Like he’s going to drive that beast—and himself—directly into the stones.
“What are you doing!” I scramble to my feet. “Merc—”
With an athletic surge, Merc jumps up and plants his boots on the knobby spine, balancing as if he surfs upon a board. And then at just the right moment, he yanks the broadsword free of that mouth full of teeth, whips it around—and stabs thebalasin the rear. As the ugly, red-eyed head arcs up and the body of the monster breaks out of the water, its master leaps forward, one step, two steps, three steps—
He jumps off the nose of thebalas, throwing himself at the lip of the moat’s walling.
Fates, he’s not going to make it. As the otherbalasretrench their positions, and form another circle, he’s going to smash into the stonework, knock himself out, and fall back into that horrible water and all those yellow teeth.
“Merc!”
At the last moment, when surely he’s going to make a full-body impact, he trains the tip of the broadsword at a mortared fissure. The penetration is spot-on, and he double-grips the hilt, lithely swinging his legs up and around—
Just as one of thebalaslaunches out of the water after him.
As those jaws snap at nothing but air, Merc is flying free, a perfectly executed tumble planting him upon the grass with both boots under him, and that sword still in the grip of his very sturdy palms.
He’s breathing heavily. But he’s utterly alive, and smiling like a god.
“Well,” Julion remarks, “I did not know one could ride those wretched creatures.”
I don’t even think. And that, of course, is a fault of mine when it comes to the mercenary.
With a cry of joy, I launch myself at him, and Merc catches me with one arm easily, his laugh so deep and masculine, the satisfaction in it is warmer than the sunlight itself—and he keeps laughing as he swings me around and around, my legs spinning out as I find myself sharing in the happy release.
And then comes the moment of pause, our silly spinning stilling, our faces almost too close together, our bodies totally too close together.
The way Julion clears his throat, we might as well be naked.
As I push myself out of Merc’s arms, I flush and then panic about having shown myself. Except there’s no worry on that. Punching out my arms, I see nothing of my skin, just muck from the moat. From my face to my feet, I’m covered with congealing slime.
Cloaked in it, one might say.
“So I gather you two are of acquaintance,” Julion says with disapproval.
Twenty-TwoOn Matters of Size.
Deep in the autumnal woods, behind the thick trunk of athimbewhose leaves have gone red and orange, I’m peeling off my absolutely disgusting underclothes. The chill in the air makes me goose-pimple all over, until I feel for sure my bones have turned to icicles. Julion has given me an entire bladder of fresh water to clean with—for all the good it can do against what coats me—and I grit my teeth, brace myself, and empty the rush over my head—
A beautiful scent blooms around me, of roses and other flowers I have never smelled before.
It’s not water.
As a tingling enlivens the root of every strand of my hair, I bring my fingertips to my nose. Then I rub them together. It’s an oily substance, astringent in nature, and it’s doubling and redoubling. Glancing down my body, the fizzing trail it leaves on the way to my feet generates heat.
I pour the rest of the bladder over my head, closing my eyes and luxuriating in the unexpected gift. Soon enough, I am as covered in the cleanser as I am with the muck, and just as I’m wondering how to rinse off, the solution starts to evaporate. Steaming off my hair and scalp first, the moat’s stench and slime leave with it, and I watch my forearm as my freckled skin emerges. When I reach up to my head, I’m surprised to find the locks of white hair dry and fluffy—and as I bring some forward to my nose, the flowered scent lingers.
What would Merc think of it?
As he comes to mind, it seems right that the warmth that’s flowed into my body and kindled my internal organs flares up even more. I enjoy the sensation for the moments it lasts, and miss the soothing comfort when it’s gone. Ultimately, I’m left cold and aware that I’m bruised and cut in many places.
Time to get dressed, and fortunately, this bathing bounty is not all Julion’s provided me. Draped on a branch, there’s a pale blue men’s undershirt, of such finely spun wool, it’s like air. There’s also a heavier navy jacket and pair of riding pants, both of which have a pattern on the hems that appears to be sterling silver. Finally, I’ve been given a turban that is made up of coils of that blue fabric, and accented by more silver stitching.
Shivering, I throw the clothing on. The undershirt is absurdly baggy, and I roll the sleeves up. I have a little better luck with the jodhpurs, as they’re meant to fit tightly; they just pool around my ankles and calves. A fine leather strap from Julion’s saddlebags slips through the loops to keep the waistband from sliding off my hips, and then I glance at the sodden slop heap of what I had been wearing.
I’ll have to somehow fashion a face covering out of something. But I hate the idea of any of it on me now that I’m clean and in fine, dry clothes.
On that note, I turn to the pack. Amazingly, there’s a puddle of scum around it, the fabric seeming to reject that which everything I’d had on had absorbed like a sponge. When I bend down to open the throat, I’m also shocked to find the interior is totally dry—
