Chapter 16
Blaze
We ride until the sun begins to set.
Ignoring Fox’s outstretched hand, I slide clumsily down from Cedar’s back and wince as my feet hit the ground. My whole body feels bruised.
‘Are you hungry?’
I hesitate, leaning heavily against the trunk of an ash tree, trying to work out why an admission of hunger feels tantamount to a declaration of weakness.
‘A little,’ I concede at last, combing my fingers through my tangled curls.
‘How about I find us some food while you wash up in the Creek?’ Fox suggests.
I frown, waiting for the catch. That’s the problem with the Earth Cleaver – he’s not an easy person to trust. He’s not especially kind either.
As if on cue, he changes tack. ‘My apologies, that sounded like a suggestion, but really it was a request. Look at the state of you. Do us both a favour and bathe.’
I glower at him before heading off towards the sound of running water.
‘Wait,’ Fox calls, rummaging in his satchel before tossing me a bar of soap and a spare change of clothes.
I hold up the shirt. ‘I don’t want your clothes. I have my own.’
‘Yes, and they’re filthy.’
‘So I’ll wash them,’ I bite back, irritated.
‘And what will you wear while you wait for them to dry?’ Fox asks innocently. ‘Forgive me, Your Majesty, but I always considered you the modest type. Though do feel free to prove me wrong.’
A furious blush blooms across my cheeks.
‘Fine,’ I spit, tucking the bundle under my arm and ducking through the trees.
I glance back in time to see Fox untacking Cedar, chuckling quietly to himself as the horse nuzzles his shoulder, as if the two of them were sharing some private joke.
The Creek is a welcome sight, the water bracingly cold. It soothes the angry fire-ant stings peppered along my spine. I scrub myself clean as best I can, then pull on the borrowed set of clothes, rolling up the trousers and rolling my eyes at the low-cut shirt.
Shivering a little, I return to the camp and drape my own clothes over a branch to dry.
Fox appears several minutes later. He takes in the sight of me, tilting his head in apparent bemusement. ‘Any particular reason why you’re wearing that shirt back to front?’
I glance down. ‘Oh, I thought I’d try something new. Why? Do you like it?’
Fox blinks, taken aback. ‘I … I mean …’ He clears his throat uncomfortably, seemingly at a loss for words.
That’s when he notices my withering expression.
‘As the future Queen of the Waterlands, you certainly have a very dry sense of humour, Storm Weaver,’ he remarks.
‘What’s your quarrel with my shirt? Not quite to your taste? ’
I run a finger along the slightly fraying hem. ‘While you clearly have a liking for shirts that gape open practically to your midriff –’
He scoffs. ‘Hardly.’
‘– I’d really rather not wander around only half-dressed,’ I finish scathingly.
A grin slides on to his face. ‘Well, I for one wouldn’t be complaining.’
I scowl darkly. ‘Remind me again why I agreed to stay with you?’
Fox shakes his head fondly. ‘Storm Weaver, most girls would trade just about anything for a mere hour of my company.’
‘That I very much doubt, unless they’d paid a visit to the Mage in Zafar. I imagine I would find your company entirely tolerable, provided I could neither hear nor see you.’
His grin widens, and he tosses his satchel down at my feet. ‘I brought you something.’
I narrow my eyes suspiciously, but reach inside, unable to turn down a direct challenge, only to draw my hand back moments later with a yelp. Hissing in pain, I empty the clump of stinging nettles out on to the ground, then glare at Fox.
‘They made me think of you,’ he tells me.
Seething, I hold up a finger.
Fox tuts. ‘How vulgar you are, Your Majesty.’
‘Stop calling me that,’ I snap, massaging my palm.
Still smirking, Fox sets to work building a fire, placing the pewter cooking pot on a large flat stone in the centre.
I watch as he meticulously cuts and cleans the roots he foraged, adding them to the pot alongside the nettles to blanch, followed by a sprinkling of wild herbs.
As the steel sparks and the kindling catches, my thoughts turn to Flint.
There was a moment in the Ridge tunnels, before the explosion, when I almost believed he wasn’t going to do it. I’d never seen him so helpless. He looked … terrified.
I’d screamed at him, begged him, willed the flames to spring forth – and then, mercifully, they did. He saved us. And now he’s out here all alone.
Fox watches me gaze uselessly into the flames. ‘Your brother can handle himself,’ he says, as if I’d spoken aloud.
I look up in surprise, and he holds out a bowlful of sorry-looking stew.
After his stunt with the nettles, I consider not taking it. Or throwing it back in his face. But hunger tips the scale, and I pick up my spoon, blowing gently on the steaming concoction before taking a small sip. I pull a face. It tastes as bad as it looks. Worse.
‘Don’t worry, Storm Weaver,’ Fox tells me, grinning as he settles himself against a tree stump. ‘There’s more than enough for seconds.’
Silence resumes as we both choke down the stew. When I push away my empty bowl, Fox tosses me the waterskin. Reflexively, I catch it with my injured arm and wince. The bandage is damp and fraying, and most of the salve was washed away in the spring.
‘Want me to take a look?’ Fox asks.
I wrestle with my response. Pain battles pride. Pain wins.
I shuffle closer to him, extending my arm and avoiding his gaze. He encircles my wrist to examine the bite. His touch is warm, gentle.
‘So?’ I say rudely, unable to help myself. ‘How does it look?’
‘Not bad,’ he responds, applying some poultice.
I flinch at the sound of his dagger being slid from its sheath and watch as he uses it to sever the end of the bandage.
‘That dagger,’ I begin.
‘What about it?’
‘It’s the same one you had in Zafar.’
‘It is. I won it in a game of cards.’
‘You didn’t have it at the Binding Ceremony,’ I say quietly.
A flicker of something dark and wretched passes across his features. ‘No,’ he agrees. ‘I didn’t think I’d need it.’
I remember the moment he snatched my own dagger from my belt – that curved silver claw cut from the beast in my first trial. I remember the moment it was plunged deep into the emperor’s chest. I can still smell the blood spreading slowly across the dais.
Fox says nothing as he finishes tying the bandage, then turns away to stoke the fire.
Dusk has fallen, and the flickering light glances off his face, which is carefully neutral – a mask of indifference.
Well, almost. I watch a muscle pulse in his jaw, recalling his expression that day. The horror. The guilt.
When I speak, my voice is softer than intended. ‘I don’t blame you, you know.’
Fox begins packing away his medical supplies. ‘Then you’re on your own with that.’
‘Only because people don’t know the truth.’
‘They know I murdered my father and the three queens.’
‘But not that you didn’t mean to,’ I say, frustrated.
‘That doesn’t matter.’
The fierceness in my tone takes me by surprise. ‘Of course it matters.’
At long last, Fox looks at me. Green eyes gaze into mine, unblinking. ‘Careful, Storm Weaver,’ he murmurs. ‘Anyone would think you cared.’
I swallow self-consciously, then change the subject. ‘You said you won it?’
‘What?’
‘The dagger,’ I clarify.
‘Ah.’ Fox runs his finger along the blade. ‘Yes, it used to belong to Magnus Aurelian.’
Recognition stirs. ‘Is that –’
‘The Prince of Thaven,’ he finishes. ‘Sadistic brute. Soon to be brother-in-law to the emperor – that is, if Haldyn can drag himself away from our friend the Shadow Mage.’
‘Elva,’ I correct stiffly.
‘Elva, yes. Honestly, I’ve never seen him so smitten. But even he wouldn’t be stupid enough to jeopardize the alliance with Thaven over an infatuation.’
I don’t respond.
‘I wonder how he’ll manage it,’ Fox muses. ‘Juggling them both.’
‘It’s not like he hasn’t had the practice,’ I snap, unable to help myself as I recall, with a dull pang of humiliation, the night I learned of Hal’s betrayal, when I found him on his knees in my darkened chamber, cradling Elva to his chest.
Fox frowns, as though he’s remembering it too. ‘About what my brother did –’
I cut him off. ‘It’s getting late.’
I might have forgiven Hal his deception, but it appears it hasn’t entirely lost its sting. Though if the Earth Cleaver suspects I’m still harbouring any unrequited feelings for his brother, then he’s mistaken. I only hope Princess Mirade will be smarter than I was.
Fox tries again. ‘If this is because I knew and didn’t tell you –’
‘It’s got nothing to do with you,’ I say bluntly.
He leans back against a tree, one hand on his chest. ‘You wound me, Storm Weaver.’
I scoff, using a branch to pull myself to my feet. ‘Goodnight.’
‘I can’t protect you from over here, you know,’ he calls as I snatch the blanket from his bedroll and make my way to the other side of the clearing.
‘I can protect myself.’
‘Not without your water gifts you can’t.’
I grimace. The temporary absence of my magic makes me feel uneasy. Off-kilter, as though I were missing a limb, or rather something far more intrinsic – a part of myself I can no longer live without. For seventeen years I was utterly defenceless, and I resented it.
Fox folds his arms behind his head. ‘Look, you’re still weak, which means your powers are weak. Right now, you’re a sitting duck.’
‘And you’re insufferable,’ I grit out, grudgingly edging back towards the fire and lying down with my back to him.
Cedar nickers quietly, as if to say, She’s got a point.