Chapter Five
Five
The first danger they had encountered, of course, had been a tussle with six men and seven horses. The second was dying of cold at night while sunburned from the endless sun of high noon, all of which was just insulting.
It was evening, the sun long since dipped over the horizon, the only light in the dark forest the small fire Mo had built and Juniper tended.
Mo had set up a small shelter for them, and Juniper laid out their bedrolls, which did not look nearly as magical as Juniper’s beloved bed with soft woven and knit blankets.
Or his goosedown-stuffed pillow, which had not made the packing list.
“A story?” Mo asked him as he settled on a log, stretching his long legs out in front of him. He looked utterly at ease here as he lit his pipe, bracing one hand on the log below him and taking a draught of smoke.
Juniper could never resist a story.
Since they had been young, and even dumber than they were now, when Juniper had worked odd jobs to stay afloat and Mo had cared for his elderly grandmam, they had distracted themselves with stories of chaos and magic and adventure.
Always, Juniper’s had a spark of home, and Mo’s of adventure, and together—together their stories were brilliant.
“Tell the one about the wolves and the silver goose,” Mo said, shutting his eyes.
Juniper did, moving closer to Mo and depositing himself on the ground as he began the tale. He preferred this: sitting squarely on the ground where Mo could rub his shoulders, which were very sore from the heavy load he had carried.
“Once upon a time,” Juniper began as he always did, before launching into a wild tale that had only grown since their youth, one about sea wolves that spoke to those who listened and a silver goose that plotted to overthrow a king.
Many of their stories, in fact, centered around overthrowing kings, something their teachers in the schoolhouse had often taken issue with.
In fact, one particular teacher told Juniper he would be sent not home to his father but straight to the constable if any more of the stories he told his classmates ended in headless kings and kingdoms devolving into chaos.
Which was silly, of course. Juniper was a farm boy, and farm boys were not known for overthrowing kings. Or making any sort of difference at all, really.
But Juniper told the story all the same, adding new silly details about the king—this time, he was wearing a cloak of bright, ethereal pink and a crown made of boar’s teeth, and he had been caught squatting over his chamber pot in nothing but cloak and crown.
If this was a Mo story, someone would come along and save the realm from the dastardly king.
But this was a Juniper story, so it ended with everyone wearing pink cloaks and gathered around some mead, laughing at the memory of their ridiculous king.
When the tale wound to a close, Mo squeezed Juniper’s shoulders and suggested they turn in for the night.
“Another story?” Juniper asked him.
Mo almost never said no to another story, even when the fire had long since died in their hearth and morning, with all its duties on the farm, would come fiercely early.
But that night he stretched and yawned. “Best to get to sleep before the ground is even colder,” he said, as if this was some common piece of knowledge that everyone knew and not a horrible announcement to spring on your best friend when you were about to spend your first night in the cold forest in your entire adult life.
Even when Juniper had been hustling between odd jobs, he had always slept indoors. Even if indoors had only been a corner of hardwood floor, it had been inside. Sleeping outside as a kid didn’t count. Maybe he’d been tougher then. Or his body temperature had been better regulated. Or something.
A flicker of memory surfaced, something better kept tucked away. A memory of pre-Mo days, spent on the back porch because his father had locked the door and forgotten Juniper was out. So he had slept outdoors, kind of.
It shouldn’t scare him to do it again now.
“That’s awful,” Juniper said out loud, shoving the bit of past aside. “Will I freeze to death? Did you bring me into the wilds to kill me?”
Mo smiled, ever so slightly. “There are easier and quicker ways to kill someone than cold ground,” he said, practical as ever.
From anyone else, it would have sounded concerning and vaguely threatening, but this was just Mo, being direct the way he always was.
Juniper sighed dramatically so that Mo would know he was all right (if Juniper were not verging on theatrics, Mo would have been concerned; such was the way of things). “Fine,” he said. “But I’m bringing my sleeping roll closer to yours, and if I steal the covers in the night—”
“You won’t,” Mo said.
It had been one of the deals they had made each other when they first decided to buy land and build a cottage together: separate rooms, separate beds.
Juniper had never had a room or bed of his own, and he had been determined he would, this time around.
Nobody to steal covers or wake him with cold feet.
That was the excuse, at least, for having two separate rooms, for being separated by doors and a wall.
It was just that—when Juniper had been nineteen winters old, Mo nearing twenty winters, it had all gone to shit.
They had argued, about winter and boredom and small cabins and why Mo hadn’t smiled in days.
Was he sick of this, and why couldn’t he just say it if he was?
And there had been—one night. One glorious, awful night.
And then Mo had left.
When he came back, months later, Juniper had frigidly told him there would be no more cozy sleepovers—from here on out, Juniper was staying firmly on his side of the wall between their rooms. Juniper was never going to miss anyone again.
But there were no walls or doors or anything out here, a very important barrier suddenly missing.
“What if there are wild animals in the night?” Juniper asked, combing a hand through his hair, which left curls tussled in all directions.
Mo smiled slightly as he kicked off his boots, shrugged off his trousers, and rolled them up to use as a pillow.
He had an ass sculpted by the gods, there was no denying that, and thighs that were thicker than ought to be allowed, strictly speaking.
Juniper had woken with his head resting on one of those thighs just—just the previous night.
Juniper had eyes, that was all. It wasn’t his fault he noticed what Mo looked like. And— What had Mo said?
“Sorry?” Juniper said.
“We’re searching for something wild,” Mo said. “Bound to meet the wild when you’re sleeping out in it. Fire will keep back the wolves, so we’ll be safe enough. If you wake with a squirrel in your sack, though, that can’t be helped.”
Oh, so nothing comforting, then. Good. That was good. Great, even. Just what Juniper liked to hear at bedtime. Did squirrels do that?
Juniper shuddered, but Mo slipped into his bedroll and settled in, crossing his arms beneath his head and staring up at that quiet expanse above them.
The forest was utterly still, not a breath of breeze in the trees around them.
There were embers still glowing in the firepit, and the stars above were brighter and bolder than they were at home, sharp pinpricks of white cutting apart the night sky, tempered only by the oak and hawthorn and yew branches leaning over them like watchful guardians.
Juniper kicked off his trousers and copied Mo, balling them up under his neck for a very uncomfortable headrest. He would not call it a pillow. That was an insult to pillows, to goosedown, to comfort itself.
It took Juniper a moment to work up the words he never had in taverns or even in their cozy sitting room. He might have found the words, in the darkness of night when both he and Mo were cozy in their beds, if only there had not been a wall in the way of his courage.
There was no wall now.
So Juniper opened his mouth.
“Did you ever think you’d leave again?” Juniper asked after a moment of silence so absolute he was starting to hear his own heartbeat. “I mean—did you ever think you’d go on one of these quests?”
Did you always know that the right kingsquest would pull you away from me?
That was the real question, underneath it. The one he wasn’t brave enough to ask at all.
He was greeted with a soft snore and the gentle crackle of the last embers in the fire.
Mo was right, Juniper learned: It was best to fall asleep before the fire went out and the ground got colder. Best to fall asleep and hope you stayed there, dreaming of the rocks under your shoulder blades instead of feeling them dig into you like claws.
Juniper, unfortunately, was wide awake as the fire died and the moon rose and his best friend snored on, Juniper’s question unanswered.
It would be horrible to wake him, of course it would, so Juniper didn’t.
He just laid there, staring at the night sky and replaying his stupid question over and over again.
Silence was bad, too empty and waiting, out here in the wilderness, but Juniper learned what was worse when it was—by his estimation—just past midnight:
Noise. Rustling. Footsteps.
Glowing yellow eyes, peering out from underbrush, made menacing and deadly by nightfall.
Juniper burrowed further into his bedroll. “Take anything you like,” he mumbled. “Just don’t eat me, please. Or my dear roommate and very best friend.”
The yellow eyes eased back into the forest, the glow receding with them. Maybe Juniper had imagined it. He covered his mouth, yawning, and then rolled to one side.
Lying on his side was better than lying on his back or on his stomach—which was how he always slept at home, sprawled out across his beautiful, wonderful bed—because less of his body made contact with the cold earth.
Strangely, a warmth settled over him as he drifted off. In the distance, the steady crackle of flames lulled him to sleep at last.