3. Taking an awfully bumpy road
TAKING AN AWFULLY BUMPY ROAD
ENORA
Afew unnecessarily arduous days saw us crossing from Odessa’s lower plateaus through the border gate into the sovereign territory of the Wastes. It should’ve taken us a day or two longer to get there, easily, but our party captain—fucking Wendell—decided we were going to travel at untenable speeds.
My poor horse had to have been a thousand times more exhausted than I was, with the few hours of respite we’d get on the side of the road before we were at it again.
Odessan steeds were hearty equines, living their lives up in the thin air and mountain terrain, but even they had limits.
The rest of our party wasn’t faring much better, and I’d given up on questioning our utterly baffling tactics of hauling ass to the Wastes.
One could only be told to fuck off in so many creative and lengthy ways before it got old, fast.
Only a miracle would see any Frost left in my belt pouch when we made it to Grimmoria.
Despite having all readjusted our cowls to act as a barrier against the buffeting winds and the reek of active deep earth vents, Streja’s scowl was as plain as the day was miserable.
“Didn’t you say you were eager to see the Wastes?” I cocked a brow at her, and a rider behind me coughed to cover up their chuckle. “Is it not what you dreamed of?”
Her hazel eyes rolled, and she shook her head. “It stinks here. Like…like sewage and tar pits,” came her muffled groan. “Where’s the…debauchery? I thought there were villages. And taverns. And…and pleasure houses!”
Oh, sweet Streja.
Leave it to her to think we’d see any of that in our travels.
The Wastes had all those enticing happenings somewhere amidst the utter inhospitality, I was sure—just as I was sure Wendell would plan our route as far around them all as he could.
Being an envoy for my brother only meant one thing for certain: Wendell loathed the degenerate fun we’d find in the few settlements scattered across the Wastes.
After all, the only souls who braved inhabiting its barren lands were a mix of criminals from all three kingdoms—Grimmoria, Odessa, and the high fae lands of Elysiel.
And their generations of offspring, of course, peppered with dealers of nefarious goods and magics—or so the garrison grumblings always said.
Perfect fun for soldiers like the rest of us, but not for such delicately reared men.
“Well, you could just ride for, oh, I don’t know…
” Roq, another one of our old squad mates, trotted up beside Streja and tipped his mostly-covered head back towards a branching path we’d crossed a short while ago.
“About half a day over that way instead. You’ll find a settlement if a starving or rabid beast doesn’t get to you first.”
“Arseholes,” Streja mumbled before she pulled ahead just enough for any further conversation to prove difficult.
Her shift in attitude was a far cry from the woman who’d spent the last few days spouting her eternal—and officially grating—optimism, reminding me endlessly how I wasn’t the first to leave Odessa, and I certainly wouldn’t be the last. As if being brokered off in the name of goddess-damned trade was so simple.
Fuck. Just like that—poof. There went all traces of Streja-driven amusement bringing me a sliver of much-needed joy.
Roq was clearly in an intuitive headspace, though, because his pale brows climbed with a pointed glance, and he fell back into formation behind me.
We spent a few more hours trudging on like that, in grueling silence, while rank and smoggy winds whipped us, before Wendell finally settled on a location to make proper camp.
In my entirely humble opinion, all the creases and divots sunken into the jagged cliff face of the plateau above us were equal in their utter shittiness for shelter. But night had fallen, and we were all desperate to sink our roots, if only for a day.
As long as I got the dozen or so hours of sleep I was desperate for in that time, and my quaint tent didn’t yield to the brutal winds, I’d be happier than I had any right to be in the circumstances.
Well, as long as none of my brother’s envoys snored miserably tonight, seeing as they’d not-so-discreetly flanked my tent with their own.
A cliff face at my back, sniveling men camped to either side, and another just feet across from me—what incredible company.
As the smell of something far more delicious than dried rations wafted through the rippling flaps of my tent and my stomach gave an eager rumble, I opened the small leather bag belted at my waist and fished out the modest velvet satchel from inside.
Careful not to spill my powdered parting gift over every surface of my bedroll, I loosened the strings holding it closed, took a pinch of Frost between my fingers, and deposited it under my tongue.
The cool powder dissolved instantly, and, just moments later, I was bundled back up and heading out into our aisleway of tents with a healthy measure of calm trickling through my veins. Even through a thick scarf, my nose carried me the rest of the way to the fire.
It came as an immense relief to see one of my old squad mates tending to a pot over a nest of white-hot coals while the rest of our party huddled around wildly flickering flames dug into the earth.
Some were sitting right on the ground, bundled in blankets in singles and pairs, while others had taken to some haphazardly strewn rocks as seats, and I was quick to locate Streja on the other side of the pit.
She was engrossed in a tense-looking conversation with Wendell but had ample space beside her on the stone, and I was in a huddle-for-warmth mood.
When Streja noticed me on my way over, she brushed Wendell’s hand off her shoulder, and her full mouth pulled into an uneasy smile. Poor woman; I’d look just the same if he’d forced a one-on-one conversation with me too.
“I was worried you’d made a run for it,” she chuckled, but her voice was strained, and her prod fell flat.
Wendell looked unenthusiastic and didn’t even give me a chance to answer before he drawled, “Enora knows that wouldn’t be in her best interest, doesn’t she? Especially after those last two failures.”
“Sure do,” I sighed before I jerked my chin towards the bottle he held in one hand. “What’s that?”
His miserable mouth quirked. “Oh, just some lapsus I was sharing with Streja here. Figured we could do with a little warming up. Care for a drink? I know how much you love to imbibe, princess.”
Ignoring that well-placed dig at my character, I eyed the amber liquid sloshing inside the clear bottle with a squint. The label—a simple cream-colored square with a rose stamped in black ink—wasn’t one I recognized, but I never turned down a drink.
I smiled. “Then you should know how pointless that question was, Wendell. Go on. Give us a pour.”
Wendell chuckled and fetched a few cups from where our other travel wares were unloaded near the fire. He spread them on the makeshift stone bench between us and poured a healthy glug of liquor into each.
Giving mine a cursory sniff probably wasn’t the smartest idea—the acrid smell made my already weather-irritated eyes water something fierce—but it was worth it to see Streja’s face contract in disgust as she did the same.
“Cheers,” she said weakly before holding out her cup.
Wendell smirked. “Cheers, indeed.”
Our cups clinked against each other, liquid sloshing up the insides, and I mumbled my own toast before I made the mistake—or maybe wise decision—of taking my drink back in one gulp.
I was no stranger to off-putting potations, but this was especially heinous.
My entire mouth burned as if I’d just sipped scalding tea, and the lingering aftertaste had me inclined to believe the spirits were long past their prime.
Streja and Wendell didn’t look like they were faring much better, with their winces and wrinkled noses.
“Well,” he hissed, wiping his mouth with the back of his arm while he thrust the bottle at Streja with the other. “I’ll leave that with you two. Make sure you drink plenty—”
“DINNER’S READY!”
Some combination of the long days, the Frost, the liquor, and a full belly had finally taken its toll on me.
I had just barely set my scraped-clean bowl at my feet when I felt the heavy pull of fatigue tug at every fiber of my body, slinging that bit of extra weight over all my joints, like they’d been hung with sandbags.
I wasn’t usually the first to vacate any gathering and hadn’t planned for this to be an exception, with how everyone finally seemed to have a bit of life in them, but my body was giving me a pretty damn clear warning I was minutes away from using Streja as a pillow.
Not that she’d likely mind, but still.
“I think I’m going to turn in,” I said to her as I fought—and failed—to hold back a yawn. “I’m fucking exhausted, and that bedroll is calling my name.”
Streja tossed me a small smile, her hazel eyes flickering in the firelight, and she grabbed that cursed bottle of spirits from beside our stone-turned-bench. “One more nightcap, and I’ll walk back with you?”
I groaned but fished my cup up from beside my empty bowl and extended it to her. “Last one. It tastes like rancid piss.”
Streja scoffed quietly but uncorked the bottle and poured us each a finger or two.
Our cups clinked together for another time, and I made the best attempt I could at shooting the potent spirit straight down my throat.
The awful taste still washed over my tongue, though, and I hissed out a breath in protest. Streja chuckled a bit as she took another swig right from the bottle.
I gave her a smack on the shoulder as I stood, just before another full-bodied yawn took hold of me.
“Sleep tight, princess,” our party captain crooned from across the fire pit, and it took every bit of my fading resolve not to turn and flip him off.
These coming weeks were going to be the longest of my life.