My attention slams back into my own body, and the snowfall stops abruptly.
I say defensively, “I can spark a flame.”
“I didn’t say a spark. I didn’t say a flame. I saidbrimfire.”
Without further explanation, he jabs the fae needle into thin air, ripping the fabric of space itself. Warm lantern light spills out of the crack as he continues to unstitch a portal. He disappears into a low-lit stone room, then seals the portal behind him.
I’m left in the clearing, snow rapidly melting, confused grasshoppers flinging themselves at my feet—as if begging their god for an answer.
Chapter 12
Basten
Two more days until we reach Old Coros.
The closer we get, the more the old injury in my shoulder hurts. Sure, any soldier’s body is a smorgasbord of old aches and pains, but this feels different. It’s as if with every one of Ranger’s steps, my body tries to tighten like rusty armor. Like I’m headed straight into war, and it’s shouting at me through the pain:Remember how much this hurt? Why do this again?
There’s a part of me that would love to jerk the reins to a sharp left, get the hell off this route, and ride straight to Salensa with Sabine. See the ocean, like she always wanted. Hunt for damn seashells. Eat oysters until we burst. Say fuck it to the world of gods and men alike and dive through the waves.
But I’m going to be king.
King, like in a fucking fairy tale.
The sun is painting the back of my neck red, burning deep into my aching muscles, and if it’s possible to sweat on the insides, I would be.
I glance at Sabine. “There’s an inn a quarter mile ahead, if I remember right. We can stop for lunch.”
Her head bobs in a nod that feels automatic, like she’s a million miles away.
I try again. “I’d kill for something other than hard tack.”
“Mmm,” she agrees vaguely, distracted.
I give her a closer look. The wedding was damn blissful perfection, but in the days after, we’ve both fallen silent. I’ve been mired in my own thoughts—worried with every step toward Old Coros about what it will mean to wear a crown.
Of course, it makes sense she’s a mess of fears, too.
I give my senses free rein to inspect her, pick up her little tells. Her stomach is grumbling—she’s ignored her hunger pangs. She’s worked her wedding ring so much that it’s worn a groove in her skin. She’s squeezing her legs too hard around Myst.
I start, “Anything on your mind?”
Her lips twitch as if unsure what—or how much—she wants to say. The sun disappears as we plunge deep within a copse of black walnuts, working a chill into my limbs. A part of me wonders if the trees stretched extra tall, just now, so the shadows would match their goddess’s mood.
My attention snags on her veins, pulsing beneath her skin with something thicker than blood. She’s fighting an urge. Something dark.
For what? For…my blood?
“I want to go to Bremcote,” she says suddenly in a deep voice I barely recognize as her own.
Oh.
I swallow, telling myself to keep a steady breath, but even Ranger beneath me picks up on the shift in my nerves. He flicks his ears back in alertness.
“Into the actual town?” I clarify. “There’s a path around it. We needn’t go directly through it.”
“Intotown,” she says.
My wildcat is flashing her claws.
