by K.M. Weiland
Part of her wanted to be outraged. But some other part of her was almost relieved. Hadn’t she been telling herself this, over and over again, for the last week?
She straightened herself. “What do you expect him to do before you’ll consent to our trusting him? Bring Mactalde’s head to me on a pike?”
“Yes.” His chin jutted. “I’ll forgive a man. But not until he’s righted his wrongs. So far, all this Gifted of yours has done is learn how to play Guardsman.”
“Don’t. You’re not just cutting him down. You’re cutting me.”
He rose a step. “Never that, lass. Never that. And that’s why I’m telling you, you’re not here to be friends with him. You’re here to keep him straight on his path, and don’t you forget it, for your sake far more’n his.” His good eye drilled her, then he turned to tromp back down the stairs.
He was right. Of course he was right. She agreed with his every word. The Gifted, however smart and brave and kind, was still a rogue marksman in a war that could afford no missed shots. He hadn’t done anything to win her trust yet. Bringing flowers from another world and punching Crofton Steadman in the face were all well enough, but they weren’t testaments of undying loyalty. Hadn’t he told her himself that he was intent on doing things his own way?
She slid the rolled parchment back into the cylinder and screwed it shut. Slowly, she started back down to the salon where Esta still dozed.
The Gifted might be a jolly nice bloke, as Eroll would say, but he was still dangerous. Perhaps more so to her than to any other—if only because he was tempting her with hope. She’d learned the hard way that hope was the sharpest weapon of all.
