He walks away, heading to the path to wait while I finish at the stream. I frown after him and wonder why it seems like his hair is longer than it was earlier today. No, that can’t be right. Something tickles the back of my mind…There’s something there. But what is it?
Bryn scampers over, breaking my train of thought. She circles once before flicking her tail, her eyes locked on the beef. With a slight smile, I tear it in half, passing her a piece before grudgingly eating the other. She prances in place, devouring the meat in two quick bites, chattering all the while.
The food settles into my stomach like a grounding weight. And suddenly, I realize I’m famished. A rumble tears through me, loud enough to wake the dead. I dig into my pack, retrieve the bread, and finish what’s left. Crumbs scatter across the forest floor.
Distant voices drift through the trees.Wait, voices?I stiffen, motioning for Bryn to be silent.
There should be no one else out here. Could the rogues have followed us?
No.The rogues were too far gone to have cared where we were headed, if they even made it out of the tomb at all. My stomach turns at the thought, the remains of the meal curdling with it.
Hooking my pack over my shoulder, I stay low and move through the trees, Bryn right on my heels. I meet Taliesin on the path. He’s already alert, eyes scanning the trees, one hand resting on the hilt of his sword. Traitorously, I feel relieved that he’s here.
“See anyone?” he asks in a quiet voice.
I shake my head. “Only heard them. There’s at least three. Maybe more.”
He inhales, nostrils flaring. “Smoke.”
I catch it a second later. Woodsmoke curls through the trees, and beneath it, the richer scent of roasting meat, thick with fat. The crackle of flames and murmur of distant voices fill the air as we listen. It’s a camp. A close one.
It could be nothing. A few travellers passing through or merchants ferrying their goods from one port to the other. But wouldn’t that be an unlikely coincidence?
“Your choice,” Taliesin says. “What do you want to do?
He’s defaulting to me? It’s the first time he’s done that. Stars, it might be the first timeanyonehas done that.
“There’s a chance it’s the Order,” I say. “And that they have Arawn.”
His brow rises. “And so you want to steal a dead god from the Order.”
“I’m not so sure he’s dead.”
He huffs a breath, then shakes his head. “All right, but I ask that you let me go in front. If they spot us, my magic is the easiest way to end them.”
He says it so casually, like murdering three men in the middle of the woods is as natural as breathing. I brace myself for the flicker of unease, or the rise of nausea in my throat. But neither comes. If anything, I feel a thrum of excitement, my earlier exhaustion banished now.
It should trouble me, how eager I am to fight the Order. But fuck it. They used me. They deceived me. They took what I am and twisted it into control.
If love was the blade they forged for me, then I will learn to wield it myself.
I’m no one’s pawn anymore.
25
We creep through the forest toward an orange glow that shifts and bends the shadows. Taliesin’s steps are near silent, stealth as effortless for him as violence. The murmur of voices grows louder. Soon, other sounds join it: wagon wheels creaking, steel scraping whetstone, spoons clinking against bowls.
I glance up at Taliesin, frowning. What I first took for a small camp is something far grander. And when we finally catch a glimpse of it through the trees, my suspicion is confirmed.
It’s not just one fire. They are half a dozen, scattered amongst rows of tents that sprout from the ground like drooping weeds. A few wagons lurk nearby. Two elven women with rosy cheeks and healer robes perch on a seat, legs dangling, laughter bright in their red-rimmed eyes. They clink their mugs together and drink deep before leaning in, murmuring conspiratorially.
I scan the others gathered here. Most wear leathers engraved with the king’s symbol: a dragon head, tongue flicking from its open jaws. Weapons sit on their laps as they’re polished, sharpened, and cleaned. A bard stands on a stump at the center of it all, plucking a lute.
Not the Order, then. This is a war camp. But why are they here?
Taliesin leans closer and points. I follow his line of sight, my gaze landing on a man whose portrait I’ve studied a thousand times. King Cadog is a towering, broad-shouldered elven figure with a long, thin nose and hair the color of the onyx tomb we left behind. With eyes just as black, he surveys the camp from the open flap of his tent, dragon pin clasping the cloak at his throat.
Despite allying his court with the Order, he refuses to take their symbols for himself.
