“I have so many questions now that my mind has gone absolutely blank,” said Fern.
“Give him here,” said Astryx, extending a hand. Her tone was even, but full of steel.
The goblin narrowed her eyes in return, delivered another long and deliberate lick to the knife—who made a strangled noise—and then flipped and extended him, haft first.
“Thank you,” replied the Oathmaiden.
She brought Breadlee up to her face to examine more closely, studying his bolster and running a thumb gently along his spine.
“Oh my gods,” he whispered, reverently. “It’shappening. I can’t believe it! Hold me forever.”
“Mylady,” said Nigel, reproachfully.
“Bradelys, was it?” asked the elf.
“Blademistress, you can call me whatever youwant.”
“Breadlee,”insisted Zyll.
“Except that.”
Astryx tipped the knife in the direction of the goblin across the fire. “I imagine there are a lot of stories you could tell about our mutual friend with the pockets, aren’t there? Stories that might make it worth keeping you around?”
Fern decided that she very much wanted to hear them, too.
“Um. I mean, maybe one or two, sure. And, you know, I may not be a greatsword these days but, like, I can absolutely punch through a breastbone. I’m stillveryElder. Plus, you go wandering around with somelongbladeon your back and everybody knows what you’re packing—but me? Very,veryconcealable.”
“Mm. I’ll bear that in mind.”
“My lady!”cried Nigel again, with a note of desperation.
“But for now,” continued Astryx, “I think we could all use some sleep. Some words are best spoken in daylight.”
She twirled the Elder Blade between her fingers and returned him to Zyll, who snatched him back, her mouth for once flattened into a thoughtful line.
“Wait!” protested Breadlee. “Hang on, I—”
The goblin stuffed him back into the ugly green pocket, extinguishing his voice.
Nigel breathed an audible sigh of relief.
A sudden night breeze fluttered Fern’s cloak and made the dwindling fire struggle. She shook out her whiskers and shivered all over, as though waking from a lucid dream.
Her gaze met Astryx’s. The talk brewing between them only minutes before seemed to have receded, and from the look in the elf’s eyes, they both knew it.
Fern thought the talk was just biding its time, though.
Maybe Astryx was right.
Some wordswerebest spoken in daylight.
Curled on her side with her snout to the fire and her back to the night, sleep continued to elude Fern as Zyll’s peeping snores issued from the pile of pockets to her right. She couldn’t see Astryx’s eyes, as the elf always lay facing away into the dark with one hand on Nigel’s hilt, but the Oathmaiden’s shoulders moved gently with the slow cadence of her sleeping breath.
Fern closed her eyes, but images of the day crowded behind her eyelids. Bycross climbing up white cliffs in the dawn light. Astryx whirling amidst a sea of warriors, effortless and graceful and brutal. A goblin with bottomless pockets and a fistful of stolen purses. The Territory’s most ridiculous Elder Blade.
She sighed and whispered, “If I read this in a book, I’d never believe it. It’s too amazing and stupid at the same time.”
Opening her eyes and blinking in the firelight, she patted around with one paw until she found her satchel. Quietly unbuckling it, she slipped her fingers inside and pinched out a sheet of the fresh parchment she’d bought, then rummaged for a pencil.
