Except, that wasn’t entirely true. Venick glanced at the sun through the trees. He noted its position, the angle of the shadows. His eyes fell to Ellina. “We aren’t going south,” he said.
She appeared distracted. “Hmm?”
“South.” Venick halted. “You said we were heading to Tarrith-Mour. That city issouth. This,” he motioned around the forest, “is east.”
Ellina waved a hand. “A quick diversion.”
“Ellina.” Venick stood rooted. “Butwhere?”
She stopped then too, turning to face him fully. “There is something I want to see. It will not take long.” Her expression became amused. “You are welcome to stay here, if you like.”
Venick snorted. The hell he would.
She continued onward. He went after her.
???
It was a camp. Or, it had been.
A few squat tents remained, the weathered goatskin hanging sadly on drooping poles. The space had been cleared, all underbrush cut away to reveal a swath of forest ground. It was obvious that elves had once bedded here. There were campfires spaced at even intervals, dead now, the stubs of old wood blackened by repeated burnings. Most supplies had been carried away, but a few discarded pieces remained: a waterlogged book, an iron pan, a bedroll. And a smell, too, that lingered.
Venick glanced around for Dourin, who had continued ahead without them, then looked at Ellina. “Did you know this camp?”
“It was not a camp.”
He hitched a brow. “There are tents. Campfires. Places where elves—”
“It was not a camp,” Ellina insisted. Her hand gripped the hilt of her sword at her belt, a habit he was coming to recognize. “It was a tent-city.”
“A tent-city?”
“A city of tents. Permanent. It was here long enough to earn a name. They called it Muralwood.”
And where has the permanent city moved to now?Venick almost asked but didn’t, because Ellina’s eyes had taken on a grey cast, her stance warning against his witticism. She began picking her way through the empty city, stopping to touch a wooden bench, a blanket, a broken clay bowl. He followed her.
Venick didn’t mean to notice it. He had already decided that he couldn’t make Ellina’s problems his problems. Yes, they had escaped Kenath together, would avoid the southerners together, but he had one true focus: returning home. That was all that mattered.
And so he didn’t mean to catch the way Ellina’s mouth turned down, how her shoulders hunched, the troubled ridge between her brow. He didn’t mean to take these images and shape them into a story, or to insert himself into that story. He wouldn’t have, except that his thoughts still lingered on Kenath, and the words she’d spoken by the river, and her uncertain claim about whether she could be punished for traveling with him.
He moved to block her path before he could stop himself. Ellina halted, eyes lifting:yes?
“You’re gripping your sword,” Venick said, which earned him the kind of look a mother might give a difficult child. Venick explained. “You grip your sword when you’re troubled.”
“I—” Ellina glanced down. “What?”
“This.” Venick reached for her sword-hand, brushed his fingers over hers. Felt heat—sudden, surprising—crawl up his neck at the contact. “It’s what you do when you’re troubled. So tell me.” His voice was rough. Too rough. He cleared his throat. “What’s wrong?”
Ellina stared at where his fingers lingered over hers. She didn’t seem to hear him. Or maybe she did, but her mouth was unable to form any words.
Venick shouldn’t be thinking about her mouth.
He shouldn’t be thinking about what troubled her, or whetherthistroubled her. Him touching her.
He let his hand fall.
“You weren’t expecting to find it abandoned,” he guessed, taking a step back to create space between them. He tied his expression down to neutral, as if nothing unusual had just happened, as if his blood didn’t feel both lighter and heavier at once. Because it didn’t.
Believe that.
