Chapter 18 Mav #2
Another gust rattled the leaves. She tucked as close to me as possible. She definitely wasn’t fine.
The sky cracked open with a slice of lightning.
Within moments, the sprinkle gave way to a relentless downpour—drumming against the leaves and earth alike.
Rain plastered her hair to her cheeks, ran in rivulets down her jaw, caught on her lashes.
She groaned, pulling her hood up, lifting her hand to shield her face in vain.
“Is that helping?” I asked, trying not to laugh.
“Is what helping?” she snapped.
“That thing you’re doing. With your hand. It looks very effective.”
“Oh, hush,” she muttered, wiping at her nose with the edge of her sleeve.
I chuckled before I could stop myself. Quinn shook her head, exasperated—but then she laughed too—full-bodied and real. It was one of the best sounds I’d ever heard.
For a moment, the rain didn’t matter. The scratches didn’t matter. The beast we killed, the magic, the tether pulling me toward her, the dangerous certainty that I was falling for her too fast—it all blurred into the edges of that laugh. I wanted to hear it again, as many times as I could.
The path curved around a bend. Half-lost to fog, framed by weeping branches and veils of rain, a weather-worn wooden sign dangled from rusted hooks. Its letters were barely legible beneath the moss clinging to its edges.
Drautsmire.
We were in troll territory now. Beneath the name, in pale strokes, was scrawled: Where the roots run high.
I didn’t understand what it meant—
Until we saw the trees.
The village rose above the forest floor in a tangled marvel of wood and wonder.
Great old oaks and towering elms bore the weight of homes nestled in their branches.
The roofs were shaped to resemble leaves and mushrooms. A labyrinth of suspended walkways connected them, illuminated by lanterns swaying in the mist.
Quinn sat up straighter in front of me, her breath catching.“It is beautiful.”
I would never tire of the way she saw the world, full of curiosity and unguarded wonder. Her bright blue eyes jumped from bridge to branch, taking in every detail as she smiled.
If she ever looked at me that way, I think it might mend everything in me that had ever been broken.
“You are—I mean, it is.” I couldn’t tell if the flush on her cheeks meant she’d heard my slip.
A strange sort of music reached my ears. It was deep and resonant. The notes rolled through the valley in slow, sonorous waves. Tracing the source, I discovered a collection of eight-sided vessels in varying heights and widths. They sat in clusters near the roots of each tree.
“Ah, yes,” Branrir said, perking up when he noticed my interest. “Those are Pluvo Vokas. Rain-call drums. The trolls have used them for generations to measure rainfall and warn of floods. Each has its own pitch. When the tones deepen, it means the rivers are rising. Think of it as a musical warning system. They’re practical and rather beautiful, really. ”
“Is there a warning system for your boring stories?” Vesper quipped, trying and failing to stay dry under a corner of Thistle’s cloak.
“Pipe down, you soggy rat,” Thistle chided. “You’re only grouchy because you hate being wet.”
I chuckled. “Isn’t he grouchy all the time?”
“Hey, I—” Vesper began. “Actually, I agree with Bassiano for once.”
“I find the histories enlightening, Branrir,” Quinn offered.
The old Hindsight beamed at her, positively delighted.
Squinting through the rain, I asked, “What’s with the…houses in the trees?”
“You’ll find most troll villages are built above ground like this,” Branrir said as we crossed one of the wide, rope-bound bridges.
The planks swayed gently beneath our feet, creaking in rhythm with the rain.
“It isn’t for the view, mind you. Trolls are too dense to swim—stone in their bones, as the old saying goes.
When the lowlands flood, everything below the canopy disappears under water. Up here, they stay dry.”
He wiped rain from his spectacles, glancing toward the pulley systems overhead.
“There’s strategy in it, too. Goblins can’t climb worth a damn.
When tensions flare between the groups, the trolls simply roll up the walkways and raise the ladders.
One tug of that cord, and this whole village becomes a fortress suspended in the forest floor. ”
He nodded toward a nearby cluster of drums. “The Pluvo Vokas warn them when the rivers rise. Between those and their height advantage, they’ve managed to outlast every flood, feud, and foolish king this land has ever known.”
We followed the winding path upward, hooves clattering on damp wooden planks.
Faces peeked out from curtained windows, disappearing as quickly as they appeared.
At the far end of the upper terrace, a structure was built into the thick trunk of the tallest tree.
Its roof slanted dangerously, and the painted sign above the door swung wildly in the wind.
The Wandering Root.
We halted the horses before the stables, though the narrow overhang did little to shield us from the torrential rain.
A side door creaked open, and a stable hand emerged—broad-shouldered, hood drawn low.
At first, I thought he was a large man, another mountain-born laborer hardened by long winters and heavy work.
Then he drew closer, and the hood slipped back, allowing the lantern light to strike his face.
I froze. The sharp tusks jutting past his lower lip were unmistakable, as were the pale, watery eyes and skin with a faint gray-green cast. His hands were massive, the nails dark and curved, made for tearing rather than tending.
A troll.
It had been years since I’d seen one this close, and even longer since one hadn’t been actively trying to kill me.
My fingers tightened on reflex on the hilt at my hip.
The troll saw me at the same moment, and he stilled.
Shock flickered across his wide features.
I guessed he was just as surprised to see humans as we were to see him.
We stared at each other through the rain.
With careful, deliberate motions, he dipped his head and reached for the reins. “Sir, milady,” he rumbled, the words rough but respectful.
Releasing my grip on my sword hilt, I nodded back as I handed him the reins. “Thank you.”
I swung down in a single motion and turned, already reaching for Quinn. “Here,” I said, holding out my arms. “I’ve got you.”
She blinked at me, wet strands of hair plastered to her cheek. “I can—” she began, but before she could finish, her boot slipped on the slick stirrup.
She yelped—
And fell straight into me.
I caught her hard and fast, her weight collapsing against my chest. Pain flared sharply at my side, dragging a hiss through my teeth as the movement pulled at the barely healing gash on my ribs. Still, my arms locked instinctively around her waist, steadying her.
Our quickened breath mingled.
We were close.
Too close.
I could count the raindrops clinging to her lashes. See the wild flutter of her pulse at the base of her throat. Her hands gripped my shirt, right over my racing heart. Her gaze flicked—briefly, unmistakably—to my mouth.
The rain dulled into distant applause. If I leaned forward an inch, I could press my lips to hers. I wanted to kiss her like I’d never wanted anything else. I wanted to taste her and forget every reason I shouldn’t. I wanted her to kiss me back like she meant it.
Her eyes met mine in a silent question.
My lips parted in answer.
“Mreeeaaauugh!”
A wet, furious yowl shattered the moment.
I flinched at the sound. Quinn startled, jerking back against my arms. I blinked, breath stolen, and turned in time to see Vesper slinking through the mud, soaked to the bone, his tail lashing with violent indignation.
Water dripped from his ears in pitiful streams; his fur hung in heavy, matted clumps.
“Some of us,” he hissed, pausing to shake one paw as though it carried the weight of his suffering, “were not designed for this weather.”
I bit down a laugh. He looked like a bundle of cursed socks left to dry in the gutter.
“This is abuse,” the cat muttered darkly, flinging droplets with every indignant shake. “I demand to speak to the innkeeper.”
I sighed, still holding Quinn. She laughed. Or tried to. It came out breathless and uneven—unsure whether to be embarrassed or relieved. Releasing her, I folded my arms as if the motion would steady the thundering in my chest.
It didn’t.
The rain hadn’t let up. It mumbled against the roof and serenaded us with the drumming tones of the Pluvo Vokas.
Everything was drenched—my cloak, my boots, our supplies.
I stepped up to the inn’s weatherworn door and pushed it open.
It creaked like it hadn’t been opened in years, hinges shrieking in a sound strikingly similar to Vesper’s recent outburst.
Warm light spilled out, scented with spices and honey.
The soft murmur of conversation mingled with the low crackle of logs burning in a stone hearth.
Quinn paused beside me, her hood half-fallen from dripping hair, her lashes jeweled with water.
I held the door for her. She hesitated, glancing up at me with a look of gratitude, then stepped through.
Her fingertips grazed my chest as she passed; my skin tingled beneath her touch.
I let the door fall shut behind me and followed her into the glow—chasing the warmth she’d left in my hands.