Heart on Fire (The Kingmaker Chronicles Book 3)

by Amanda Bouchet

  I glance around, frowning. Carver’s tent is as disheveled as he is. I’ve never known him to be messy before, but he has to dig his only chair out from under a pile of disorganized weapons and other bits and things before I can even sit down on it. I’d wanted a better feel for the state Carver is really in, and judging by my surroundings, it’s not good.

  Parched, I search the tent for water. All I see is a jug of wine, the thought of which turns my stomach and doesn’t tempt me in the least, even though my tongue is so dry it’s sticking to the roof of my mouth.

  Carver blows out a long, drawn-out breath. “Bellanca is…”

  I glance back at him, waiting for him to continue. He slowly shakes his head, his hands on his narrow hips. He doesn’t say anything else.

  “Indescribable?” I supply.

  He nods.

  The Tarvan ex-princess is still with the Fisans. Although they’re not her people, I think she might feel more comfortable with them because, contrary to the other, larger contingents, there are Magoi among them. Not many, but some. I could feel their power in the air, scraping at my skin, beckoning me. It felt mainly like Healing Magic, which makes sense. Healers have never been given their due in Fisa, or any say in whom they can help. Their discontent is well known.

  There’s also the distinct possibility that Bellanca’s own people hate her. I doubt Bellanca herself did anything to merit their loathing, but she was part of the family that terrified and terrorized them, although that was really Galen’s and Acantha’s handiwork. But I never heard of the younger royals doing anything to set themselves apart or to defy their brother’s authority. Not publicly, anyway. As for the rest, only Bellanca knows.

  It doesn’t matter now, though. People will eventually find out she killed Galen Tarva with her own two hands, and they’ll forgive her. They might even love her for it.

  Well, maybe. She’s a little hard to love.

  Bellanca didn’t bother greeting Griffin and me. She just glared at us like it’s a damn good thing we somehow managed to survive without her help. I think her standoffishness is payback for driving her off the morning we left. There’s no way I’ll ever tell her how close we came to never coming back. She might not let us out of her sight again.

  Just before Carver and I ducked inside his tent, Bellanca threw up her hands in disgust at a young Magoi’s floundering, bellowing out, “You call that fire? This is fire!” She promptly went up in flames. She’s probably still that way.

  I wipe the sweat from my upper lip. Bellanca, Little Bean, the frankly uncalled-for afternoon heat… There’s not a drop of moisture in the air. It’s the rainy season, for the Gods’ sakes!

  “Can I have some water?” I almost wish I were back at Frostfire with its bubbling mountain stream and constant breeze.

  Then again, I could do without the gaping volcanic pit. Just the thought of that seemingly bottomless hole makes me shudder. At least the army encampment doesn’t have that. And it has Beta Team instead of a burned-out house. Wherever they are is home.

  I sigh. I’m not sure why.

  Carver rummages around, finally coming up with a waterskin that he finds under a pile of tack. It’s almost full. Knowing full well that Carver’s horse may have been the last to drink from it, I take a few long swallows anyway and then hand it back to him. He sets it aside and then drinks from a different container, one that leaves a small bead of red liquid on his lip. He wipes it off with the back of his hand.

  Watching him, my stomach churns with worry. I want to say something about his wine consumption, but I don’t know if I should.

  “That’ll kill you.” Decision made. Apparently.

  Carver looks over sharply.

  I get up, take the earthenware jug from him, and then sniff cautiously at its contents. The acrid punch makes my nose wrinkle. The wine inside is acidic and strong. Clearly, he doesn’t care how it tastes. It’s definitely not watered down.

  I level a frank gaze at him. “The day you need to be clear-headed and sharp, you won’t be.”

  He slowly reaches out and takes his wine from me. Putting the mouth of the jug to his lips, he tilts his head back, and I watch his throat work far too many times. To my shock, he must down half the contents of the container. When he lowers it, he wipes the back of his hand across his mouth again, his eyes glinting with something dark and challenging.

  My eyes narrow in return. “Are you defying common sense? Or just me?”

  Carver shrugs.

  “Do you know what’s worse than getting yourself killed?” I don’t want his answer, and I don’t wait for it. “Watching someone you love get killed because you’re too drunk to stop it.”

  “I’m not drunk.”

  I cross my arms over my chest. “Yet.”

  “Ever.” He looks at the jug in disgust. “This doesn’t even work.”

  “Then throw it out.”

  He takes another sip. Purposefully. Obstinately.

  “That’s a crutch. Have you been crippled?” I ask. “Do your legs not work? Or is it just your brain?”

  The look Carver throws me is part flinch, part snarl. “Back off, Cat!”

  I unfold my arms and, without any real reflection, shift my balance, whip up my leg, and kick the jug. The piece of glazed crockery shatters in Carver’s hand, and the remaining contents splash all over him. Maybe I didn’t quite think that through. I kind of regret that it looks so much like blood. I’ve seen enough blood on Carver. And it’ll stain. But I don’t regret that the wine is gone. I’ll never be sorry for that.

  “Gods, Cat! What in the bloody Gods damn…” Carver throws the jagged neck of the container to the ground with a growl. “What is wrong with you?”

  “What’s wrong with you?” I shoot back. “Is the Carver I know tied up in a dungeon somewhere, and you’re his idiotic twin brother that no one knew about? The one who makes bad choices and doesn’t seem to care?”

  He blinks.

  “You have your family. And believe me when I tell you, you have a good one. You’re going to be an uncle. You’re the best swordsman in all of Thalyria. You have an entire army looking up to you, and especially a bunch of completely untrained Fisans salivating for your guidance and hanging on your every word. You have more than hundreds of thousands of other people will ever have, and you’re turning your back on them. On yourself. On everyone!”

  Carver moves toward me, prowling menace in his swift steps. I hold my ground, craning my neck to look at him. Although his face is leaner and his nose straighter, the similarities to Griffin are startling. The storm-gray eyes. The stubborn jaw. The way his expression flattens when he’s feeling too much.

  Carver lifts his hands as if to grab my shoulders, but then his fingers clench into fists and drop back to his sides. “I thought you of all people would understand.”

  “Understand what? Being an idiot?”

  That seems to surprise him enough to add something new to his countenance. A trace of humor softens the stark lines of his face. “No.” A wry smile just barely curves his lips. “Maybe.”

  “I am an expert idiot,” I say. “I practice all the time.”

  Little Bean chooses that moment to agree—or maybe disagree. In any case, a strong ripple of chaotic baby magic rocks me hard. I hiss in a breath and grab my lower belly.

  Carver turns whiter than a realm-walking spirit. “What is it?”

  “Little Bean,” I gasp out.

  He spins on his heel. “I’ll get Griffin.”

  I shoot out my hand and grab his arm. “There’s no need to worry Griffin. I’m fine. She’s strong. And…experimenting. She’s done this before.” And she likes to let me know when her uncles are being asses, but I don’t add that. “I just need to sit.”

  Carver gets me back into the chair like his life depends upon it. My feet actually leave the ground for a moment,
but he helps me to land softly enough. Once I’m seated again, he kneels in front of me, gripping my hands hard. He looks terrified, pale under the dust and sweat on his face. His hands even shake a little, probably from a rush of adrenaline. I almost want to laugh at his complete overreaction, but it’s just not funny in the end. It reminds me of something Jocasta once said about pedestals, glass cases, and sisters. Carver confronted the Hydra with a smirk on his face, but this makes him look like he’s about to vomit.

  “I’ll get more water. Do you need food? A blanket?” He looks around, his eyes turning frantic when he realizes he has none of those things. “A hot bath? A cold bath?”

  I shake my head. “A bath would be fabulous. But it can wait. Right now, I need you to talk to me.”

  Almost impossibly, his brow furrows even more. “About what?”

  “About what’s bothering you enough to turn you into a drunk.”

  He sits back on his heels without letting go of my hands, his expression turning wary again. “I’m not drunk.”

  He does seem relatively sober. His words aren’t slurred. He’s not wobbly. Beside his somewhat unkempt appearance and the two wine jugs in his tent, not including the one I just smashed, there’s room for him to argue. Unfortunately for Carver, not drunk right now isn’t a strong enough argument for me to leave him alone. What about tonight? Or tomorrow? What about when we’re fighting for our lives?

  “I know what it’s like to lose someone,” I say gently. “And to lose myself because of it.”

  He stares up at me, and the pain in his eyes is almost too much to bear. His mouth flattens as his throat works on a painful-looking swallow. A lump rises in mine. Then he lets go of me, his hands slipping from my lap as he starts to back away.

  Before he can get too far, I reach out and push a lock of dark hair back from his forehead. It was hanging over his eye and clinging to his eyelashes, bouncing with every blink. I continue the movement, sliding my hand through his hair and smoothing it back, trying to comfort him. He needs it.

  Carver stops moving. I do it again, and a shudder rattles through him. Then, in a movement of slow surrender, he gradually leans forward until his forehead rests upon my knees. Still on the ground in front of me, he breathes once, long and deep, and then sits more comfortably, turning his face so his head is in my lap.

  My heart aching, I keep lightly stroking his hair. His eyes close. I don’t say anything, letting him rest while I try to figure out the words that might help him.

  When I do finally speak, I pitch my voice low and even, like I would if I were trying to keep a skittish animal from running away. “I thought I’d live a short life and die alone. Griffin was never in any of my plans. And certainly not Little Bean. I was so convinced my path would be a lonely one that I think I even ended up wanting that. It was safe, in a certain way. There was no one to endanger. And it was much easier than wanting what I thought I could never have. What I thought I didn’t deserve after Eleni died.”

  Carver sinks more heavily into me, wrapping his arms around my legs. There’s something so weary and needy in the way he seeks comfort that my heart breaks even more for him, and it was already pretty torn up.

  My eyes sore with unshed tears, I trail my fingers through his hair, wishing I could take away his pain.

  “Then what?” he murmurs.

  “Then Griffin. You. Kato. Flynn. Your whole family.” Not Piers. “Ianthe. Little Bean. If I’m being honest, even Bellanca.”

  Carver snorts, the quick puff of breath warm through the light linen of my pants.

  I smile as much as I’m able to right now. “I like her. She has spirit and flair.”

  He snorts again, like that’s a colossal understatement.

  “You all lit a fire inside me. The good kind. The best kind. And now my heart is so full, it can be overwhelming.” I brush Carver’s nearly shoulder-length hair off his neck, smoothing the dark strands to one side. His neck is warm and tanned. Strong. His hair is straighter than Griffin’s and feels slightly coarser, but maybe that’s because it needs washing. “It hurts sometimes,” I admit. “A lot.”

  Carver takes a deep breath. “I hurt all the time.”

  My eyes burn, and I beat back tears. Carver needs me to be strong.

  A splash of sunlight brightens the tent, and I look up to see Griffin standing in the entrance, holding back the flap. His eyes widen, his expression turning anxious. His worry for Carver is palpable, and there’s no doubt in my mind that he wants to come in and help in any way he can.

  I give Griffin an almost imperceptible shake of my head. With his eyes closed and his head in my lap, Carver has put himself in my hands, if only for a moment. I feel as though we’ve struck a pact, and even Griffin isn’t a part of it. I try to convey that with my eyes, hoping Griffin will understand.

  Griffin hesitates for only a second, and then he steps silently back and lowers the tent flap again, leaving us alone.

  I look back down at Carver, my hand still on his neck. “The more you hurt, the more capable you are of great emotion.”

  Gods, that sounded stupid and trite, even if it’s true. I go back to stroking Carver’s head. I don’t have much experience with comforting people, but a gentle touch seems like an okay thing to do. It’s better than meaningless words.

  After a long silence, I try again, figuring I’ll be better at hard truths and tough love than at subtle insight or attempted finesse. “Instead of focusing all your passion on a woman who is gone from this world, why don’t you look to the living instead?”

  Tonelessly, he says, “I don’t want anyone else.”

  I nod. I expected as much. “I don’t claim to know much about what happened. Actually, I know next to nothing, but Jocasta said that Konstantina didn’t choose you. Did she marry someone else?”

  It takes Carver a while to answer, so long that I start to think he won’t. His eyes stay closed, his long, thick lashes not quite covering the dark smudges peeking out from underneath them.

  “A rich Magoi saw her,” he finally says. “She was so beautiful. He wooed her away from me, promising everything I couldn’t. Wealth, influence, children with magic. A different, softer kind of life. With him, she’d never get pushed around by royal soldiers again or taxed into near-poverty.” He pauses and then almost so quietly I don’t hear, he adds, “Nearly raped.”

  My stomach dives hard. “Did you save her?” I ask.

  He nods. “Barely. That was the first man I killed. We were children. He was already on top of her and didn’t see me coming.”

  I flinch at the thought of a young Carver being forced to cover himself in blood. “But I thought your father’s army stopped that kind of treatment in most of the southwest.”

  “It did. It got better. Like I said, we were young.”

  Swallowing the ache in my throat, I smooth my fingers from his temple to the back of his skull and then down his neck, gently massaging. I lightly retrace the path again, never breaking contact. “If the Magoi was a Southerner, he probably actually had very limited magic. You’re far richer now than any Sintan Magoi noble anyway. You’re Griffin’s brother, and part of the Royal House of Thalyria.”

  Carver sighs. “It doesn’t matter what I have now. She’s dead.”

  And a vindictive, petty part of me hopes that Konstantina is ruing her terrible choice from the Underworld. “Did she choose him for security only, or was there more?”

  His shoulders lift in a small shrug. “I don’t know. Once she made her choice, she wouldn’t talk to me. Wouldn’t explain. Wouldn’t let me near her.”

  Probably because she was scared she’d change her mind, and she craved riches and refuge more than she craved Carver. At least in her head. Her heart might have been giving her some serious back talk, which made avoiding him her only option.

  “Did you forgive her?” I ask. Carver has been living
impaled on a double-edged sword. On one side—loss. On the other—deception and betrayal. Both cut deep. No wonder it’s been slicing him up inside. The only mystery is how he kept it from everyone for so long. I had no idea, and everyone else seemed to think he was fine. Recovered. Before Griffin and I became a solid unit, I was convinced that Carver was an irrepressible flirt, always smiling, always ready for a laugh or a bawdy joke. Then the relationship Griffin and I developed must have reminded Carver of what he’d lost. It made him moody, but he was handling it. Then the Agon Games happened, the Underworld, and Konstantina.

  He’s quiet for a long time. He eventually opens his eyes, but only to stare at nothing at all.

  Finally, in a voice weighed down by fatigue and emotion, he says, “I didn’t have time to forgive her, or even to see her again. The Magoi took her away, to the city he lives in. I was so angry at first, and too full of pride to chase after her. She died in childbirth eight months after her wedding. The child lived. She didn’t. Then I… For about a year, I acted a lot like this.” He sweeps a hand out, vaguely indicating his jugs of wine and messy tent. “I thought the boy was mine. I finally decided to go and claim him.”

  My heart skips a beat, my hand hovering over Carver’s hair. “But you had no right to a child born in wedlock. No authority in Thalyria would honor your claim.”

  “I didn’t care. He was mine.”

  I bite my lip to keep from arguing more and lightly stroke his head again, my touch feather-soft. “What happened?” I ask when he doesn’t go on.

  “I got myself sober and cleaned up and went there, to that big house with guards, fancy gardens, fountains, and all the meaningless things Konstantina wanted more than she wanted me. It was huge and intimidating. They wouldn’t let me in, so I waited. And watched.” Carver’s eyes close, and I’m sure he’s seeing it all in his head again.

  “And?” I prompt gently.

  “And then I saw him. The boy was as fair and fat as his father, with bright, blue-green eyes. He wasn’t mine.”

  I exhale slowly, both relieved and saddened. Knowing Carver, he wanted that piece of the woman he loved, that piece of them together.