Had she found out about Sir Hamlin? Anxiety filled my mouth with saliva, which I swallowed. Glenda was so . . .passionatein her adherence to Order. Though perhaps it could work in my favour, if I allowed her to guide my ‘repentance.’
With increasing agitation, I built a campfire, cooked her a vegetarian broth, gnawed at my own rations, then dove into my sleeping roll. Roots poked at me through the burnished leather and rabbit skin; it felt like I’d lain across someone’s bony feet. “Glenda,” I tried again, shuffling to get comfortable. “Is something wrong?”
She gave a hiccup of laughter. It had an oddly hysterical tinge.
“Come on.” I raised onto an elbow to squint in her general direction. “I know something’s wrong. My brother sulked just like this when he had to kill one of his fancy goats for Descentmass.”
“Oh.” She sighed, and I heard her rolling to face me. “That’s horrible! If he had a bond with that animal, it should have been respected.”
“Glenda, I won’t let you change the subject. You’re upset about something non-goat related, and I’d really like to hear it.”
Silence stretched, long and tense. Eventually, I gave up and snuggled back into my roll. Too full of nervous energy to sleep, I listened instead for the creak of constructs. They rarely struck at night, and Glenda’s hearing surpassed mine regardless, but logic could only put small dents in my fear.
Then, she spoke, in a whisper so soft I nearly missed it. “Cameron. You’re going to die.”
“Sorry?” I scratched at a bug bite. “I’m sure I misheard you. I’m going towhat?”
In response, sniffling, and the crunch of a small body curling inside a hemp bedroll.
I threw back my covering and sat up. “Glenda, come on. Why am I going to die? What does that mean? That’s such an alarming thing to say. Do you mean in terms of our respective lifespans, I’ll die first? Or do you think I have a disease, or . . . ?”
I couldn’t complete my sentence. The Order didn’texecutepeople for minor sexual deviancies—and certainly not someone of my station. Right? They wouldn’t. They couldn’t.
The shadowed lump, barely discernible as Glenda, remained mute. Of course, with her elven night-vision shecould see me perfectly as I gaped at her. “Glenda?” I said again, groping about for a stick to poke her with.
“I’ll tell you in the morning!”
I waited a few beats. “You promise?”
She wailed, then muffled it. Like she’d clamped a hand to her mouth. I fully intended to press, but then the sound of weeping reached me, and I lay back in baffled silence. Glenda’s crying continued for a good while until, after a round of loudly sucking in snot, her distraught breaths evened out. Soft snores filled the air.
Frustration heated me as I lay in the dark. She’d left me to wallow with such a horrible notion while she escaped to dreaming!
But I relied on her. I couldn’t afford to be anything but charming.
All attempts to empty my head proved useless. I cycled in and out of a half-awake state, always conscious of the roots beneath my back, and the itch of mosquito bites, and my own impending death. Especially that last one, if I was being honest.
When the dawn chorus rose, robins and blackbirds and hedge-griffons all chortling and whistling in competition, I wanted to cry aloud. Instead, I began the day.
It made for an easy routine: put the fire back up, comb my golden hair to perfection, and heat Glenda’s breakfast in a little pot—mushrooms and seaweed, with a decadent slice of ginger. For myself, I had a fistful of dried meat. It tasted like shoes.
Eventually, Glenda woke. The morning light filtering through the branches cast dappled spots across her blue skin as she stretched.
I chewed at her, open-mouthed. “So, I’m going to die?”
“Please,” she said, rubbing her eyes. “May I have something to eat first?”
I gestured at the pot, then shoved the jerky into my mouth, whereupon I choked. While Glenda sat cross-legged on her bedroll, weaving her silver hair into an intricate braid, I spat the jerky into my hand and had at it again in smaller, rodent-like bites.
Having made herself decent, Glenda joined me by the fire. She took the bowl I offered, and added something from her pocket—flavouring, I supposed.
I waited impatiently for her to slurp it all down, then tried again. “Why am I going to die?”
Carefully, Glenda set down her bowl. Her overlong eyelashes shuddered as she stared into its empty depths. “Because of the prophecy.”
My first thought was: thank God this wasn’t about Sir Hamlin. With unearned relief, I bumped my leg against hers in a comradely manner. “What exactly is ‘the prophecy’?”
“They made me promise not to tell.”
