Leth got it right the first time, and Evain told him, “Well done,” which really shouldn’t have felt as good as it did to hear.
Leth’s fingertips sink into the soft red scarf, and a strange feeling surges up in him. Something like flower petals gently brushing against glass. The clothes surely aren’t anything personal. He remembers Reed saying he had more supplies waiting for them, and maybe everyone got new clothes.
Even so. It’s nice to feel cared for, just a little.
***
The sun rises reluctantly over the Riverswords’ yard, and night’s frost still gleams along rooftops. Leth joins the rest of the group for one last gathering together. Arthur, Shae, and Freya won’t leave town until later today, but Evain wanted to talk to everyone. Arthur looks half-asleep, and Marta looks fully asleep. She’s wrapped in so many scarves and furs, she resembles a fluffy ball more than a person. Everyone’s breath rises in clouds.
Leth doesn’t feel the cold at all. His new clothes are warm and fit him perfectly. So perfectly he would think they were tailored to his exact measurements, if he didn’t know better.
Evain is cheerful and animated despite the early hour. Leth hasn’t seen him this happy outside of wine and cheese night at the Locksmiths’ base, or holding flirtatious court at random taverns. A hint of a smile lingers at the corners of his lips, the curve of his eyes, and the glance he gives Leth is almost as warm as the red scarf around his neck.
Fingering the end of the scarf, Leth looks away.
“Gather round, gather round.” Evain has a dark velvet pouch in his hands. “I have a gift for everyone. A token of my appreciation and affection.”
He turns to Leth first and presses a small object into his palm. They’re both wearing gloves, but Leth still feels the heat of his too-brief touch. As Evain moves onto the others, Leth inspects the token. A silver disc the size of a coin, strung on a thin leather cord. A very familiar pattern is etched onto the face of the disc.
Freya swears loudly. “Fucking ashes, Evain, why did we have to memorize the fucking array if you were just going to give us these?”
“What if you lose the pendant?” Evain says. “You lost your scarf to Sir Marta already”
Blinking awake, Marta touches the cream-colored scarf around her neck.
“You’re lucky we’re splitting up,” Freya says darkly, and Arthur laughs. Even Shae beside him cracks a smile.
Leth focuses on the pendant as the others chat and say their farewells. The artisanship is exact, every rune precise in miniature. The sort of artisanship Leth recognizes asveryexpensive. Whether he went to a silversmith or a craft-witch, Evain spent a lot of money in preparation for this quest, even beyond the travel expenses and wages. It’s hard to imagine all this preparation took place just within the months after the Unbinding. Evain must have been planning this for years.
A shadow crosses over him. Leth looks up—and up—at Evain.
“Are you ready to go?” Evain doesn’t wait for Leth’s answer before plucking the pendant from Leth’s hands. His hands are bare now, his gloves hanging out of his coat pocket. “Here, let me.”
He moves slowly enough that Leth could knock his hand away if he wanted. And he should want to, because nothing has truly changed. Evain is still demon-bound, and Leth should still hate that. But he stands stone-still as Evain unwinds his scarf and slides the leather string around his neck. His bare fingers brush Leth’s throat, searing hot, as he tucks the pendant into his coat.
That cinnamon smoke scent twists into Leth’s lungs and hooks like thorns. Red flashes through Evain’s eyes, a trick of the rising sun.
“Don’t lose this.” Evain’s voice is steady, as if what he’s doing to Leth is ordinary. As if it’snothing. He rewraps Leth’s scarf too. “Let’s head out.”
The pendant weighs heavy against Leth’s chest, and he fears it will rattle against his ribs with the furious pounding of his heart. He clenches his fists, then relaxes them. Takes three deep breaths before bidding the others farewell and following Evain from the outpost.
***
Two of Georgia’s darlings wait at the Lanwatch stables with the horses. One of them, a woman in her fifties with silver-blond hair and weathered skin, introduces herself as Bricks. She’s supervising a string of shaggy pack ponies, while another pony in a riding saddle stands behind her and lips at her hair.
The other Riversword is a young man who can’t be older than twenty. His mop of black hair ruffles in the wind, and his beard is the faintest shadow against his russet brown skin. A bow and quiver sit over his shoulder. “You can call me Darkblade,” he says, offering his hand.
“Not this again.” Bricks rolls her eyes. “You can call himDarren.”
“Or Darren,” Darren says with a sigh, though his grin stays bright.
Marta produces a hand from her bundling of coats and mumbles sleepily, “Marta. Nice to meet you, Darkblade.”
Leth reaches out next. “I’m Leth. Ah…”
“Darren is fine.” Darren’s grin widens. “I saw you practicing outside last night. I’d love to spar with you sometime.”
“Of course.” Leth rarely turns down the chance to spar with someone new; every new opponent is a chance to become stronger, or to share his own skills with others. “That would be nice.”
