Astryx One-Ear is my friend. I’m pretty sure of that now. What an insane thing to write.
It feels like an electric thrill of importance should have coursed through me when I realized it, but no. I just say more embarrassing things in her presence than before. That’s really the proof. Same as with you.
I think you’d like her.
Speaking of embarrassing, I had a conversation with her a week ago that made me think of you. It made me think of my father, too, and I find myself wondering if, for every hard decision of my life, I’ve put a thumb on the scale in favor of what I imagine somebody else’s opinion of me might be. Is that true, and I’ve just stacked other reasons on top to hide it from myself?
Fuck it. I don’t feel up to answering that question today.
I should be more like Zyll. I can’t think of anyone more themself, although I’ll be gods-damned if I could tell you who that self is. Zyll is . . . incomprehensible. Is she even a prisoner? None of us treat her that way, and for her part, she seems not to be bothered. Those bracelets Astryx clapped on the both of them just feel like a way of pretending she has some control. Zyll exerts a kind of gravity—I can feel the pull of it. Is Astryx taking her somewhere, or is it the other way around? I’m never sure. Here in this hidden place, far from everything, it seems that any natural order of things was left behind below the snowline.
That bard I mentioned is still around, but her excuses for staying smell like old milk. There’s been plenty of clear weather in stretches of days. She could’ve easily been on her way by now. She’s just hoping to excavate a precious story from the Oathmaiden to polish into a song, and is perpetually—deliciously!—thwarted. I am secretly amused every time.
I think our days here are nearly at an end. Astryx has been practicing forms out in the square, longer every afternoon. Nigel is overjoyed.
Breadlee? Annoyed. I think he was hoping she’d have to settle for a lighter blade. He’s destined for disappointment.
He’s still very good for sharpening pencils, though. And okay, he’s a very available conversational partner.
I miss Potroast. I miss you.
I hope you’re well.
Sometimes, I hope you’ve forgotten me altogether.
But I never manage to hope that for very long.
Fern
30
A turn in the weather signaled the day of their departure. The sky burned blue in all directions with a cold clarity, and it seemed to Fern that she could see for a hundred leagues. Ice and snow groaned from the pitched abbey roof, occasionally sloughing in tectonic slabs to thunder to the ground below. Fern kept a wary eye on the eaves as she passed under them with Zyll in tow.
With her satchel over one shoulder, she carried a haversack stuffed with dried goods over the other. Yet another gift from the Tarimites.
In the center of the cobbled square, which gleamed with melt, Astryx fussed with the saddle the stablemaster had refurbished for Bucket, checking and re-cinching the girth strap. With Nigel on her back again, she moved with purpose, and Fern could almost believe she was as hale as when they’d first met.
She saw the carefully hidden evidence of suffering, though. Moments of subtle reorientation as the elf adjusted the saddlebags.
“Apologies, old man,” Astryx whispered, patting Bucket’s cheek.
“I’m sorry we can’t part with one of the donkeys,” said Bluebriar. “Unfortunately, with the restoration work to be done, they can’t be spared.”
The abbess, Rhubarb, and Burdock had gathered to see them off, and a pack of monks huddled near the main doors, whispering and watching.
“We’ll manage. You won’t hear a word from me that’s not grateful,” replied Astryx. She turned and fixed the abbess with a solemn gaze and bowed her head formally. “Yours are kindnesses I won’t forget. If ever you have the need, I will come. Only call for me.”
Fern passed up the haversack, which the elf received with only a slight wince before tying it beside one of the saddlebags. Approaching the abbess, the bookseller extended a paw. “Thank you. I could wish you hadn’t seen the worst of me, but I’m glad you looked past it until you saw the back of me.”
Bluebriar smiled, amused. “Perhaps you’ll make it up to us someday. If not, we’re accustomed to a rather one-sided relationship with the world.”
Fern thanked Rhubarb and Burdock in turn, and then Zyll appeared beside her, rummaging in her pockets. One hand emerged clutching a fistful of clinking leather bags that Fern recognized. She’d altogether forgotten about the Four Fingers’ coinpurses.
“Thank-lings,” said Zyll, dropping them into the paws of the shocked abbess, although several spilled onto the ground with a chime of silver. “Sorry for bridge-ly.”
Then she turned, scurried to the horse, and held out her arms to be hoisted aboard.
“Tarim’s patience!” exclaimed the abbess, as she teased open the mouth of one of the bags and saw what was inside. It was the first time Fern had seen her off-balance.
