Chapter 2
In Which Our Handsome Knight Is Very Confused as to Why We Had to Leave So Abruptly but Is Committed to Being Charming About It. In Which Charm Might Come Easier if I—I Mean, if He—Knew What the Fuck Was Going On.
The closer we got to the mad sorcerer’s territory, the more malevolent the trees looked. They crowded about us, roots bulging from the soil and daring us to trip.
Glenda walked in silence, avoiding any leaf or twig that might crunch underfoot.
It was a wasted effort, as I stumbled over the uneven ground and caught myself on branches with apologetic grunts, but I tried not to fret over the noise.
With Glenda at my side, the borderland woods felt relatively safe.
The sorcerer’s constructs always fell easily to her flashing blade, and her condescension toward humans meant she thought nothing of me hunkering back while she fought.
Securing her friendship had kept me alive while other, better knights took their rest in the soil—so her current moodiness put me on edge.
Since her meeting with the Elders and our hurried departure, Glenda had barely spoken two words.
Though when I’d walked out in a padded gambeson (secured with buttons of polished unicorn horn), she’d shaken her head, violently, and told me to change into something lighter.
Had I pissed her off? I always tried not to, elves being a class above even petty nobility such as myself.
I peered at her as we marched beneath the bristling trees in the fading remains of daylight.
She didn’t seem angry. She looked . . . sad.
Loose hairs stuck out from her normally meticulous braid, and she chewed fretfully on her lip.
Feeling my gaze, her eyes flicked up to meet mine.
I reeled back, pretending to study the flight of a bird overhead.
I did consider, briefly, that her mood might have nothing to do with me; that she might have a life of her own, independent of my existence. Only briefly, though.
“Glenda,” I said, after we’d settled on a spot to spend the night. “I suppose the meeting went . . . ?” She looked at me with red-rimmed eyes, and I lost my nerve. “Ah. Never mind.”
Had she found out about Sir Hamlin? Anxiety filled my mouth with saliva, which I swallowed. Glenda was so . . . passionate in her adherence to Order. Though perhaps it could work in my favour, if I allowed her to guide my ‘repentance.’
With increasing agitation, I built a campfire, cooked her a vegetarian broth, gnawed at my own rations, then dove into my sleeping roll.
Roots poked at me through the burnished leather and rabbit skin; it felt like I’d lain across someone’s bony feet.
“Glenda,” I tried again, shuffling to get comfortable. “Is something wrong?”
She gave a hiccup of laughter. It had an oddly hysterical tinge.
“Come on.” I raised onto an elbow to squint in her general direction. “I know something’s wrong. My brother sulked just like this when he had to kill one of his fancy goats for Descentmass.”
“Oh.” She sighed, and I heard her rolling to face me. “That’s horrible! If he had a bond with that animal, it should have been respected.”
“Glenda, I won’t let you change the subject. You’re upset about something non-goat related, and I’d really like to hear it.”
Silence stretched, long and tense. Eventually, I gave up and snuggled back into my roll. Too full of nervous energy to sleep, I listened instead for the creak of constructs. They rarely struck at night, and Glenda’s hearing surpassed mine regardless, but logic could only put small dents in my fear.
Then, she spoke, in a whisper so soft I nearly missed it. “Cameron. You’re going to die.”
“Sorry?” I scratched at a bug bite. “I’m sure I misheard you. I’m going to what?”
In response, sniffling, and the crunch of a small body curling inside a hemp bedroll.
I threw back my covering and sat up. “Glenda, come on. Why am I going to die? What does that mean? That’s such an alarming thing to say. Do you mean in terms of our respective lifespans, I’ll die first? Or do you think I have a disease, or . . . ?”
I couldn’t complete my sentence. The Order didn’t execute people for minor sexual deviancies—and certainly not someone of my station. Right? They wouldn’t. They couldn’t.
The shadowed lump, barely discernible as Glenda, remained mute. Of course, with her elven night-vision she could see me perfectly as I gaped at her. “Glenda?” I said again, groping about for a stick to poke her with.
“I’ll tell you in the morning!”
I waited a few beats. “You promise?”
She wailed, then muffled it. Like she’d clamped a hand to her mouth.
I fully intended to press, but then the sound of weeping reached me, and I lay back in baffled silence.
Glenda’s crying continued for a good while until, after a round of loudly sucking in snot, her distraught breaths evened out. Soft snores filled the air.
Frustration heated me as I lay in the dark. She’d left me to wallow with such a horrible notion while she escaped to dreaming!
But I relied on her. I couldn’t afford to be anything but charming.
All attempts to empty my head proved useless. I cycled in and out of a half-awake state, always conscious of the roots beneath my back, and the itch of mosquito bites, and my own impending death. Especially that last one, if I was being honest.
When the dawn chorus rose, robins and blackbirds and hedge-griffons all chortling and whistling in competition, I wanted to cry aloud. Instead, I began the day.
It made for an easy routine: put the fire back up, comb my golden hair to perfection, and heat Glenda’s breakfast in a little pot—mushrooms and seaweed, with a decadent slice of ginger. For myself, I had a fistful of dried meat. It tasted like shoes.
Eventually, Glenda woke. The morning light filtering through the branches cast dappled spots across her blue skin as she stretched.
I chewed at her, open-mouthed. “So, I’m going to die?”
“Please,” she said, rubbing her eyes. “May I have something to eat first?”
I gestured at the pot, then shoved the jerky into my mouth, whereupon I choked. While Glenda sat cross-legged on her bedroll, weaving her silver hair into an intricate braid, I spat the jerky into my hand and had at it again in smaller, rodent-like bites.
Having made herself decent, Glenda joined me by the fire. She took the bowl I offered, and added something from her pocket—flavouring, I supposed.
I waited impatiently for her to slurp it all down, then tried again. “Why am I going to die?”
Carefully, Glenda set down her bowl. Her overlong eyelashes shuddered as she stared into its empty depths. “Because of the prophecy.”
My first thought was: thank God this wasn’t about Sir Hamlin. With unearned relief, I bumped my leg against hers in a comradely manner. “What exactly is ‘the prophecy’?”
“They made me promise not to tell.”
“But you’ve already told me. You might as well finish the job.”
She tilted her head back, so that her braid hung straight like a noose. “This isn’t a scouting mission.”
Was she looking for a reaction? “Oh!” I provided.
“We’re traveling to a battleground, where our men will fight the sorcerer’s foul constructs, and you—” Her voice cut off in a choking gasp. A fleck of her spit landed on my knee.
“. . . will die?” I completed, wiping it off with a thumb. “Wonderful. Good to know. Obviously, I won’t go, then.”
She burst to her feet, and I flinched back, startled. “You don’t understand! If you don’t die, then none of the rest will come to pass!”
“Oh?” My heartbeat picked up. “And what’s the rest?”
Glenda began to pace tight circles around our clearing. “The Elders,” she said, deftly avoiding a root, “burned the last dragon heart to fuel a powerful magic. In the prophetic vision that resulted, they saw the mad sorcerer defeated, and the world saved.”
“Hey, that’s fantastic!” I said, and succeeded in swallowing ‘Now what the fuck does that have to do with me?’
She nodded, confirming that yes, it was fantastic.
I wondered if I should stand too, or if she might perceive that negatively.
For a human woman, a man towering over you during a tense discussion might prove intimidating—but for an elf, with their superior strength and magic?
I wasn’t sure, so I stayed seated, twisting my torso to follow her movements.
“And they saw the death of a tall, golden-haired knight.” She stopped with a pursed, lemon-sucking mouth. “They saw you.”
“Ah,” I managed. “But how certain can they be? It can’t be completely conclusive, can it? Is it?”
She nodded gravely. “It is. You die in this prophecy with a sword through your throat.”
“No,” I said. It came out like a belch, unbidden. At the look on Glenda’s face, I quickly amended to: “No . . . way! How incredible that . . . what I mean is that . . . that’s such a fantastic amount of detail!”
“Oh yes, the prophetic vision was clear in every particular. The method of your death, the meadow it happens in, even down to the length of your eyelashes. You do have such long eyelashes for a boy.”
No longer able to manage words, I simply nodded with enthusiasm.
The twitchiness of her excitement brought bile to my throat.
On some level, the drama clearly appealed to her.
“At the meeting with the Elders, they shared the prophecy with me at great magical expense. That’s how I know all this .
. .” She spoke in slow, deliberate fragments, drawing it out.
“I was even able to assist them in identifying you as the golden knight. Sorry, did you say something?”
I’d let out a small noise. “Nothing. Please . . . please continue.”
She did, frowning. “A prophecy is like a recipe. In order to get the end result, you must follow each step.”
“And I’m one of those steps. What an honour, that it all hinges on my . . . on me.” I cleared my throat, but the lump remained. “And what an honour for you, too. Considering the role you played.”
“I’m so happy you see it that way! Because it is.
It is such an honour.” Glenda wiped delicately at one eye.
“Once the war is over, I was thinking I could dedicate myself to the arts. And like, sculpt a commemorative statue of you, for people to leave flowers at! That’s why I keep looking at you.
It’s to memorize your expressions. How your lips move, how your forehead creases . . .”
“Wow!” I said. “How fantastic that my forehead creases will be preserved.”
She giggled, leaning back against a particularly gnarled and menacing tree. “It’s such a relief to have told you. We should pack up now, if you’re ready?”
How could I ever be ready? Even so, I rose on wobbly legs and obediently kicked dirt over the fire, choking its embers. Scraping out a piece of seaweed from the pot, I carried it to be packed.
“I mean,” I said, finagling the damp metal into my leather bag. “I guess there’s no possibility that I survive this? I’m just concerned, you know, that the sorcerer’s reign of terror might continue unabated.”
“Please don’t worry about that!” Glenda looked up from compacting her bedroll, her mouth open in alarm.
“We’ll ensure it comes to pass. If the enemy fails to strike you down, I—that is, someone is assigned to the task.
So don’t worry about rushing into battle or standing in a certain position.
” She rolled her eyes to show the silliness of the idea.
“Just show up and leave the rest to us!”
The muscles in her slender arms flexed as she tightened the drawstrings.
I bundled up my own bedding, securing it into the belts of my pack, waiting until I felt certain that my voice would hold.
“I suppose you could even be the person who . . . I mean, I won’t be mad or anything, but maybe you, uh. Have further instructions?”
Despite my stumbling, I saw understanding on her face. “It might be better if it’s someone you know. A-and—” she stuttered, and the tears that had threatened all morning spilled down her cheeks. “It should be someone who loves you!”
“Thank you, Glenda. I appreciate you telling me. Now I won’t be scared at all when you stick a sword through my throat.”
She frowned, as if finally detecting my lack of sincerity.
“I mean that sincerely,” I added, shouldering my pack. “Thank you, Glenda.”