9. Chapter Nine

Chapter Nine

Evander woke with the sound of the door opening and closing.

When he opened his eyes, he saw the broad shoulders of Marcos, as he came back into the cabin.

He cleared his throat, as he pushed the furs down, and as he reached for his clothes, Marcos' gaze turned towards him.

"You're awake," he said, looking pleased.

It was a soft look that Evander had never expected to see on the fierce Marcos' face, but it suited him.

Made it easier to not regret how close they'd become last night.

"As are you," Evander said, pulling up his breeches, shoving his feet into boots.

"I never sleep soundly in a strange place," Marcos admitted. "I was up early, trying to determine our location."

Evander decided that he would let him have the evasive answer; he could understand how waking up, tucked in close to him, might have been overwhelming.

Neither of them knew how to do this. Better to focus on the matter at hand.

The fire had banked overnight, and Evander walked over, picking up a twisty stick, charred black at the end, poking at it. "Were you successful?"

"There's plenty of snow on the ground. Large snowdrifts. I'd guess we're fairly close to the Well."

"An hour by horseback."

Marcos tensed, a knife appearing so quickly in his hand, Evander didn't know how he could've drawn it so fast.

Evander hadn't really considered how the Mother would arrive this morning, but suddenly, there she was, holding a fresh loaf of bread and giving them a look that made it clear she'd known exactly what they'd get up to if she left them alone—and that she approved.

Evander fought back his blush as Marcos slipped his knife back into its boot holster, the tense muscles of his shoulders relaxing.

"That close?" Marcos asked, raising an eyebrow.

She turned to him, tucking a strand of white-gold hair behind an ear as she pulled out a wickedly curved knife of her own, and began to cut the bread into slices. "I created it," she said offhandedly, "I would not want to make it so very far away, would I?"

"No," Evander said. "You wouldn't."

He'd been right, then. He couldn't say he was particularly surprised. If he reached back into his memory, the feel of the Well had the same mysterious slippery energy that the power of the trap had.

Unidentifiable, which was why he hadn't recognized it.

"Deimos always said that it was a gift, and that gifts could be rescinded, if the Well was not treated with respect."

The Mother's glance at Marcos was stern. "Deimos is wrong in many things," she said, "but right in this. I have considered removing it many times over the years. It gives Deimos power, but then"—and now her expression turned sly—"it also gives others power too."

"Who?" Evander wanted to know.

But her expression had already closed off, becoming opaque, and she did not reply. Instead she held out slices of the bread she had cut.

"Come," she said, "sit down, break your fast, and tell me what you have decided."

Evander sat, and watched as Marcos reluctantly followed.

His sense of honor was likely smarting, worried that by accepting her hospitality and not her offer, that they would offend the Mother.

"We have not decided," Evander said.

She hummed under her breath, slathering the bread with thick, golden butter from an ancient-looking pottery crock on the table. "I guessed as much," she said.

"We do not know what faces us at the Well, or why we were called there," Marcos added, more apologetic than Evander had ever heard him.

"I do not think it a coincidence," the Mother said softly. But her gaze did not accuse.

"Me either," Marcos agreed. "But we can only fight one battle, on one front. I, too, am concerned about Deimos' growing power, and the actions he took against Evander, but right now, the possibility that the voice calling us to the Well is a trap must take precedence."

The Mother's gaze swung towards Evander, and he felt pinned by the sheer age and complexity of it. "And you, Guardian?"

Evander considered correcting her use of his title. He was no longer a Guardian, not if his powers were as diminished as they were, not if Deimos had banished him from the Conclave. But she knew what had happened and must not have cared, as she still addressed him by his old title.

"I would defeat him," Evander said cautiously. "He should not get to banish any others like he did me. He should be leading the Conclave with an eye towards the surface, but he is not."

"And you are." The Mother said it with finality. Like her word was law.

"I have tried," Evander said.

"You care about my people," the Mother said. "I will hope that with the trap at the Well addressed, you will decide that Deimos is the danger and must be defeated, at any cost."

Marcos frowned, and Evander knew he was thinking about the last word she'd said.

The cost.

Evander could place himself in Marcos' shoes and see how the cost might be more than he was willing to pay. After all, they could make a life for themselves here on the surface, and not involve themselves in the Mother and Deimos' power struggle.

They would be happy. Evander knew that much, because it felt like the happiness and satisfaction he'd been searching for was right within his grasp.

But he also remembered how he'd felt returning to Beaulieu with no purpose.

A life without purpose, especially an everlasting life, was no life at all.

"We appreciate your hospitality and the night of rest," Marcos said stiffly.

The Mother smiled, and it was so warm it was like sunning yourself on a bright summer day. Her power was so effortless it astounded him. "It was entirely my pleasure," she said. "I have long wanted to meet you."

That possibility was even more confounding. That this woman, of tremendous power, had wanted to know them, even though Evander had long been stripped of what he'd thought had made him special.

"And no," she continued, her smile growing, "not because you used to be a Guardian, but because of what you committed to doing once that path was closed to you." She turned to Marcos. "And you did not have to follow him to the surface, at such a great personal cost, either."

"Yes, I did," Marcos said firmly, with conviction.

"Well, I am very glad you think so," the Mother said, patting him on the arm. "Is there anything else you need for your journey?"

"No," Evander said, exchanging a glance with Marcos as he finished eating his bread. "I believe we should be on our way, though."

"I wish you the best of luck," the Mother said. "Your horses are outside."

Marcos looked surprised.

"You did not think I would take them?" The Mother laughed. "I merely housed and fed and warmed them, as I did you. They are rested and should serve you well, on the final part of your journey."

Marcos bid her goodbye, and went outside to find them.

Evander turned to face her. "What if I wanted to speak to you again?" he asked.

"Then, you need only think of me, and I will be there," she said. She pressed a wrinkled, yet smooth palm to his cheek and he nodded. Turning to leave, she caught his arm. "Wait," she added. "There is one thing you should know. The Well? Is not only a portal and a magnet for everything of power, but can also restore what is lost."

"What?" Evander wasn't quite sure he understood. Was she talking about his power? About bringing back what Deimos had taken from him?

But instead of answering, the Mother gave him another one of those enigmatic looks, snapped her fingers, and Evander found himself outside, next to the horses that Marcos was currently checking over.

He looked over, raising an eyebrow. "Was the door not good enough for you?" he asked.

Evander stared at him. "No," he said slowly. "Not at all . . . the Mother just told me something."

"What is it?" Marcos asked. He mounted his horse.

Evander followed suit, patting his horse's neck reassuringly. "I'm not sure," he admitted honestly. "I need to think about it."

Marcos was quiet for a moment, like he wasn't sure how he should react to Evander not telling him everything. "If you want time, then take the time," he said. "I believe the road is that way," he said, pointing in a northern direction. "At least I keep thinking this is the way we should go, so going this way makes logical sense."

Evander nodded. "You think she planted the idea in your head," he stated.

"I don't like it much, but yes."

Evander thought again of the information she'd given him right as he was leaving.

She'd waited until Marcos was already out of earshot. It could have been accidental, but Evander had a feeling that everything she did was purposeful.

A few minutes of riding later, they found the road. Marcos gazed up it—because it was inevitably up, a long, winding rocky path that made its way up the mountain, to the top, where the Well lay.

"I would not have taken the horses," he said, "but she was so adamant that they were necessary to the journey."

"I doubt much she says is by chance."

Marcos shot him a look. "Including what she said to you?"

Evander chuckled under his breath. "I knew you could not leave it alone."

"Forgive me," Marcos retorted. "I do not like secrets."

"I believe many would call that an ironic statement," Evander said lightly. "But I will tell you, even though I do not believe she wanted me to."

Marcos frowned, staring ahead at the rocks that littered the path. "Because she told you after I'd left."

Evander nodded. "She said the Well was not only a portal, but could also restore what was once lost."

Marcos was silent for a long time, the only sound their horses' hooves on the path, as they carefully picked their way around the exposed stones. "You think she was talking about your power."

"I don't know what else she could have been referring to."

"It feels like a trick."

"It feels like an opportunity," Evander countered.

"Or an unnecessary risk," Marcos said.

"This is why the Mother waited until you had left before telling me anything about it," Evander said, annoyed. "You're too cautious. Too risk-averse."

"Should I be racing into fights and not avoiding them? That's what everyone expects from a Guardian of War, isn't it? Craving battle. Craving carnage. But I never have. I won't apologize for being careful. Or for being careful with you."

Evander glared at him. "I'm not a thing you need to protect."

"I am perfectly aware of that," Marcos said. Still calm. Evander realized that he was calm. And the one whose temper kept flaring was him.

And that hardly helped dampen his anger.

"Are you saying you just can't help it? That . . ." Evander spit out the words, until he realized what he was going to say, and he stopped abruptly.

Marcos had not even said the words yet, and it felt wrong, even as furious as he was, to spit them back at him like they were weapons in an argument.

"That I don't want you to throw your existence away on a trick? On a fool's errand?" Marcos questioned lightly. Like he didn't know what Evander had been about to say. And yet, he had to know.

"Are you saying the Mother is trying to trick us? Trick me? You felt her power. I know you did. Felt it better than I did, probably."

"I'm not questioning her story," Marcos said patiently. Too patiently. "I did feel her power. I believe she is exactly who she claims to be. But she also did not tell you how to use the Well to restore your powers. She did not even say it would. You concluded that, all on your own."

Evander ground his teeth together.

"This is another subject on which we will never agree," Evander said. "I do not understand how the Mother could say we make a great team when we disagree on everything."

Marcos' glance at him was sly, knowing. "Not everything," he said.

Evander huffed. Still annoyed. But less annoyed.

Marcos shouldn't be able to diffuse his temper like that. Nobody had ever been able to, not even Vanya.

But Marcos knew just how to take the force of his anger and twist it into something else.

"This is not over," Evander insisted, more to himself than to Marcos—who was intimately familiar with just how stubborn he was, and would likely already know that their discussion on this particular topic was just beginning.

Marcos didn't respond, merely inclined his head, and Evander caught the flash of amusement in his eyes.

They rode on for another hour.

The road became a path and then became a track.

Evander had to re-focus himself on the task of leading his horse through the increasingly icy shards of rock as they rode further.

He had been considering the words of the Mother, and how he could possibly use the Well to restore his power, but it was too hard to pay attention to the road and also to the conundrum that she'd raised by her statement.

Wind whipped around their heads, swirls of freezing air and icy snowflakes. The sky was an ominous dark gray, solid and unrelenting above them.

It was not a particularly welcoming place.

Power wasn't, usually.

It was difficult and prickly and dangerous.

Evander had never liked coming to the Well; he'd used the portal contained within it and always made sure to put as much distance between him and it as possible. Evrard's hooves had been particularly steady on the sheets of ice that coated the winding path down the mountain.

He had suggested, when they had stopped to unpack an additional cloak for Marcos, that he could change.

"And then what would we do with the other horse? And what kind of use will you be as a unicorn when we reach the Well?" Marcos had questioned.

"The Mother told us to bring them, thus ensuring I'd stay in this form," Evander realized, trying not to sulk. He'd been rather proud of that suggestion.

Marcos nodded. "I believe that, as well.

"I think only a little bit longer," Marcos added as they re-mounted their horses. "Be prepared for anything when we reach the top."

"I have always been prepared," Evander retorted.

Marcos didn't disagree and Evander caught a hint of pleasure on his face, before it disappeared into the swirl of his cloak's heavy hood.

The Well was a silent place.

There was the wind of course, echoing around them eerily, like it was calling to the power that massed here, and listening to its answer. But other than that, there was nothing.

Marcos' boots crunched on the ice as he dismounted, tying his horse to one of the spindly trees that circled the jutting hill. It was maybe a dozen yards to the top, where the Well sat.

Evander dismounted too, and followed suit, tying up his horse. "Will they be safe here?"

Patting the neck of his horse, Marcos contemplated this. "I don't think they will be unsafe."

"You think the Mother put a charm on them."

Marcos grinned suddenly, a brightness cutting through the icy gloom. "The horse is warmer than I. I think she knew we'd need them and made sure they were prepared."

"She is the Mother, after all. She creates and she tends what she creates."

Marcos nodded.

"I would not worry about them," Marcos said. "Though if I recall, you were not a fan of anything else of equine descent before this. Why the sudden concern for them?"

Evander rolled his eyes. "The power, you can feel it around us. It has form and thought and will. How do you think it would react if it discovered that we were negligent of any creature?"

"You think the power comes from the Mother, and wouldn't like us leaving the horses to die."

"Put simplistically, yes," Evander said. He saw Marcos' expression darken, and hurried to add, "I do not think you simplistic, of course."

"Of course." Marcos' tone was wry. "You would never think that."

Except they both knew he had. For a thousand years and more.

Marcos leaned down, and pulled the knife from his boot. It shone bright silver, the curved blade wickedly sharp, even in the gray, dingy light surrounding them.

He flipped it in his hand, effortlessly, and extended it towards Evander, the leather-wrapped handle towards him.

"Here," he said.

Evander had a much smaller knife, tucked away in his boot. Admittedly, it was a knife that Rhys had used for cutting pieces of meat at dinner, or for slicing open messages, and not for defending himself, but there was no reason it wouldn't be perfectly sufficient in a fight.

Marcos must have seen his hesitation, because he continued. "And don't tell me you've got one, I've seen that blade. You could stick that in me and I wouldn't even hesitate; I'd keep coming. This"—he lifted the blade in his hand again—"has an enchanted blade. It'll give you a second, maybe two, against a Guardian."

"I thought we weren't going against any Guardians."

Marcos' stare was impossible to read. "I don't know what we're going against," he said. "But I like to be prepared."

Once, Gray had told him what it had felt like the first time he'd touched Lion's Breath, the flaming sword that had destroyed Sabrina. "It wasn't even mine, not even from Ardglass," Gray had said, "but the moment I put my hand upon the grip, I felt it, like I'd been shot with an arrow, with lightning. Scared me half to death. Later, I thought it was just that we were suddenly in the middle of a fight, but it wasn't that. The sword knew me. Knew I would use it. And then I did. The power wasn't just in the sword, then, it was in me."

Evander, who had helped forge Lion's Breath, hadn't been particularly surprised, since he'd been hoping from Gray's birth that he would be the one who'd finally wield the sword the way it was meant to be wielded.

But he'd never expected to feel something like that himself.

Until he reached out and took Marcos' knife, and the moment the tips of his fingers brushed the leather, he felt the jolt of it, the shock. Yes, it was definitely the enchantment of it, because when he reached out and tasted the power imbuing it, it was undeniably Marcos'. But it was more than that. This knife that he'd seen a handful of times before his banishment, but never made particular note of, reached out and grabbed him by the throat, the power and the magic overwhelming him. Choking him.

He dropped it.

"What is it?" Marcos was instantly by his side, concern written on his starkly handsome features. "What happened?"

Evander eyed the dagger, lying so innocuously on the ground. "I think . . . I think I am meant to wield this dagger," he said slowly.

"I gave it to you so you could," Marcos pointed out.

"No." Evander took a deep breath. "More than that. I think I was always meant to have this dagger."

Marcos hummed under his breath. "I remember when I forged this," he said. "It was a long winter. I was . . . preoccupied with other matters, but I felt myself drawn to the forge, and I poured all my worries and my fears and . . . all my other emotions, into it."

"That winter, when you started to see me . . . differently?" Evander asked carefully. Not wanting to put words into Marcos' mouth.

"Yes." He reached down and picked the dagger up. "I suppose, for as long as I've carried it, this blade has really always been yours."

This time when Evander took it, gingerly touching it with his fingers, the blade's power didn't overwhelm him. Instead, it . . . it welcomed him. Like it was coming home.

"I think you may be right," Evander said.

"Strange," Marcos said, and Evander, still staring at the blade, at the gold symbols engraved deep into the silver blade, heard him withdraw his sword from its sheath. "It never felt particularly powerful to me, only that I always felt like I wanted it with me, just in case."

"Just in case," Evander mused as they began to climb the last part of the path. He had to pay close attention to where he stepped because the ice was treacherous, but part of him was still singing with the way the knife felt in his hand.

How happy it was that the knife and Evander had finally come together.

"Stay behind me," Marcos ordered as they finally reached the last bit of the trail. They had only a dozen more steps, and they would emerge at the very top of the mountain.

Evander could see it in his mind's eye, the icy shards protecting the deep, turquoise-blue icy water of the Well, the power swirling around it in white clouds of vapor.

As Marcos crested the hill, Evander right behind him, he pulled the power in, centered it, focused it, ready to push it out as a flame from his outstretched hand, but as he glanced wildly around him, he realized that it was a waste, because there was nobody there to aim a fireball at.

Marcos didn't stand down yet. He crept around the Well, examining every inch of the ice and snow at their feet, every shard of it that rose in the air, protecting the Well.

Finally, he returned to where Evander stood. "Have you heard anything?" he asked.

Evander had wondered as they made the last climb if he would hear Vanya's voice again. After all, it was his voice that had summoned him here.

But there was nothing.

Only the eerie silence.

"No," he finally had to admit. "Nothing."

Marcos sighed. "We will wait. You were called here. Someone wanted you at the Well."

"Maybe it was the Mother," Evander suggested.

"If it was her, she would have cleared up the confusion when we were there," Marcos said. "Because the potential trap at the Well was why we had to put off doing what she wanted—defeating Deimos."

"I think she wanted us to come here, and wanted me to use this"—Evander lifted the dagger, which sang in his hand, a siren's song of belonging—"to restore the power that Deimos stripped from me."

"My dagger?" Marcos' face and voice were full of disbelief. "How would she have even known that I would give you that dagger? It was mine for many hundreds of years. Not yours."

"It's always been mine. You had it, yes, but you were carrying it for me."

Marcos frowned. "How do you know this?"

He'd known Marcos would ask, but the question made him flinch anyway. "You will not believe me."

"I tend to believe a lot of what you say, in fact," Marcos retorted reproachfully.

"You will not believe me, because I barely believe it myself," Evander said wryly. "I know because the dagger told me."

"It told you?"

"I touched it, and it was so much power, it overwhelmed me. That's why I dropped it. But . . ." Evander knew how crazy he sounded, but he continued anyway. "When I picked it up again and we walked the rest of the way to the Well? That's when I felt it."

"And you felt that it wanted you to use it to channel your power back?" Marcos sounded understandably skeptical.

Evander nodded. "I just . . . I just know. I can see myself, plunging the dagger into the middle of the Well. It's rough. It's . . . it's terrifying. The power engulfs me. Everything goes black. And then I wake up, and I can feel it. Coursing through me like it never left, like Deimos never banished me."

Everything he'd ever wanted and never believed he could have again, back in an instant.

Marcos eyed the Well, sitting, calm and undisturbed, in the middle of the protective ice shards. "I do not think it is wise to follow this path. It is one thing to follow a suggestion placed in my mind as to which direction to travel. It is entirely another to use a magic we don't understand."

"Why do we have to understand it?" Evander threw his hands up in frustration. He could feel something inside of him, pushing him, prodding him, wanting him to win this argument. Normally he'd have felt at least some of Marcos' caution and concern, felt some fear that this, just like the voice, was a trap. But all he felt was the exhilaration of hope.

After so long being hampered and hindered, he could be fully himself again. He could actually be Evander. Not this similar facsimile, the outward appearance the same, but the inner self diminished. He could be all of it, again.

"I wish I had never given you the dagger," Marcos announced, turning to him, a solemn look on his face. "I should take it back from you."

If Marcos wanted to come over and forcibly remove it from his hand, he could.

The regret written on his face told Evander just how much he didn't want to.

"You won't."

"You could destroy yourself," Marcos said.

"A risk I am willing to take."

Marcos looked away then, like the thought of losing him was too much to bear, like he did not want Evander to see the emotion in his eyes at only the idea of it.

He did not look back when he spoke, but his voice was rough and raw. "What if it is not a risk I am willing to take?"

"You know very well that it is not up to you," Evander said, gently. "This is a chance for me to be . . . for me to be myself again. I cannot pass it by. You know I can't."

Marcos did not say anything for a very long time.

There was only the wind, whistling around them, and the counterpoint in his head, the song of the dagger, wanting him to take back what had been forcibly ripped from him.

Finally Marcos straightened, and looked him straight in the eye. "I know," he said. "I know you have to try."

"You could stop me." Evander did not know why he was filling Marcos' head with ideas. He could stop him. Nothing could stop Marcos, not even Death, from taking the dagger from his hand. He was bigger, he was stronger, and his fighting skills were legendary.

"It is not my choice to make." Marcos' voice was rueful. "I wish I could reconcile myself to stopping you, but I can't. It's your decision. Your risk. Your fate."

"Yes."

Evander switched the dagger to his other hand, and began to gather his fire magic, what was left of it anyway, so he could melt away the protective shards around the Well.

"Wait," Marcos said, and suddenly, he was at Evander's side. "You should save your strength. Let me take care of the ice."

Evander shot him a look. "You have no fire," he pointed out.

"I have no need of fire," Marcos reminded him, gesturing towards the ice with his sword. "This will cut through the ice just as well."

Evander stepped aside, trying not to be ridiculously pleased. Marcos did not approve of any part of this plan, but he intended to help anyway.

Even though the air was frigid, and only a moment before he'd felt chilled to the bone, Evander discovered the knowledge warmed him, someplace deep inside, someplace he wasn't sure anyone else had ever touched.

"Step back," Marcos warned. "This could be dangerous."

"Of course it's dangerous," Evander called out, "but you don't see me trying to stop you."

Marcos laughed, and after Evander had moved back a few yards, he swung his sword at the nearest ice shard, and it exploded into a thousand pieces, a million pieces, the icy bits falling through the air like snow, dusting his head and arms with white, sprinkling all around him.

Marcos brushed off his head, and hacked away at the base of the shard a few more times, making a clear path for Evander to walk through.

He moved the dagger back into his right hand, and stepped closer.

"Wait," Marcos said again, catching his arm right before he climbed through the gap.

Evander turned to look at him, and there it was again, that emotion cresting in his eyes, written in every line of his face.

Perhaps it was very stupid that Evander was willing to risk this—the love and devotion of someone as honorable as Marcos—but how could he accept it either, when there was a gaping hole inside of him that refused to heal? How could they ever be together as equals, as true partners, if Evander couldn't restore what he had lost?

They had both left the Castle at the Top of the World, and the Conclave, but Marcos had done it on purpose. He'd chosen. Evander had never chosen. He'd had all his choices made for him.

Now he was going to make a choice for himself.

But, still, something in the vicinity of his heart ached at the thought of letting Marcos down. Of abandoning him. Of losing him.

"Please," Marcos said, his voice low, "please be careful. If anything goes wrong, if it doesn't feel right . . ."

Evander didn't let him finish his sentence. Instead, he reached up, and wrapping a hand around Marcos' neck, tugged him down until their lips met in an unexpected and wild kiss.

He knew how Marcos felt; he did not know how he felt, but Evander had tried very hard over the years not to lie to himself, and right now, he knew that if he kept kissing Marcos and they kept sharing the same kind of pleasure they had the other night, and even more vitally, if he kept being steadfast and true and also an unbelievable pain in Evander's ass, that he would eventually feel the same.

That he'd abandon anything and everything he knew to follow him. Just to make sure he was safe, that he was protected. Even if Marcos was exceptional at protecting himself.

Evander had never felt that way before, not about anybody. Vanya had been a friend, and sometimes a lover, but with him, it had never felt like this wild, untamed yearning.

It hurt, to step away, to move his lips from Marcos', but he did it.

He wanted to be whole again, for himself, and also because he wanted to come to Marcos as he had been. Exactly who he'd been when Marcos had fallen in love with him, all those years ago.

"I promise," Evander said quietly, reaching up and cupping Marcos' bristly cheek with one palm. "I promise if it feels wrong, I will stop."

Marcos said nothing, but Evander knew the words weren't necessary; he could see everything he felt in his eyes, burning strong and bright and true.

Evander turned and continued climbing over the base of the destroyed ice shard, coming closer and closer to the Well.

It swirled bright blue and white, the mist above it choking him with the magic that churned in the air.

He knew it sensed him, felt him, wanted him.

Standing in front of the pool, he held out the dagger. It felt right in his hand, like he'd always held it, like it had been made just for him.

It was; Marcos just never realized it, not until now.

But he did now. Evander knew that if he risked a glance back, that he would see the realization in Marcos' face.

He'd set these events in motion, all those years ago, during that long winter, when he'd ached for someone he didn't think he could have.

Evander raised the dagger and plunged it into the very center of the pool.

For only a moment, there was nothing. And then, Evander felt his whole body jerk and begin to shake, overwhelmed with the magic surging through him, around him, roiling through every bit of his body, until he wasn't sure he could hold it or control it.

Don't be foolish, a voice inside his head crooned, only a fool tries to control the wind.

But it wasn't Gael, it was the Mother, and he forced himself to relax, to let go, let the power control him.

His vision went foggy, and then right when he was on the verge of breaking apart, everything went black.