No words did Maddek value more than hers. And no heart did he have left. Everything she said was of truth, and left a bleeding wound in his chest.
But he would not lose her like this. “I listen to you now. When I return, we will speak more of this. You will tell me all of what my mother said and did.”
For they had not enough time now. But he would extract a promise from her not to immediately leave.
But she shook her head. “What point is there when you are stubbornly certain of my lie? You promised to look at me from another view, but in this matter you never attempted to—you held on to your belief that it was a lie, and made a vow that prevented me from ever saying what was truth, and so never did you try to truly change your view. Everything I say will be seen through that view—which you still think is not true.”
“I swear I will not. I rescind that vow. And I believe what you say now.” In truth, he did. She did not wear the proof of his mother’s crest, but Yvenne’s truth he believed. For she cut out her own heart to tell him. He took her face in his hands, felt the hotness of her cheeks that was the flush of unshed tears, saw her eyes close as if his touch were agony. Voice raw with emotion, he said, “You say to me that I should return and choose a bride suited to me and that my mother would have approved—so I will, Yvenne. And she will be you.”
“And what then? Will I hope and then be hurt? So many times with you, I have hoped and been hurt and hoped and been hurt again.” Her lips trembled and she turned her face against his hand. In a pained whisper she said, “I have so little hope left, Maddek.”
Again that dull, dull blade. “I will choose you,” he said hoarsely. “And never will I hurt you again. You need only stay, and we will talk, and you will see.”
For such a long time she was silent. Hurting. Then she nodded once, and relief filled his chest.
Catching her trembling bottom lip between her teeth, she finally looked up at him. Such faint hope he saw there amid the unshed tears. He wondered if this was what his mother had seen the first time, with Yvenne fevered and her back slashed open, so near to defeat.
Yet it was not her father who had brought her to this point. Again it was Maddek.
So much he would have to make up for. But he could not yet. “I must ride. So much I would say to you, my bride—but I vow this: I will return. I will marry you. And I will see you happy.”
A spark more hope returned. On a shuddering breath, she nodded again.
Hard he kissed her mouth—then made himself leave, into the cold morning. His warriors waited, some of them smirking as if assuming what had kept him so late. Nearby stood Seri, arms folded and with a mutinous jut to her chin. Most likely because her mother had forbidden her to join them. Yet judging by the girl’s expression—and the repressive look that Kelir sent her—Seri would only wait until they were out of sight before following behind.
“Seri of Firebloom, daughter of Nami and Kalin!” Maddek barked.
She startled, pivoting to face him. When her eyes met his, he told her, “Banek guards my bride, but he is of my Dragon, my armor. I would have you be Yvenne’s—and to continue her hunting lessons while we are away, as she would have no better teacher.”
Her expression softened with surprise, and she only seemed torn for a moment before new purpose settled her features into proud, determined lines. “I will,” she vowed.
Nami gave him a grateful look as he reached his horse. Mounting quickly, he swept his gaze to the eastern sky, already bright with the approach of dawn.
“Maddek!”
He reined the horse around to see Yvenne limping toward him, her face still pale and eyes still shadowed, but not in so much pain. She carried a small velvet pouch, and was digging through it—pulling out jewels, strands of gold. As if she meant to bestow a token upon him, as young lovers did.
He would not stay to kiss her rubies, then, but wear them into battle. “What do you have for me?”
“For your vengeance. I made no mention of it before, because I feared you might think it was akin to speaking with sly tongue—or you might believe I’d stolen it, and cut off my thumb.” Her voice was wry but laced with real pain as she continued digging through the pouch. “But now that your vow is rescinded, I can give it to you, to wear next to your father’s as you cut off Zhalen’s head.”
His mother’s crest. She placed it into Maddek’s palm, and for a long moment there was nothing inside him. All this time, she’d had it. And it was his own vow that had made her fearful of showing him—not just the crest, but the seam bent to fit a smaller finger, and a symbol roughly etched beside the dragon of Ran Bantik’s tribe. A crescent moon, the sigil of the House of Nyset.
The weight of that small silver ring in his palm seemed to drag Maddek from the horse, for he had no memory of dismounting before he stood before her.
“You cannot give this to me,” he rasped, his throat raw. “She has pinched it to fit your thumb.”
“You could wear it on your smallest—”
“I could not, Yvenne. Even if it did fit, I would not. This is not the crest of a warrior who has fallen, but one who lives.” One who belonged to both Syssia and Parsathe. Not merely a crest offered to show approval, but far more. “This mark adopts you into the dragon tribe. She has made you a daughter of the Burning Plains. Only you can wear this.”
He took her hand. His own fingers shook as he slid it over her thumb, and then he brought her hand to his mouth and kissed her crest so fiercely. There was sudden silence from the riders behind him, who saw what Yvenne wore now. Who understood what it meant. She had not lied, she had never lied. Even without this proof, Maddek would have married her and had come to believe her—though almost too late. Now this crest would help combat the lie that he had spread about her.
The consequences of that, Maddek would have to face later. Most likely, it would be said that his doubt had been justified. But he cared not what was decided. He would bear anything—because the one consequence that he couldn’t bear had already been thwarted.
So close he had come to losing her. So very close. Because of a vow made in grief and rage and haste. But a clear view he had of her now.
And a much clearer view of himself.
CHAPTER 37
MADDEK
The wolves are uneasy.”
Maddek glanced over at the two dogs circling restlessly in front of Fassad’s mount, their lips raised in snarls.
“Dogs are always uneasy near the Scourge,” Kelir said. “The demon’s foul magic lingers here.”
“Perhaps,” Fassad agreed, staring ahead. “Except I am uneasy, too.”
Kelir shot a glance at Maddek. One that said his friend could not truthfully reassure the others, because he was uneasy, too.