“Okay, ten minutes to piss and stretch out your legs, then we’re moving,” Rakos says. He feels bad for the minstrel, who clearly isn’t used to hard travel or sleeping in trees or being abducted—but what’s he supposed to do, rub Bell’s shoulders?
Rakos’s cock gives an interested twitch. Swearing under his breath, Rakos turns away from his temporary new companion to find a suitably distant tree.
***
Bell’s magic proves handy identifying safe water throughout the morning. Bell says the first spring they come across has some unknown spell lurking at the bottom, but the second is clean. And Rakos finds a few hadarnut trees on the way to supplement the stale rations.
Bell discovers a bush laden with glossy blackberries midway through the morning. Rakos doesn’t share his excitement. “Check for magic. Those aren’t native.”
Bell pauses, his outstretched fingers a few inches away from the berries. “There’s no magic. I think they’re safe.”
“No magic doesn’t mean they’re safe,” Rakos says, though the plump, delicious-looking berries call to him. “Look, which one of us knows more about plants? I’m the farmer here.”
Bell continues to stare, his eyes unreadable. Shadows deepen the angles of his face. “I’ll take my chances,” he says, and pops a berry into his mouth. Red-purple juice stains the plump curve of his lower lip until he licks it away.
Throat suddenly dry, Rakos turns away. “Suit yourself. I’m not the one who’ll be shitting my guts out if those are poisonous.”
Bell chokes at his words. Fuck, the guy’s prudish for a wandering minstrel. Not that Rakos knows many minstrels. Or Silaisans.
“How about a song while we walk, minstrel?”
Bell chokes on his next berry too. When he’s done coughing, he says, “I don’t like to sing after it rains. It’s bad for the throat. Besides, aren’t we in hiding?”
“You’re too sensible,” Rakos accuses. Though he’s never heard that about singing after the rain before.
The sun’s high overhead by the time they reach the edge of the woods. Dark pillar trees give way abruptly to a wide, well-maintained dirt road. Across the road, an orchard and fields sweep up a shallow hillside. A humble farmhouse and barn crown the hill.
Rakos regrets leaving the berries behind. Bell seems fine, and Rakos is fucking hungry. He eyes the hillside orchard. No fruit in sight. If those are even fruit trees. Fuck, if he knew he was going to be sticking with Bell for this long, he would have picked a less ridiculous secret identity.
“Do you think the residents would give us some food?” Bell asks nervously, leaning against the nearest tree. He’s paler than before. “Maybe you could offer to help with the farm work…”
Rakos refrains from hitting his head against the tree.Yeah, that would be a great idea if I knew the first thing about farming. I know what a hoe is—does that count?
“Too risky,” Rakos says quickly. “For them. If they harbored us, the drasgard would blame them for it.”
Bell blinks at him. “You’re a nice person.”
“You take that back.”
Bell just grins. “I thought you’d be more worried about the residents turning you in, for whatever terrible farming crime you were imprisoned for.”
“Tax evasion,” Rakos says at random, but that seems insufficient. “Plus, I got drunk and insulted Prince Vana’s mother. Not the queen, mind. His first mother, back in Kaiskara.”
“Wow,” Bell says. “You’re really reckless for someone who won’t eat blackberries.”
“They were highly suspicious blackberries.” Rakos contemplates the farm on the hill, considering whether it might be worth robbing the place for food.
Until a distant shape wheels through the clear sky overhead. The hawk circles once, twice, before veering away, and Rakos’s uneasiness crystallizes.
“Nevermind,” Rakos says. “The farm’s a bad idea. There should be a stream nearby. I can fish for dinner. Are you good to go?”
Bell bites his lip and levers himself from the tree. He’s regained some color from the brief rest, but exhaustion still shadows his eyes. “I’m good.”
No complaints. That’s good, Rakos decides. Bell’s headache must be gone.
***
A day of travel and foraging takes them north, where Rakos better recognizes the landmarks. By the westward cliffs and the burned-out waystation they pass at midday, they’re just south of Orthin. Rakos isn’t sure how much longer the journey will be, though. He’s used to a dragon’s pace above forests, not a turtle’s pace through them.
