37 #2
Damnation, but she was right. On countless occasions, we had been compelled to teach that hooligan a painful lesson on our friend’s behalf, refraining only because it would insult Nicu and make him feel like a child.
Eventually, my liege charged past us, this time heading in the opposite direction of Lyrik’s footfalls. Then it was my turn to clasp Aspen’s arm, dissuading her from trailing after Nicu.
“Let him be,” I murmured. “He memorized that route.”
Despite the altercation, another confounding event occurred three days hence.
The liquid flames inside the walkway lanterns were replaced with dyed vapors that launched into the air.
Each autumnal color—orange, scarlet, gold, ochre—marked different routes, puffs of steam lighting the way like trail markers.
The vapors glowed close enough to one another for Nicu to distinguish, reminiscent of the castle’s ribbon garlands. Yet they were also set far enough apart that it exercised his mind, allowing my friend more freedom without disregarding his needs altogether.
I arrived at Nicu’s treehouse to find him standing outside the threshold. He took in the splendor, a radiant grin splitting his face.
Later, I passed Lyrik’s alchemy chamber, stalling to glance inside.
While it had been considerate of this man to accommodate my liege’s geographical needs, it didn’t atone for his prior offenses.
So as he stirred something in the gurgling cauldron, I shadowed the doorway, folded my arms, and waited.
It didn’t take long. Keeping his eyes on the brew, Lyrik merely said, “Got tired of him slowing us down.”
“Get tired again, and it had better assist Nicu instead of exasperating him,” I warned. “Otherwise, you’ll find a blade poised at your throat.”
“Careful, knight.” The rogue sprinkled a handful of pellets into the cauldron. “Sounds like you’re undermining Nicu’s ability to deal with his own emotional shit.”
“Who said the weapon would be mine?”
Lyrik went still. I choose that moment to depart, letting the retort sink in.
Presently, Nicu would never hurt a soul. But that didn’t mean he wouldn’t be motivated someday.
***
At the terrace fire pit that evening, Aspen perched to my left. I dug my fingers into a tankard of ale as the omnipotent fragrance of melted iron and myrrh assaulted my lungs.
Tonight, Aspen chose a fetching gilded dress, the vibrant color matching a cluster of leaves dripping from the branches. She’d taken to removing the hood, a decision that earned a grin from Nicu and a snarky compliment from Lyrik.
“About time,” the man declared. “You were holding out on us.”
Over dinner, Nicu spoke of home. The tidings he often received from his Spring grandmother.
The forbidden campfire tale of his parents.
The bond he nurtured with his ferret familiar.
The queen, minstrel, and ladies who expanded his family.
The routine visits from Winter’s king and his seafaring lady.
While listening, Lyrik flicked ash from his cigarette and stared at the flames. “I like the sound of your life,” he mused.
Nicu frowned. “What about the sound of your life?”
“It ain’t that thrilling.”
“If so, that’s your choice.”
The rogue’s head lifted, caught in an uncensored moment of surprise. For once, he failed to compose a response.
Mutely, they stared at one another.
Baring witness to the exchange, I shuffled on the banquette and swapped a tentative glance with Aspen. The glint in her pupils reflected the same candid thoughts.
At his core, Nicu was a transparent being.
He possessed an unbiased friendliness, hugging strangers and chatting his business within minutes of introductions, rendering it a challenge for him to tell friend from foe.
As a result, it wounded him to be rejected by others, and it pained me to witness such interactions.
In any case, beyond intimate conferences with his family and myself, Nicu rarely behaved in an enigmatic manner with anyone.
Thus, the departure from his customary demeanor carried a different weight.
That, as well as a dozen other illicit quandaries regarding the nature of his acquaintance with the rogue, silenced Aspen and me as our group traversed back to our cabins.
Halfway down one of the bridges, Nicu stopped in his tracks. Something tied to one of the branches captured his attention. “Ohhh!” Breaking into a dash, he snatched the object from the bough and held it aloft to the starlit sky.
An envelope.
Swiftly, we gained his side. Upon close inspection, the passage of time had frayed the patina corners, and insects had nibbled on the edges.
“Huh.” Lyrik shoved his hands in his pockets. “Never saw that coming.”
“This letter is old but not archaic,” I conveyed. “It’s been waiting years for someone to discover it.”
“Any other intuitions?” Aspen inquired.
I shook my head as Nicu pried open the seal, his fingers shaking with enthusiasm. Strictly used to offshoots and leaves occupying the trees, that he’d noticed the envelope at all was a marvel.
The paper’s lip cracked, opening to reveal lines of regal script. Astonishment stalled my outtakes, and Aspen gasped in recognition.
The eloquent writing. The bronze ink. The poised calligraphy.
Only one person possessed such a refined hand. Someone who had once been banished. A woman who fled to this enclave ages ago, prior to her return to the throne.
“It’s from Mama,” Nicu whispered.