Chapter 26 #2
Sure enough, when Alys led Prancer over, he nuzzled Mal’s pockets in search of treats. “Fresh out,” he whispered apologetically. “Griff gave them all to the wargs.”
But the mule, not understanding or perhaps hungry for a taste of whatever was on Mal’s face—reanimated warg flesh, no doubt—raised its shaggy head, still sniffing, and whuffed a hot breath against Mal’s cheek before nuzzling him right on the mouth.
“How about that,” Alys laughed groggily as Mal jerked away, cursing under his breath. “Seems like everything that’s ever been called Griff has a taste for you.”
The claw marks in Mal’s shoulders were still oozing by the time the sun was shining warmly through the trees and gnats were whining in his ear again.
At least now the busy hum of bugs was accompanied by the sweet sound of saddlebags jingling with coins that belonged to no one but the three of them, and there were no more hunting howls.
“Mal,” Alys groaned, shielding her eyes from the glare of the sun. “You make drinking look fun, but it really isn’t. My head …”
“Here,” Mal said, fishing a silver coin out of one of the mule’s bags as it dutifully plodded along with Griff as its rider again.
He studied it for a moment before handing it to Alys; he had never seen a star just like this stamped on another coin in all his trading ventures.
“This will make you feel better. Money. Always cures what ails.”
But that wasn’t entirely true, because as a mild breeze moved the trees and they ventured into the shade, Mal couldn’t stop shivering. That was odd, almost like he was coming down with a touch of something more than Alys’s terrible hangover.
Griff reached into his pack and handed something down to Mal—a shirt, black.
One of his own. “I like seeing you in my clothes,” he admitted with a grin.
Then he consulted the map, which was crumbling worse than ever after surviving the night.
“Looks like we’re only about a day’s march or so from the lake and getting this treasure so we can get the hell out of here.
My shoulder can make the journey if you’re up to it.
Crossing water with undead wargs on our trail and no boat sounds like just the kind of time I was promised out here anyway. ”
Mal groaned and shut his eyes briefly. Nothing about that sounded appealing in the slightest, even to him.
He still had to fight not to see Griff covered in blood every time he closed his eyes, and now he was going to have to get him across a lake with his busted shoulder and leg.
But they had made it this far without the shadow killing them, or them killing each other—they were so close to ending all this and walking out of here peacefully, weighed down with the means to secure their future.
Maybe Griff would even be willing to keep watch while he and Alys sailed out to the island and emptied the barrows, plucked crowns from the heads of long-dead kings, gathered swords and breastplates and mail coats from coffins.
And, of course, those healing vambraces for Griff.
That beautiful disaster didn’t know the first thing about dirty work—his idea of risk-taking seemed to be staying at the library past closing hours—and he didn’t need to start now.
After all, Griff came from a world of elven parties with porcelain bowls and the rules of Polite Society.
He knew nothing of sheltering in cold stone and hewing muscle from bone, the feeling of his own heartbeat flickering out, and Mal would keep it that way once they got back to Mayfair too.
He’d buy him a shiny horse and do all the dirty work so he could come home to that carefree laugh and those exuberant hugs just in time to watch Griff chop the wood for the evening fire.
And he’d keep him well away from that locksmith who looked a little too much like him and clearly also had a taste for the finer things.
He wouldn’t have felt remorse in the slightest for fucking someone else’s boyfriend, but Griff was his now. Griff had chosen him, and he was more than just a boyfriend to Mal. He definitely wasn’t Mayfair’s Most Eligible anymore either.
While they marched and rode on, pushing aside branches and sloshing through filthy water to blaze their trail, Griff took the broken elf sword and used its cloth wrappings to try to fashion a hilt on one end that wouldn’t cut anyone’s hands the next time one of them needed to wield it.
Though, thankfully, Mal hadn’t seen the shadow since he’d charged at it with the broken blade.
“You really think that thing can cut a spirit?” he asked Griff. It was hard to even imagine what that might look like.
“Honestly … I’d rather not find out,” Griff answered grimly. “I don’t like that our best defense against something I can’t see is a blade I think I remember reading about, but … we’ll be out of here in no time, right?”
“That’s the plan,” Mal agreed, because it felt good to speak the truth, just before a light cough rattled in his chest.
Somewhere out of sight, a raven cawed lowly to one of its companions.
From astride the mule, Griff watched him with a little line of worry between his brows, toying with the ends of Mal’s black scarf around his neck as if he meant to take it off and return it to its owner.
“You should keep it,” Mal suggested, coughing lightly one more time to clear whatever it was from his lungs. “Looks better on you anyway.”
Griff’s smile was better than another trophy on his shelves.
“You two give me some kind of hope,” Alys said, hanging back with them a moment to grab another silver from Prancer’s saddlebag.
She wedged the two coins into Leo’s eyes to cover up his deadened stare, forever frozen in the state of half decay he’d been raised from the grave in, then surveyed her handiwork with a satisfied grin.
Even Mal could admit it was an improvement.
As the day wore on, the map led them to a place where the shadows grew longer and colder and the plants more colorful—and more likely to make them sick, if Alys got any notions about picking berries—as a greater quiet settled over the Mire.
The chill made Mal shiver again. He even missed the birdsong and hearing Griff whistle back, though he really could have done without the rustling of wings as ravens flitted from branch to branch.
As he reached into his cloak for a drink, his eyes met Griff’s, and he noted a wince in the other man’s gaze. But Griff’s brows swiftly rose in surprise as Mal pulled out a regular canteen instead of his usual flask.
“Leftovers of that tea you made yesterday,” Mal told him with a little smile, the most he could muster when he still couldn’t shake off this chill. “Guess I’m in the mood for something different.”
Griff reached out with his working arm and took Mal’s hand. “Proud of you,” he said softly, pulling Mal right back to page ten.
Mal held on to that, just like he held Griff’s hand until they broke for a bite of their remaining rations and to water the thirsty mule at a trickle that was too pitiful to be called a stream, but far more appealing and trustworthy than any of the stagnant green puddles they had passed so far today.
“Alys, I’ve got something for you,” Mal called, holding out the canteen to her and accepting Prancer’s lead for a while instead. He folded up the map, certain of their course until they reached the lake. “This tea might help your headache—better than anything the elves could have brewed, I bet.”
The elven salve had to be the reason his side was so achy and hot, the reason the rest of him was cold by comparison. He never should have let Alys put that stuff on him or Griff. It likely wasn’t going to kill them, but it didn’t feel great either.
“What have you got against elves, anyway?” Alys asked curiously, still sounding a little hoarse from last night.
Griff grinned around a mouthful of jerky but quickly glanced at Prancer, like he didn’t want Mal to notice how interested he was in the answer.
“They destroy lives and ruin friendships. They weren’t letting Griff send letters to me,” Mal said bluntly. “And if they were okay leaving me to die without my best friend, I don’t really care what happens to them either. I’d say that’s plenty fair.”
Alys considered this as she took a sip of tea, then nodded. It relieved his shivers—at least for a moment—to know he had someone who was, rightly or wrongly, always on his side.
“I’d like you to consider meeting Rosemaris sometime, though, now that we’re together,” Griff told him, not quite meeting his eyes.
“Maybe, if I write to her—and apologize profusely to her father for being the reason she snuck out of Stormveil in the first place—they might allow us to pay her a visit up there someday.”
“She’s their special princess, right?” Mal asked flatly, making his disinterest clearer.
But Griff smiled gently all the same, like the mere thought of her made him happy. “That’s right. She saved me from drowning once,” he explained. “Back when I didn’t have very much hope for my future anymore, or any love to spare for myself.”
Mal glanced pointedly at Griff’s bloody, bandaged ankle, then up to his wounded shoulder.
“Seems like that’s still in short supply,” he pointed out.
But as they started walking again, Prancer trudging along with Griff on his back, Mal relented—because he wanted to make Griff happy, to be better than any locksmith named Liam, to make up for the stabbing he still couldn’t bring himself to talk about.
“I guess we could try it, though. Visiting the princess, if they’ll even let the likes of me come there with you. ”
Griff nodded, seeming to consider the matter settled.
But Mal wasn’t quite as ready to let go of the subject. A few minutes later, he added with a sideways glance, “What makes you so sure she’s going to like me?”
At that, Griff flashed a smile that made Mal warm all over—at least for a moment, before the next shiver. “She loves what makes me happy.”