Chapter 37 Dahvid Tin’vori

Dahvid sat with his legs crossed in meditation.

It was difficult to concentrate. There wasn't much space. Theo Brood had oversold this empty glade. His soldiers were crowded and starting to grow restless. Theo had said it was the perfect spot to hide, but Dahvid was starting to feel like it was the perfect place to be trapped. Trees surrounded them. They had almost no visuals at all and could not risk being too aggressive with their scouts. If a single person was spotted in these woods, there would be a Brood battalion riding out to investigate. They could not be seen before Nevelyn arrived.

Waiting also made him more aware of his own weaknesses. There was a distinct tightness around his still-healing wound. He'd tested it out as they marched. A sharp, shooting pain came any time he reached too high above his head. He knew it would make raised parries difficult to hold. There was his right shoulder, too, which kept threatening to slip from the socket. He'd apparently popped it out completely during his blurred fight with Agatha Marchment. His face was a constellation of bruises. Blue here, black there. Mostly from the hits he'd taken during his third fight in Darling's gauntlet.

Against the other image-bearer.

His breathing hitched a little. Cath was seated beside him. The two of them had not talked about that yet. She had looked ready to bring up the subject a hundred times but retreated each time they were alone. Dahvid had quietly seethed about it. Now, however, he was knocking on death's door again. When the time came, he would sprint down through the forest with hundreds of strangers. Their loyalty to him was no stronger than the offer of promised gold. He remembered his own thoughts right before the start of his gauntlet. Realizing he could die without telling Cath how he really felt. Was he really fool enough to repeat that mistake?

"I love you," he whispered. "I have loved you for some time now."

When he opened his eyes, he saw that Cath was watching him. The attentive eyes of an artist. He'd always like this about her. The feeling that when she looked at him, she saw more than he could even see in himself. She reached out a hand. He took it in his, raised it to his lips, a kiss.

"The past cannot touch us."

He saw the comfort she took from those words. He understood, too, the irony that he could speak those words to her but not accept them for himself. Was the past ever truly forgotten? He was crouched in a field on his enemy's doorstep because the past was a merciless god. It demanded to be visited, to be worshipped, to be feared. If Dahvid did not give it attention during his waking hours, the past would creep into the world of dreams and claim him there. It had always been that way for him, and he did not want it to be that way for Cath. He kissed her hand again.

"You forgive me?" she asked.

"There is nothing to forgive. I can't ask you to give me your past, Cath. It does not belong to me. I can only ask that you give me today and tomorrow and the next day after that."

She brought his hand to her lips and kissed it in return.

"They are yours."

It was silent for a time. Dahvid closed his eyes again and willed himself to believe that all of this could still work. Even without the scarlet traveler at his disposal, he could walk through those gates and could finish this dark work once and for all. He nearly fell asleep sitting upright, until word echoed back from one of the scouts.

"Carriage."

Dahvid followed the man, crouching low, to the thickest patch of the forest. The two of them peeked through a small gap in the great curtains of leaves. He marked the carriage as it cut through the gray, descending toward the estate. His stomach turned as he waited and waited. The carriage went to the most natural landing point. The southern entrance.

"It's not her," he whispered. "That… is Landwin Brood."

The outer walls cut off their view. The carriage vanished from sight. He crept back through the forest and took his place beside Cath.

Where are you, Sister?