Mal lowered his goblet to reveal a slowly forming grin, a hint of mirth warming his eyes that banished some of the tightness in Griff’s chest. “And you’d better start thinking of horse names.”
Alys, who had climbed to her feet and was starting to put her sword belt back on, smiled at them for a long moment and said, “I’ll work on that list while I’m out there, then.”
Mal frowned. “Wait. Out where?”
“I’d like to hunt around the area for a while, get a feel for the land, and see if there’s anything else of Papa’s we might have missed. You’d be surprised how well I can see at night.” Alys grabbed the shriveled orc’s head now mounted on a stocky dead branch and bobbed it in their direction, then grinned again like this had been her intention all along. “I’ll take Leo with me, so I won’t be alone. I’ve got my sword, and I’ve got the broken one too, in case I come across the rest of it. Besides, who ever heard of a warg that’s afraid of the dark?”
She quickly disappeared into the blackness between the trees, leaving Griff worrying and asking, “Shouldn’t one of us go with her, at least?”
Part of him wondered if Alys was just trying to give them a moment alone together after they had nearly kissed yesterday, though he didn’t voice it out loud. He still didn’t know how Malwould feel about spending time together on purpose or about kissing another man.
Gazing thoughtfully the way Alys had gone, Mal said, “She might have only killed the one living man, but she can take care of herself, as you saw yesterday. Even if we hadn’t been there, she would have figured out the trick with the heads.” Softer, he added, “And I think … there are some things she’s just got to do for herself.”
“Should I be offended that you don’t speak of my sword skills quite the same way?” Griff asked, trying to keep his voice light.
“Probably,” Mal admitted in his usual blunt manner. He went over to the saddlebags near the tethered, dozing mule and pulled out one of the blue bottles. “But I hope your knickers aren’t in too much of a bunch to try this with me.”
Settling on the ground just beside Griff with the goblet and the bottle, close enough that their knees were touching, he didn’t make any attempt at the cork with his bandaged hands just yet. Instead, he cut an unreadable look across at Griff and said, “You might as well go ahead and take a look at these cuts too. I lost my mittens when we were fighting those damned revenants, so the bandages probably need changing. I’m in the mood to curse, anyway.”
Griff could have said something about being sober, but he didn’t. Instead, he quickly dumped out the remaining whiskey in the goblet and hoped Mal wouldn’t notice, then started working at the old cork in the dusty blue bottle with a tool on his belt. Elf-wine had many incredible qualities, not least of which was that it didn’t form a habit the way human or dwarven wine did. It tasted like bottled starlight, and its effects were closer to something like Alys’s mushrooms, if anything. A gentle, temporary high.
As he fought the cork, he glanced up at Mal and said, “You want my professional opinion as a healer? Worst case, you’re goingto have a scar on your right hand to rival that impressive one on your chest.”
Mal reached for the empty goblet, holding it clumsily between his hands for Griff to fill. “Hope it doesn’t bother me for the rest of my life the way your scar is hounding you.”
Griff poured a little too much wine, nearly to the goblet’s rim, so he wouldn’t have to meet Mal’s eyes. “You’ve noticed, huh.”
“Mmm,” Mal murmured, and Griff thought that might be the end of the conversation. But then he said, “Certain poisons derived by magical means will do that.”
“I know.” Griff set the bottle down and raised his eyes to Mal’s, surprised that he had guessed this much. “But there’s something in that treasure—or there might be—that was enchanted to cure such things. A pair of silver vambraces made by elven healers. I was hoping to wear them for a little while before you sell them to the highest bidder or whatever, as long as it doesn’t interfere with your plans.”
“Of course not,” Mal said. “That’s all the more reason we need to press on as soon as we can.” He took a long drink from the heavy goblet, the fingers of his other hand tracing a line down his chest. “My scar wasn’t made by any kind of poison,” he added. Then, with another look at Griff, “Alys doesn’t like me talking about my time in Thrallkeld.”
“I’m not her,” Griff answered evenly, and Mal held his gaze.
“No, you’re not.” Mal took a breath, seeming to steel himself for whatever he was about to say. “I … left my dignity on the living room floor that day. When you and I fought that first time.” He swiftly glanced down, hiding whatever emotion flashed through his eyes. “I went to Thrallkeld to try to get it back.”
The air was growing cold as the night around them deepened. Griff set the bottle he had been holding gently in his lap, drawing his cloak tighter around him as he listened, afraid that if he spoke now, the moment would be over too soon.
“It started out okay. I met a girl, Ella—we were friends. We worked together to get by, running schemes and picking pockets,” Mal explained, his face darkening as he continued. “Renaud ran things down there—several things, but namely, the thieves’ guild. He had a big house, fine clothes, and pockets full of gold, and I wanted it. All of it. I wanted to conquer the city like Wynnie used to dream of doing before she met Rhun, give her something to really be proud of. So I challenged Renaud when I thought I was ready, but—he still had the upper hand, as you’ve seen.” Mal’s smile was as black as the look in his eyes. “For a while, I managed to avoid capture. I hid in a ruin and ate through my rations, and then I resorted to eating rats. But once those were gone too, I was forced to move, and Renaud’s people found me. He said he was going to … make an example of me.”
“Maybe he made an example of a seventeen-year-old boy, but I’d like to meet him now and see whatIcould make ofhim,” Griff growled. The thought of that scar, what had clearly been a grisly wound on Mal’s chest, had some protective beast rearing up inside him. Had him abandoning his usually gentle nature in favor of Wynnie’s bloodlust. “I could go after him for you, settle the score once we’re out of here and my wounds are healed.”
Rats.
Alone and afraid and desperate to prove himself, Mal had resorted to eating rats to survive. No wonder he was so thin.
Mal had been starving, hiding and running for his life like a hunted animal, while Griff was above it all in Stormveil, debating whether he should have one or two sugar cubes in his hand-painted porcelain teacup and cracking jokes to make Princess Rosemaris laugh.
That awful scar was his fault.
Maybe no one could have talked Mal out of going, but Griff could have been there. Fought beside him. Bled with him.
He took out his feelings on the blue bottle in his lap, pouring another generous serving into the goblet and toasting to Mal before taking a much-needed sip.
“You can’t—Griff, you really can’t go after someone like Renaud,” Mal said seriously, sitting taller, his eyes gleaming with sudden alertness even as he took the goblet to have a taste for himself. “Much as I’d love to see you take a swing at him with that maul, you don’t have a chance against someone like him. Most people don’t. He’s got so many men loyal to him all over that city, you could kill him but still end up dead.”
He shook his head, silent a moment as he gazed off someplace Griff couldn’t follow. “I asked Wynnie to do it. I think she might be the only one who can. But you—I need you alive. Because I need you to look at my hands before I get some kind of infection and die in one of the stupid ways I told you not to.” He thrust his hands out, upturned palms coming to rest on Griff’s thighs.
