Chapter 22 #2
The goblins swayed more exuberantly. One stumbled into another and began spinning in circles, giggling.
Another dropped its rusted spear and clapped along with manic glee, drool glistening at the corner of its jagged mouth.
In the far corner, a goblin wept openly into its sleeve.
The air shimmered with the song, thick, strange, and nearing joyful.
The last rope fell from my wrists. Thistle wrapped an arm around my waist, steadying me as I rose on trembling legs.
The sudden rush of freedom made my knees buckle.
I staggered, clutching her shoulder. Mav’s gaze caught mine mid-verse.
And—Saints preserve me—he winked. My heart nearly burst. I might have laughed if my heart hadn’t been hammering itself to pieces.
Thistle and I slipped from the room. The instant we crossed the warped threshold, the air outside felt sharper—clearer without the glimmer of song magic.
“On the horses,” Branrir commanded from the shadows, his face pale and drawn.
Thistle boosted me into the nearest saddle. My boot fumbled in the stirrup, clumsy with adrenaline and aching wrists. She swung onto the second mount, gathering her reins.
Branrir lifted two fingers to his mouth and whistled, a sharp, urgent note.
Inside, the music swelled—one last glorious crescendo as Mav sang.
“And now we part with joy and flair,
No curses, knives, or traps to spare—
You’ve been a crowd beyond compare,
But now I must abscond elsewhere…”
The final chord struck. Mav burst through the doorway at a run. The lute slid across his back in one smooth motion as he vaulted onto the saddle behind me.
“Ya!” Mav yelled, driving his heels into the horse’s side.
We charged forward, hooves pounding. Behind us, the spell shattered.
Cheers twisted into screams. Crates splintered, chains rattled, and voices howled with rage as the goblins regained their senses.
The forest beckoned us forward, the sharp, clean bite of rain-washed pine stripping away Rouzbeh’s stink.
Branches whipped past, clawing at my sleeves and hair.
The horse’s muscles surged beneath me, its lungs laboring in rhythm with my own.
Mav’s arms braced on either side of me. His chest pressed to my back, heat bleeding through the cold, anchoring me even as the world threatened to spin apart.
We rode hard. The trees blurred into streaks of green and silver. Fifteen minutes—or an eternity—passed before Branrir raised a hand. We slowed. Gallop to canter. Canter to trot. Trot to walk. The sudden shift felt violent. My body wanted to keep moving, fleeing forever.
I swallowed, forcing words past the lump in my throat. “Why did you not tell me you are a Hum?”
He stiffened. “I don’t go around announcing it,” he said, voice lower now, nearly lost beneath the forest’s hush. “Musical ability isn’t exactly…encouraged for knights.”
“Why conceal it?” My voice was softer than I intended.
A pause. His breath feathered against my ear. “Because it’s embarrassing.”
“Embarrassing?”
“You know,” he said, clearing his throat. “Soft. Sentimental. Not exactly intimidating to strum a lute in a fight.”
A small, disbelieving breath escaped me. “That is not what I witnessed.”
His silence sharpened, attentive.
“It is magnificent," I declared, the words tasting like confession. “You persuaded a room full of monsters with music alone, without spilling any blood. That is not weakness, Mav.” I searched for a word strong enough to hold the truth of it. “That is…magic.”
He did not answer immediately. Mav released the reins, wrapping his arms around me to embrace me, his head tucked to my neck. I raised my hands to hold his arms against me and felt the curve of his smile against my skin. A long, slow breath moved through us both, syncing, steadying.
“Thank you, princess,” he murmured near my ear, his voice rough. “I-I was so scared they had…that you were…”
“I am safe, thanks to you,” I whispered back, my voice breaking on the last word.
In that darkness, terror took root. Not the terror of Rouzbeh, though its shadows would haunt me indefinitely. No, this was the manner of fear born from almost losing something you had no desire to live without.
When the goblins dragged me through that door, when the rope bit my skin, it was not death I feared. I was terrified of never seeing him again. Of never hearing his voice. Of never feeling this steady, infuriating, impossible man at my back, holding me in a world that had taken everything else.
It was one thing to care for someone; another entirely to need them—to no longer desire to exist in a world without them. As much as it scared me to admit, I needed him. I wanted him. And I was through pretending otherwise.
By the time The Wandering Root rose from the treewalks, my pulse still raced too fast to match the quiet scene.
Mav dismounted with a grunt, boots splashing in a shallow puddle.
He steadied the horse with one hand, the other prepared to assist me.
I slid from the saddle, my knees buckling slightly, but Mav wrapped an arm around my waist to keep me upright.
Shubre appeared at the door, her candle stump throwing lopsided shadows. “You’re late,” she said, tone sharp, but her gaze softened when it caught on the dirt, the bruises, the blood. “I’ll send food up…and I’ll call for a Hands.”
I tried to thank her, but my voice failed me.
Mav only nodded, the corner of his mouth twitching upward in gratitude.
We climbed the winding staircase in silence.
Every step was an argument between my body and my will, with neither emerging the victor.
My legs shook with exhaustion. My wrists burned where the ropes had cut.
My shoulders throbbed from the goblins’ claws.
At our door, Mav opened it and held it wide.
Once the door had shut behind us, I locked my arms around his torso. My fingers grasped the torn fabric of his tunic before I even realized I had moved. The words tumbled out, raw and unadorned.
“I was so frightened,” I confessed, pressing my forehead to his chest.
His exhale shuddered through me. Mav wrapped his arms around me. One hand rested at my hip, the other between my shoulder blades. For a moment, I stood there, breathing him in.
A knock sounded at the door.
Shubre’s voice called, “I have a Hands here to see you, and some food.”
Mav released me, but my arms stayed around him. He chuckled softly and gently grabbed my hands, easing them down. He pressed a soft kiss to the crown of my head.
“Let’s get patched up, all right?”
All I managed was a feeble nod before the door swung inward.
Shubre stood in the doorway, a tray in her arms. Behind her came a woman with a leather healer’s pack slung across one shoulder and a face like sunlight after a bitter winter.
Her hair, white as snow, was braided into a crown atop her head.
“This is Mirete,” Shubre said briskly, setting a covered tray on the small table by the wall. “One of the best Hands in the kingdom.”
Mirete dipped her head, a smile crinkling her umber skin. “Let me see who needs mending most.”
“Quinn,” Mav said immediately, his tone leaving no room for argument. He was still standing rigid beside me, one hand hovering near my back as if he could not quite stop himself from guarding me. “Please, start with her.”
My protest lodged in my throat. He looked so battered—blood streaking his temple, his tunic torn, his shoulders sagging under exhaustion—and yet his only concern was me.
Mirete’s dark eyes warmed. “Very well, my dear. Sit.” She waved to the bed.
I obeyed, though my body trembled with fatigue. My hands clenched, bracing for whatever came next. Mirete crouched before me, her movements unhurried. She took my wrists gently, turning them to examine the burns. Her touch was warm, grounding.
“This may sting for a moment,” she warned.
A white glow emanated from her palms. When she placed her hands on my skin, the warmth did not resemble flame.
It was deeper, as if it seeped into my blood and rewrote it.
The ache in my wrists dulled, then disappeared.
The light spread upward, tracing scrape and bruise, knitting torn skin together, soothing every pain.
My breath slowed, my shoulders sagging with relief. When Mirete released me, I realized tears streaked down my face. I swiped them away quickly.
“There, there.” Mirete’s smile was tender but not pitying. “Your body remembers safety, even when your mind struggles to.”
Clasping her hands in mine, I whispered, “Thank you.”
She patted my knee. “Bathe yourself, my dear. Put on something warm and dry. Your spirit will mend faster if your body feels whole.”
I nodded, dazed, and stumbled toward the washroom. When I glanced back, Mirete was moving toward Mav as he peeled off his ruined tunic. The sight punched the air from my lungs.
His skin was a battlefield: deep bruises blooming across his ribs and chest, long claw marks raked down one shoulder, cuts in various stages of healing and rebreaking. The angry gash along his side—the one he’d taken for me days ago—was swollen, new blood drying dark at its edges.
My hands flew to cover my mouth as I bit back a cry. Why would he insist on my being healed first when he clearly had the greater need?
He caught me staring.
“I’ll be all right, princess,” he said, voice low but steady. He tossed me a wry half-smile, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “Go ahead and take that bath.”
I wanted to argue. To insist I stay. But my throat locked around the words, and he was already turning to Mirete, baring himself to her hands and her light. I ducked into the washroom.
My bath was quick and clumsy. I scrubbed the stench of Rouzbeh from my skin, watching the water darken with dirt and fear.
The warmth should have been soothing, but all I could see behind my closed eyes was Mav’s injuries.
The bruises. The blood. The way he had still tried to stand tall, to shield me from his pain.
I dressed in my nightgown and returned to the main room as quickly as I could.
The room was empty.
My pulse spiked, a rabbit caught in a snare. “Mav?”
No answer. The walls leaned closer. My breath came too fast, too sharp. Then—on the table—I saw a folded slip of parchment weighted by a wooden spoon.
Quinn,
Gone to Branrir’s chambers to wash. I’ll return shortly.
Please eat.
—M
My knees nearly buckled with relief. Saints above, I hated how easily panic claimed me these days.
I sank cross-legged onto the bed and pulled the tray of food closer.
Shubre’s cooking smelled incredible—but my appetite was stubborn.
I picked at the meal, tearing bread into useless crumbs, forcing myself to sip water because Mav had asked me to eat. Time blurred. The lamp guttered low.
Finally, the door opened.
“Mav,” I breathed, twisting toward him.
He filled the doorway, hair damp and curling, his frame wrapped in fresh clothes. His color was better, though exhaustion clung to the slope of his shoulders.
“You are back,” I whispered, stupidly obvious, but I could not seem to stop the words.
His smile was small but real. “Told you I would be.” He crossed the room and sank onto the bed beside me, reaching for a piece of bread. “The food looks good,” he said around a mouthful, as if we had not nearly died.
We ate in near silence, too wrung out for words. The only sounds were the soft clink of cutlery, the occasional creak of the inn’s bones settling around us, and the distant drip of rainwater falling from the tree walks outside. When the tray was mostly empty, Mav rose to take it to the side table.
The lamplight caught on the damp ends of his hair as he moved, on the clean lines of his tunic, freshly laundered and blessedly whole.
Miraculously alive. After nearly losing him, I could hardly stand the distance between us.
He returned to sit at the edge of the bed, and something inside me snapped.
Before I could second-guess, I leaned forward and caught his face between my hands. My lips brushed his in a question I did not know how else to ask. He inhaled sharply.
Mav pulled away. His hands fell to his sides, his gaze searching mine.
“Quinn.” He breathed my name as a pleading whisper.
“I—” My throat closed. “I thought—”
“I don’t want this.”