Chapter Four
Four
The road north of town was an easy walk, at first, despite the heavy pack on Juniper’s back. The road was wide, built to accommodate carts and horses and kingsmen, the dirt packed firmly, the sun gentle.
But by high noon, sweat was trickling in a steady river down Juniper’s neck, and his shoulders were feeling quite crispy from the sun’s heat.
When he complained, Mo hmm’d, which in this case probably meant I told you to wear your damn hat.
But being burned as red as a rowanberry by the sun had seemed unlikely, especially when Juniper had been out in the sun all summer, so he hadn’t, and, well. Now he was regretting every single one of his choices.
If it wouldn’t be wildly unfair to Mo (since this entire thing was Juniper’s fault), Juniper would have dropped to the ground and howled BUT WHAT OF MY SKIN HEALTH??? against the unforgiving sky.
“It’s far too hot,” Juniper complained instead. “Was it ever this hot at home? It wasn’t, was it? Isn’t it meant to be colder as we go farther north? Mo, why do you think it’s so fucking hot today?”
Mo hmm’d. He didn’t look tired, or sweaty, or burnt crispy, or any of the other unpleasant things that haunted Juniper. It wasn’t fair that Mo was good at this, too. That he looked like he belonged on the open road, accomplishing things, making something of himself, and looking good doing it, too.
“Also,” Juniper continued. “Do you think one of the old gods cursed me at birth? Because all of this seems damn easy for you.”
At this, Mo actually laughed. The sound of his laugh was rare; a smile or a chuckle or a snort was all Juniper was usually treated to, but Juniper resolved that he would babble on endlessly like this every day for the rest of their lives if it meant he got to hear Mo laugh like that, as clear and sharp and sweet as a running brook.
“I don’t think it’s easy,” Mo said. “I just like being outdoors.”
Well, of course Juniper liked being outdoors. Loved it, even. In the morning, or the evening, or under a shade tree if he had to be outside at high noon. He loved being in the water, kicking his feet to stay afloat in the wilds of the current.
Juniper shook his head at Mo. It occurred to him—only now that they’d been walking along the open road all day—that since there was only one road to Filleadh, they would likely encounter Bill Bronson.
And a hot day on the road was one thing. But one that included Bill?
Absolutely not.
“Let’s take the trail through the forest instead,” Juniper announced.
Mo tilted his head, looking down at Juniper. “Oh?”
“I’m the tracker,” Juniper told him. It was true; it was the one thing his father had tried to teach him, at a very young age, something that used to be a common skill for their people.
Mo’s grandmam had actually taught Juniper the rest of what he knew, and she had been far less angry when he wanted to track an animal just to see it, not bring it down with a bow.
Mo bumped Juniper with his arm.
The touch made Juniper’s sunburn ache, and made the rest of him—well, touching Mo was always like leaning close to a blazing fire, let’s just say that. Because of their strong bond as friends.
“What?” Juniper bumped him back.
“Are you trying to avoid an encounter with Bill?” Mo’s grin was teasing. “Be careful, Junebug. People might start wondering if you have a crush.”
“A—a crush?” Juniper stammered. His eyes swept up and down Mo before he could stop himself. What was Mo saying?
“On Bill?” Mo was still looking at him playfully.
Right. Bill.
“Don’t insult me,” Juniper recovered, slamming his shoulder into Mo’s again, a little harder this time.
“Are you sure you aren’t casting spells that allow you to read my mind as easily as I read the gossip scrolls outside Gráinne’s?
Because I definitely was trying to take the other trail to avoid him,” Juniper said.
Mo grinned and shook his head, looping his arm over Juniper’s shoulders and walking like that, Mo’s stride easy, Juniper’s rushed.
“When do we rest?” Juniper asked after a moment, biting his lip as soon as the words slipped out.
He knew he sounded weak. He knew Mo would have been better off without him on the quest, even though it was Juniper’s actions that had landed them here.
He took a deep breath, trying to slow the furious pounding of his heart.
That only made him hungrier, conjuring images of the bread and cheese in his pack.
“Are you tired?” Mo asked, brow furrowing. “Already?”
Of course Mo hadn’t meant anything by it, but the words went straight to the part of Juniper’s chest that said, That tone means you should be offended and also that he thinks you’re dumb and weak.
Mo didn’t mean anything by it. He was sincere in all things, and he didn’t hide offense in simple questions.
But everyone else in the world did, so Juniper was on high alert.
“Junebug?”
“Morn,” Juniper said seriously. “I think we have a matter to settle.” He plopped his pack down and put up his hands—but not fists, because while he’d wrestle Mo any day of the week, he wouldn’t raise his fist to him, not ever—and challenged Mo with a look.
“I say it’s time to eat lunch. You say it’s time to continue. ”
“I didn’t,” Mo said, but he grinned and tossed his pack to the side of the road. He didn’t have to understand their difference in opinion to know that Juniper needed him to wrestle it out.
He dove at Juniper, arms wrapping around both Juniper’s thighs as he tackled him into the long grass and daisies growing along the side of the road, leaning toward the sun.
“What’d I say?” Mo shouted as they rolled over and over in the grass, first Mo on top and then Juniper and then Mo again. Just like on that stage, where the lights were so bright and the song was so mournful, and Mo’s arms were braced on either side of Juniper’s like he was about to—
Juniper managed to snake a lean but muscled arm around Mo’s neck, locking him in place, before being tossed unceremoniously onto his back with a thump again. The sun was bright, the daisies leaning down to look at them curiously, so Juniper let out a breath.
“Of course I’m not tired,” Juniper said. “Already.”
Mo rolled over so that they were lying side by side in the long grass. “Ah,” he said. “Perceived undercurrents.”
Mo didn’t read the undercurrents as well as Juniper did, the things people said under the speech. When Juniper heard You’re tired? Already? he had also heard You’re weak, and it’s stupid to be tired when we’ve only walked half the fucking day, you dimwit.
Which, of course, Mo hadn’t meant. Or said.
But a wrestling match was a good enough solution to any sort of feelings one might have, a fine way to shore up a strong brotherly camaraderie, like any pair of good friends did.
They had tried talking about their emotions, but that never worked out well.
“Are you?” Mo asked curiously, propping himself up on one elbow, his chin resting in his palm. “Tired?”
“A little,” Juniper admitted. “Mostly I just wanted cheese.”
“Cheese it is,” Mo said, rolling to his feet gracefully and reaching for his pack.
In short order, they had bread and cheese and just a little bit of mead, which Mo had conveniently packed in his pack and not Juniper’s.
Juniper had only just bitten into his lovely sandwich, fitting as much as he possibly could into his mouth in one bite, when the sound of horses galloping down the road interrupted his moment.
He groaned and scooted farther off the road, tugging his pack with him.
Mo stood, the motion easy and relaxed, but his eyes were distant, his posture ready.
It gave Juniper pause. Mo was never as fight-prone as Juniper (though he did seem to enjoy them) and less jumpy, too (though no less watchful).
“Mo,” Juniper said. “Everything’s all right, isn’t it?”
It came out a little more like Mer, emphrefink alripmh? But that was on account of all the cheese in Juniper’s mouth.
Six men on horses rounded the bend, another horse tied behind their party, empty of a rider.
And who would that be, leading the charge? None other than Bill “the Fucking Ninny” Bronson.
Juniper would have cursed out loud, if the cheese had allowed it. He settled for muffled noises of distaste, intermingled with the sounds of chewing his sandwich.
“Afternoon,” Mo said pleasantly. One hand rested on his hip, where Juniper knew his loose linen shirt concealed the belt of knives he wore. His other hand shielded his eyes from the sun, watching the men approach.
They slowed, Bill leering down at them. He looked just as ugly as he had the night before, maybe even uglier now that the sun was illuminating his beady eyes and stupid round little chin and his very dumb posture on his horse. But now he looked angry, eyes sparking as he glared at them.
Juniper scrambled to his feet, chewing more frantically now.
“You’re walking?” Bill asked. “What is this, the First Age of Divona? We ride horses now, sheepshits.”
“You’re the sheepshit,” Juniper said, very bravely, through his cheese.
He managed to swallow some of it rapidly—a waste of a good bite of sandwich, if he did say so himself—and raised his fists, ready to fight six men, seven horses, and the bright late-summer sun if he had to.
“What was that?” Bill asked.
“Bill,” one of his buddies said, nudging his horse forward. “That’s enough, now. Do you lads need a ride to Filleadh? We have an extra horse, though unfortunately not two.”
The man’s eyes narrowed. “Oh,” he said. “It’s you. You’re the reason we’re down a person.”
“Mo and I always ride a horse together,” Juniper said proudly, before realizing that was quite possibly not something to brag about. “We only need one horse.”
“Of course you do,” Bill said.
“I’m Steve,” Bill’s buddy said, his words directed at Morn, not Juniper. “Though I go by Phteven, for short.”
“How—” Mo began to ask, but Juniper cut him off.
Mo was going to ask how Phteven was shorter than Steve, but Juniper knew that Phteven was probably something better left unexplained. Especially by men like these.
“Great to meet you,” Juniper said, in his most condescending voice, which was a real triumph of human ingenuity, because he was sweat-soaked and had breadcrumbs all over the front of his wool shirt. “We’re doing fine on our own, though.”
Phteven shrugged his lean but well-muscled shoulders and then nodded at Mo. “We’re always open to new party members,” he said. “If your friend grows weary of this before you do.”
Heat rushed to Juniper’s face that had nothing to do with the summer sun. Was he offering a place to Mo in his band and implying that Juniper couldn’t hack it? Well, Juniper would hack him, he’d show them all—
Mo’s hand settled on Juniper’s shoulder, heavy and bracing. “Not without him,” he said softly. “Never without him.”
The words pulled Juniper up short. For a moment, his better sense held him there as surely as Mo’s hand did.
Never without him.
The words made his chest squeeze dangerously.
“Suit yourself,” Phteven said. “But our offer stands.”
Bill went right on leering down at Juniper, so Juniper redirected his previous ire into a new set of insults:
“Lost any fights recently, Billiam?” he asked.
“You know my name is William,” Bill shot back.
Phteven sighed, a long-suffering sound that Juniper had heard out of Mo in the past.
A woman in their riding party drew closer to them, shoving her hood out of the way. She was breathtaking, pretty as a sidhe, though she had enough human ancestry to stand as tall as Mo. A long, thin blade was sheathed at her hip, bouncing against her as she rode.
“You there,” she said to Juniper. “The pretty boy. Is he on this quest, or just out for an afternoon stroll?”
“I’ll have you know,” Juniper said proudly, “that I’m the reason we signed up for this at all.”
Regret bit him as soon as the words left his mouth, as was often the case.
“Of course,” Phteven said. “Because you injured a man and had to take his place. But there’s no need to fight. We’ll see you in town, Elmthorn?”
Mo nodded, his grip remaining tight on Juniper’s shoulder.
He did not relinquish his hold until the party of six had rounded the next bend in the road, the noise of horses and conversation fading with them. Only then did Mo’s hands relax, his face unreadable.
Would you want to? Juniper wanted to ask him. If not for me?
But he didn’t ask him, just in case the answer was yes.