Maybe he was a fool.
“Why do you think we need to go east?” He searched her face. “Is it nerves? Are you trying to lead us out of the woods? If you don’t want to face the witch, you can turn back. I told you I’d still pay you.”
“It’s not nerves,” she snapped, looking insulted. “It’s not about the money. I’m telling you the truth—the woods are bad along the river. We can’t go that way just the two of us. We should find your men first.”
“How do you know the woods along the river are bad?”
“Instinct.”
She lifted her chin, gray eyes flashing with challenge. The freckles stood out starkly against her pale skin. Scared and defiant. He’d known her beauty was going to be a problem for him going in. He’d stupidly thought that after a few days of rough living some of the shine would wear off, but Rowan seemed to thrive in wild spaces.
She was more comfortable in the woods than inside her own home. She moved through the forest like she was a part of it. Silent and light-footed as the nymphs of legend. She had a knack for choosing the smoothest trails through the tangled brush along the river. It was like the thorn bushes parted before her. He swore the willow branches had gathered over her last night to shield her from the rain while she slept.
She was a good guide. So good it was uncanny.
Some of her hair had come loose from her braid to drift around her face. There was a smudge of dirt on her cheek that his fingers twitched to rub off.
Was she a witch?
She might be leading him away from his men and into some trap.
Would he be able to discern it?
He was attracted to her, and it was messing with his head. He genuinelylikedher.
She was as skittish as a wild thing, but still kind, still hopeful, and incredibly, stupidly brave. She didn’t go back on her word even when she was scared out of her mind. He’d seen her face hardship and danger and fear. She didn’t ever give up. There was something solid as granite at the core of her. Something that wouldn’t be broken. He admired it greatly.
But he couldn’t forget she had fae blood.
“No spells, Rowan,” he warned her softly. “You can’t depend on any of that out here. It’s too dangerous.”
If she cast a spell, it would trigger a response from the witchstone which sat cold in his pocket. He’d never known it to fail.
She hadn’t cast any spells yet.
But how was she guiding him through the forest? The trail was gone. The only corruption they’d crossed had been the one he insisted upon entering.
She was doingsomething.
Her eyes softened, locking on him with a plea.
And he was a fool, because every part of him wanted to believe her.
“I’m not a witch.”
God, he hoped she was telling the truth.
24
It was getting harder to find the good paths through the woods. Every time she thought she’d found a path forward, they ran into a dead end where the shadows deepened and the trees felt wrong. The air smelled different whenever they hit the rot—heavier and foul. The healthy trees whispered in warning.
Go back. Go back. It’s not safe for you here.
And she would turn away, searching for another way forward.
She listened constantly to the trees now, connected to them so deeply that she was only half aware of the horse beneath her and the man riding silently at her side.
The trick was finding the clear path while avoiding the familiars. Casrian said they didn’t like the light, so she kept to more sparsely wooded areas. He said they preferred to hide in areas that were already claimed by rot, so she did her best to avoid that too.
