15. The Larger the Greatsword, the Smaller the…
The Larger the Greatsword, the Smaller the…
Torren woke from the depths of slumber by the steady rasp of a blade being sharpened. The rhythmic scrape had slowly lifted him to wakefulness with his face pressed into the pillow.
He had fallen asleep on his side, though with the state of his sheets, one might have thought Torren fought a vicious battle in the depths of slumber.
As soon as his eyes opened, they fixed on Cypress, bent over her daggers, steadily running a whet stone across the blades. She still wore only the short robe the women of Faerie preferred, feet bare on the grass.
Torren sighed, then moaned, “Must you do that now?”
Cypress barely paused her work when she replied. “Dawn has already broken, Princeling. Perhaps we can accomplish something while we’re still young if you get your ass out of bed.”
Surprised laughter burst from Torren’s chest. “Lass, it’s far too early to be having a battle of wits.”
“Pft, only if you’re an imbecile," Cypress muttered back. The steady rasp of the whetstone against the blade raised the hair of Torren’s arm and sent a shiver down his spine.
Torren shook his head and rolled out of bed, then bent to stretch his still stiff limbs. “What has you up so early, Lass?”
“The sun,” Cypress drawled back, then asked, “How far is it to the tombs?”
“Roughly two days, if we make good time. Our next stop is A'aravos Paravale.”
Cypress’s sharp, mismatched green and brown eyes checked the edge of the blade for deformities.
She looked so… perfectly in tune with her environment, the side of her face illuminated by the sun’s rays, sitting in his tent, sharpening a blade.
It was as if this camp was where she belonged, not underneath the thick armor of the Keep’s expectations.
“Why are we going there? Are you intentionally delaying our journey?” Cypress asked, drawing him out of his musing.
“Unless you wish to attempt to cross the Wylds without using the roads—as fickle as they may be– be my guest, Lass. But you won’t be among the living for very long,” Torren said before he walked to the small basin to splash some water on his face.
Cypress heaved a great sigh, then stood from her chair. “Fine. Where are my clothes?”
Torren huffed a laugh, then pressed a cloth to his face. “Did you not think to whistle for one of the Small Folk?”
“I assumed only the Fair Folk would be able to call them,” she said.
The furrowed line between delicately arched brows made Torren ashamed that he’d poked fun at her–even if the feeling was fleeting.
“It’s not a magical summons, Lass. Think of it as one of the little bells I’m sure Cade took great pleasure in ringing at every opportunity. Small Folk just have exceptionally good hearing.” He said with a shrug.
Torren had to suppress another peal of laughter at Cypress’s dumfounded face.
“Go on, Lass. Just whistle.” He said. “Unless, can you whistle?”
“I can whistle just fine, thank you,” Cypress snarled, and demonstrated that fact with a distinct air of superiority.
Torren smirked, then stepped outside the tent and toward the small outhouse to relieve himself.
When Torren returned to the tent, he first washed his hands, then ran a clean, damp cloth across his body. Even having gone to sleep freshly bathed, the humidity of the Southern Wylds made Torren feel as if he were covered in sweat again.
After dressing in a fresh pair of linen trousers and a deep burgundy shirt rolled to the elbow, Torren left the tent once more.
Cypress and one of the Small Folk were behind a separate curtained partition of the tent, murmuring quietly to one another.
Torren left them to it, satisfied that Cypress was being taken care of.
Outside, Ellisar stood at attention under one of the Willows of the inner protection ring of the circle.
“I presume you have news for me?” Torren asked when he was under the branches of the Willow.
“Three more villages have been attacked.”
“In the boundary?”
Ellisar shook his head. “Not by Crown Raiders. Reports state Hounds were seen.”
Torren sighed, running a hand over his jaw. “How many dead?”
“A merciful twenty. Dozens more have injuries, though not fatal.”
Torren nodded, the weight of time that he did not have pressing in on him, threatening to bow his back.
“Send any aid they require.”
“Already done.”
Again, Torren nodded. “And the Giants? Have any of the rings suffered?”
“The Giants are all heading to the Bad Lands. There hasn’t been any report of their activity to suggest violence. They’re just… Leaving.” Ellisar shrugged.
“Hmm. Rings haven’t been moved? Mountains shifted? Nothing?”
“No. Nothing other than the disturbances they create just walking. But that’s all they’re doing. Walking.”
“Any other tombs breached?”
“Not yet. The songs are getting weaker, though.”
“Fuck,” Torren sighed, and rubbed the back of his neck.
“Did you find what you were looking for?” Ellisar asked.
“No. I was discovered before I could locate the Scepter. But our new friend is helping me get it.”
At Ellisar’s confused expression, Torren said, “She is to witness the tombs to be able to confirm the rising of the hunt in order for Caelith to consider giving me the scepter.”
Ellisar shook his head. “So many lives will be lost because of his pride.”
“We do what we must. Save who we can,” Torren said, clapping the man on the shoulder.
“Speaking of, I have coordinated with the villages for safe haven for our friends who have come from the boundary.”
“Is everyone settling okay?” Torren asked, feeling a sort of kinship with those forced into the Wylds by Caelith’s cruelty. Hopefully, there wouldn’t be a need for refugees much longer.
“As well as can be hoped, given the circumstances.”
“Ask the Druids if any of them wish to grow a Seedling for the refugees. It will take some time, but I’m sure there will be some Fair Folk who do not wish to return to the boundary lands.”
Ellisar nodded, then said, “I wish you safe travels, Prince,” and clasped his fist over his heart with a short bow.
Torren returned the gesture, then left the cover of the Willow tree.
Hopefully, Cypress would be ready by now. She didn’t seem to be the type to fuss endlessly over her attire, but who knew. Cypress was surprising in a number of other ways, this could be another tally.
He lifted the canvas flap of the tent and walked in with a quick, “Hello, the Prince is entering the tent.”
“Yes, yes, you’re fine,” was Cypress’s response from around the corner of his partitioned sleep quarters.
Torren took a few measured steps further into the tent.
Cypress was strapping the leather corset he was familiar with around her waist, though she wasn’t wearing the rest of the outfit she had been wearing on the journey this far.
Cypress was now wearing the more traditional garb of the Fair Folk.
A long shirt that covered her hips but split on either side for movement and breathability, and a pair of thick leather pants with laces up the sides for easy adjustments.
Her shoulders were covered in leather pauldrons embossed with small leaves and ferns, forearms bearing similar bracers made of deep red-black leather.
As usual, Cypress’s long hair was braided back, though it wasn’t nearly as tightly bound as usual. Torren couldn’t help but notice there were far fewer lines of tension around her mouth and ones that pressed her brows together than there had been while they were much closer to Caelith’s castle.
“What’s all this?” Torren asked, giving Cypress another once over.
The more traditional garb of his people suited Cypress, somehow. Though Torren had to admit that seeing her in full armor suited for a Lady’s form would be devastating.
The black armor of Captain Cy was formidable, and she wore it well, but now that he knew her, the armor was lacking… somehow.
“My clothes were mended and washed, but the Small Folk gave me a few more options she said would suit me in the Wylds. Is that okay?” Cypress asked, question poised like a dagger ready to strike.
Torren raised his hands to stave off her anger. “Was just a question, Lass.”
She narrowed her eyes, but was apparently content to let the subject drop. “Are you ready to go now?”
“If you are.”
“I was the one awake at dawn, not you,” Cypress said.
“And you decided to wake me by sharpening a blade. Not at all comforting, Cypress,” Torren remarked. Then, he held the flap of the tent open for her to exit first. Their horses would be saddled and restocked by now.
Once Torren got Cypress to believe him that the Old Ones were waking, that the Hounds who signaled the beginning of the Wyld Hunt had already begun haunting the deepest of the dark corners of the Wylds, he would have the Scepter.
And then, Torren would be able to find the Old One’s heart and take control of the Wyld Hunt. And then, well. Then Caelith’s days would be numbered.
Torren was close, but he couldn’t get too ahead of himself. Everything still depended on Cypress believing what he told her. The oath they shared certainly helped with that, but she was dancing dangerously close to asking some hard-to-answer questions.
What was worse, Torren wasn’t sure how he would even get the damned thing without her help, now. Surely, Caelith would have placed the scepter under locked guard, day and night. Another attempt at a heist would be pointless.
“If you’re bothered by such a small blade, Thief, I guess that would explain your lack of lovers,” Cypress said, giving him a thorough examination. “A pity.”
“If you want to see the size of my blade, Cypress, just say so,” Torren said, winking.
Cypress scoffed. “Please. With the great sword you swing around, I already know enough, thank you.”
“So you agree, it’s big.” He said, wiggling his brows at her.
Cypress gave him a smug smile. “The opposite. What else could you be overcompensating for?”
Torren’s mouth gaped open, his feet stalling on the path toward their mounts.
Cypress laughed as she passed him, closing his still-open mouth with the barest of touches on his chin.
“Careful, now. You’ll start catching flies.”