward must have changed sometime after Elliot left Bolivere, because the one who wrote to him had possessed only enough courtesy to pen him a short missive with the most basic fact of his father’s passing, not even bothering to sign his name. Perhaps he didn’t want to take responsibility for the changes Elliot’s father had made before his death—the news of which was a further blow that crushed Elliot almost completely.

The details of those changes had been delivered by his mother. The note to Elliot had been enclosed in a longer missive to the woman who had been his legal guardian at the time of his father’s death. To her, the steward had written of the terms of her husband’s will. Elliot’s note had mentioned a pouch of coins to be used for travel expenses, and the pouch was opened in his presence by his mother and solemnly handed over to him in its entirety. She didn’t even mention the indignity of her own complete removal from the will. Even his mother understood better than to meddle with an inheritance.

Elliot had raged, some of his fury directed at his mother and some at himself. If only his misguided youthful honor and loyalty hadn’t led him to leave his home without a struggle. If only he had expressed his true feelings loudly and clearly, so that his father never doubted where Elliot’s heart really lay.

Elliot’s mother had thought he would stay with her after the news—had seemed to think it the only possible course. She had even attempted to comfort him with the reminder that his father couldn’t disinherit him from the title, at least, even if he could do as he liked with the estate. And she had begun to talk of how the coin might benefit them both.

But Elliot had ignored her, leaving that day as planned. All he had cared about was going somewhere far from his mother—anywhere as long as it wasn’t Bolivere.

His mother had walked away from her marriage with far more coin than her husband had been obligated to give his deserting wife, and she had no claim on any of the remaining wealth that had originally come from Elliot’s paternal grandparents. Without his mother’s extravagant spending, the coin his father had left was enough to sustain him for three years as he mindlessly wandered the kingdoms, trying to forget the home that was no longer his. But it was nothing compared to the wealth of his father’s full estate.

Not that it was the loss of his fortune that hurt so badly. Elliot hadn’t dreamed of his old home because he cared about being lord of the manor one day. He had treasured thoughts of Bolivere because it was his home, and he had believed himself to be valued there. He wasn’t surprised his father would want his fortune to benefit the town, but it hurt that he no longer believed Elliot could be entrusted to steward the wealth for the benefit of Bolivere as he himself had done. Even worse was the mention of travel expenses—as if his father had thought Elliot wanted to keep traveling. As if he hadn’t known Elliot intended to return home as soon as possible.

For three years Elliot had stayed on the move, fleeing the pain that came whenever he thought of his childhood home—the place that was home no longer, the place that hadn’t wanted him back. Even when he could no longer bear life on the road for another week, he had chosen a new home far from the echoes of his father.

Elliot had never asked what had happened to the house. The money would have been used to support town improvement efforts—re-doing the retaining wall around the small dam to the northeast would have been top of the list, he guessed, and he didn’t resent that. But they must have sold the house, and it pained him to picture a new noble family with no tie to the town moving in, erasing the heart and spirit of the home along with the memories of Elliot’s childhood.

Occasionally he had even imagined the old manor house derelict and empty, falling into disarray—as if the townsfolk would rather see it rot than have Elliot living there. The one thing he had never imagined was that it could be exactly the same as it had always been, maintained under a facade of normalcy—still running in his dead father’s name.

Shame squeezed him. The people of Bolivere were sheltering behind a masquerade, hounded by brigands like Rene, and picked off in the shadows by a beast that dwelled in the cave that had never really held a dragon. And yet they had chosen the path that led them there over Elliot’s leadership.

Sweat beaded on his back. He had resented the fact that one youthful mistake—made with good intentions—had been enough for both his father and the town to judge and reject him. And his resentment had made him run from the pain of his father’s death instead of confronting it as he should have done.

By the time of his father’s death, his eyes had been opened to the extent of his mother’s callous selfishness, so could he really blame any of them? Wasn’t it natural that people who hadn’t seen him for years would fear he might have been tarred with the same brush? Especially when he hadn’t returned in so long. At sixteen, when he had considered turning sailor, he had allowed his mother to convince him to stay with her. Instead, he should have left her and returned to his father. He should have given his father—and Bolivere—a chance to see his true character.

It had been Elliot’s choice not to do so, and even if Bolivere had subsequently misjudged and rejected him, he should have returned to pay his father his final respects and to check that the community his father had loved was doing well. He could have shown them they were wrong about him—he could have created a future for himself among them, even if it wasn’t as lord of the manor. But instead he had run, and now it turned out the people of Bolivere had been dying.

“Elliot.” Avery took one of his hands in both of hers. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

He shook his head, still unable to speak. He had made a mistake three years earlier, and he had been continuing to make it every day since. But Avery was guiding him back to where he belonged. He didn’t need to put down roots somewhere—he already had roots. He had just been too afraid to face them.

The pain and fear washed over him in waves, and he let them come until they began to recede, each wave a little smaller than the one before—Avery’s grip an anchor in the darkness.

But when the ocean inside him had settled, leaving behind new determination, her fingers, which were wrapped around his, began to burn. He leaped to his feet, pulling away from her.

She stood as well, her brow creased with concern and hurt in her eyes.

“Won’t you tell me what’s wrong?” she asked.

He forced a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “We should head back. The others will be wondering where we are.”

“I don’t care about the others,” she said with her usual determination. “I care about you.”

His heart tried to leap at her words, only to crash back down, caged and restrained. It hurt him all the way to his core to be causing her pain, but the brief glimpse of a possible future together had been doused in the cold waves of an ocean. Elliot wasn’t free to set up home wherever he liked, moving through the kingdoms with Avery.

It would take him years to be half the man his father was, and he was already late starting. He had rejected his father’s legacy—which was the people his father had loved, not his father’s money or his house—for too long already. He would return to his roots, and Avery would return to her wings. There was no future between them once he broke his tie to the lamp.

He had let his emotions sweep him up, his kiss suggesting a future he could no longer create with her. He had already wronged Avery, and the faster he returned matters to how they should always have been, the better for her.

“I’m flattered,” he forced himself to say in a carefree tone. “But we’ll freeze if we stay out here much longer.”

He started toward the cottage, not waiting for her agreement. He could tell her everything, of course, but his mouth still wouldn’t form the words. Not yet. It would be hard enough to admit his mistakes to her, or the way his own father had rejected him as flawed, but how could he confess when it meant admitting the irrevocable truth that he would soon have to separate from her?

He had already endured as much pain as he could take in one evening.