Alison looked at Keir. Both of them wielding magic together—it could be something incredible. Maybe it could be enough to save Herot’s Hollow.
But she couldn’t ask it of him, not if he wasn’t ready for it.
“We’ll find another way,” said Alison. “If you don’t want to…”
“No, I didn’t mean that. I just need some time to think,” said Keir.
“I’m sorry to interrupt,” said Mab, “but I think our final guests are arriving.”
There was movement in the trees beyond the bonfire. Two figures approached—a tall man Alison mistook for Weyland at first based on his size alone, but as he stepped into the light, she saw his dark hair and tan skin and realized she didn’t know him after all.
Behind him was a woman. An orc with red hair.
It couldn’t be. Could it?
“Rinka?”
Chapter Thirteen
REUNIONS
Rinka
The path the will-o’-the-wisp followed through the woods wound up and down, left and right, twisting and turning dozens of times. Rinka sighed with relief once they finally made it into a clearing—her bed awaited.
Or so she thought. In the clearing, there was a roaring bonfire, a dozen or more figures dancing to a lively tune played by a band of…fairies? Except they were large, Fulling-sized, and was that a Fulling-sized hobgoblin too?
Rinka turned to Drystan, whose attention was being sought by one of the very large fairies. The fairy appeared normal, so could they have shrunk? Rinka was looking around, trying to get her bearings, when from across the clearing, she heard her name in a familiar voice.
“Rinka?”
There she was. The very person Rinka had been traveling to meet. Her former and future roommate, Alison.
Alison rushed towards her, arms outstretched. Rinka ran to meet her, her exhaustion temporarily forgotten in the joy of reuniting with a dear friend.
“My Gods, Rinka, are you alright?” asked Alison as she pulled away. “You look…”
“Terrible?” offered Rinka.
“No, no, I wasn’t going to say—”
“But you were thinking it,” said Rinka. She laughed, and Alison did too.
Alison looked well—her dark hair was longer than when she’d left Arcas Dyrne, and she had maybe put on a little weight, making her appear stronger and healthier than when she’d left. Her blue eyes were as bright as ever, although they were now full of concern. “What happened? Where is the carriage? How did you get here? What time is it? Did you miss us in town? How long have we been gone?”
“We didn’t quite make it to the carriage,” said Rinka. She shivered in the cool night air. Alison looked at her wrinkled dress and bare arms and removed her overcoat, a well-made tweed number that was too tight for Rinka but felt nice draped over her shoulders, and she led Rinka closer to the bonfire.
“We?” asked a man who had followed them. He wore a riding outfit that nearly matched Alison’s with the colors reversed, and Rinka recognized his handsome face from the sketch Alison had sent her.
“You must be Mr. Ainsley,” said Rinka, offering her hand to shake.
“Keir,” he said. And then he spoke over her shoulder to someone coming up behind her: “Ah, here comes trouble.”
Rinka turned to see Drystan approaching. She looked between the men and there was no doubt about it—they knew each other.
“Ainsley. I was wondering how long it would be before I ran into you.”
“Come here, you old knocker-waffle,” said Keir. He held out a hand to shake, which Drystan took and pulled him into a hug which was half hug, half hitting each other on the back repeatedly.
