Chapter 27
Dane crouched down beside a patch of mushrooms at the base of a large tree.
"Right, this one."
Mirielle knelt next to him, careful not to wrinkle her skirt on the wet moss. Dane held the mushroom between his fingers. "Mugwort."
"It looks like a mushroom."
"It is a mushroom."
"But you said it's Mugwort."
A smile threatened him. Dane promptly vanquished it.
"It's a type of mushroom."
Mirielle's world was immediately bigger.
"If you dry it, it can make a powder that helps stop bleeding."
Mirielle looked at him in awe. "You put mushrooms in people?"
"Only temporarily."
She looked at the mushroom with newfound respect. Then Dane pointed to a patch of white flowers a few feet away. "Those white flowers are feverfew."
"For fevers?"
"See? You're learning already."
A small smile tugged at her mouth.
"Most herb names are stupidly obvious."
"You know all of these?"
"Most."
"How?"
Dane shrugged. "When you're traveling with soldiers, people get hurt."
Mirielle frowned. "Did Reis teach you?"
Dane barked a laugh.
"Gods no."
"He didn't?"
"Reis's medical knowledge is mostly limited to 'don't die.'"
Mirielle burst into light giggles. Dane couldn't help but smile.
Nearby, Reis was busy securing packs to the horses with the intense concentration of a man pretending he wasn't listening to every word.
Kellan appeared between two trees with his hands in his pockets. His hair disheveled, his eyes sunken from apparent lack of sleep.
Dane's amusement vanished. "You look like shite."
He ignored him. His attention was fixed on the tavern door. A few moments later it opened and Lettie appeared. Fiery hair, silver cloak. Her head bowed as she trudged towards Dane and Mirielle. She clearly wouldn't look at Kellan.
Dane rubbed the stubble on his jaw.
"Dane?"
"Hmm?"
"Can I ride with you today?"
Dane noticed the puffy red marks under her eyes. The way she held herself like she was trying very hard to stay angry.
Something worse than grief passed over Kellan's face before he looked away.
Dane glared at Kellan for a long moment. "You're the stupidest clever man I've ever met."
For a moment it looked like Kellan was going to defend himself. Then he appeared to abandon the idea entirely and simply bobbed his head in defeated agreement.
Dane sighed heavily. His peaceful morning was already ruined. "Aye, Lettie, you can ride with me."
Relief flickered across her face, small but there. "Just don't let this fool get to ye."
Mirielle didn't understand arguments that didn't involve yelling. Back in Ambersaith, they always devolved into obvious things—slammed doors, raised voices and sharp words.
Somehow this felt altogether worse. Mirielle frowned and looked to Reis for an explanation.
He was busy strapping packs onto Maisey with the air of a man who had decided this was absolutely none of his concern.
Dane snorted. "Don't look at him. He's pretending he can't see it."
"I can hear you."
"Aye, and yet you've suddenly become blind."
Reis let loose a grunt that sounded suspiciously like affirmation.
When Dane lifted Lettie into Winter's saddle, Kellan looked like he had been punched. Not hard enough to drop him but enough to knock the wind right out of his lungs.
Dane mounted behind her and wrapped his arm around her waist.
Dane gave Kellan a look that clearly said, I told you so you big dumb idiot before squeezing Winter into a walk behind Hank.
*
Lettie sat atop Winter like she had forged herself from iron overnight. She carried herself like a drawn blade, her shoulders squared, her expression remained completely impenetrable.
She stared stubbornly at the trees ahead, refusing to look anywhere else—especially not at Kellan.
Behind her, Kellan rode in silence. Every now and then his gaze drifted toward her before quickly retreating to the invisible realm of regret somewhere between Tempest's ears.
Tempest, however, had other ideas.
As much as Kellan tried to give Lettie space, the mare insisted on walking directly beside Winter.
Every time he nudged her away, she drifted right back.
Every.
Single.
Time.
Kellan guided her left.
Tempest moved right.
Kellan sighed the sigh of a man who knows he deserves it.
Lettie pretended not to notice and continued to look like a queen made of silver stone and ice.
Dane was holding Lettie, his arm firmly gripping her waist in the most appropriate way possible. "Your horse is smarter than you," he warned.
Kellan simply looked at him, exasperated. Tempest flicked an ear in agreement.
At the front, Reis was feeling guilty for an entirely different reason.
Mirielle was asleep against his chest. Her head rested beneath his chin, her hair shielding her face from the rays of sun that shifted through the pines above. The steady rhythm of Hank's gait rocked her gently from side to side, but she never stirred. She was clearly exhausted.
His fault again.
Every minute she remained asleep felt like its own special punishment. He had kept her awake half the night.
His arm tightened around her waist. A useless gesture that did nothing to ease the guilt.
The forest ahead finally thinned. Towering pines gave way to craggy stone and scattered patches of stubborn brush half-buried beneath snow.
Scraggy trees that never seemed to reach maturity scattered across the wide plains.
The temperature plummeted so suddenly it felt as though they had crossed an invisible threshold into another realm.
Above them, the Sleeping King Malvek loomed, its peak crowned by a drift of clouds while rivers of snow poured down its shoulders and gathered among the rocks below.
Wind howled across it, carrying icy shards that promised stinging cold.
The mountain rose from the earth like the spine of some slumbering giant, vast and ancient beyond comprehension.
Mirielle shivered in her sleep. Reis felt it immediately. A small tremor at first. Then another.
A shadow invaded his face. "We camp here."
Nobody argued. Even Dane looked relieved. The forest edge offered at least some protection from the wind while still providing fuel for a fire.
He carefully carried Mirielle down from Hank to the shelter of a tall pine and lowered her against its trunk. The moment his warmth left her, a violent shiver tore through her body, her shoulders hunched, her hands curled in her lap.
Reis's jaw tightened.
Hells.
She was freezing.
Mirielle didn't even wake. That made it worse. She was so exhausted her body couldn't even properly complain.
Reis began splitting logs with enough violence to terrify nearby trees while Kellan and Dane began pitching the tent.
Meanwhile, Lettie was retrieving food from the packs, intently focused on her task and not at all on what Kellan was doing.
She was sorting dried meat and vegetables in a pot when she felt a warm breath behind her.
Winter was standing there, ears perked, soft brown eyes staring back at her. She nudged Lettie, nearly knocking her over.
"Oy!"
Lettie glared at Winter. Winter ignored her and buried her muzzle in her chest, shifting the folds of her cloak as if searching for something, like she was checking her for injuries.
A small smile appeared for the first time all day on Lettie's face. "Are you worried about me?"
Winter immediately sneezed in concerned confirmation.
Kellan watched from across the clearing. "What is she doing?"
Dane glanced at the pair and then returned to driving a stake into the earth. "Protecting her."
Kellan looked mildly offended.
A cold wind blew through camp and Winter shuffled closer.
"You know, I think you might be the sweetest creature here," Lettie said while stroking her shaggy neck.
Winter huffed in approval.
Nearby, another log was splintered into ruin. Lettie glanced at Reis.
"Maybe the second sweetest."
*
Kellan returned from scouting long after dusk.
He had volunteered for it himself.
Under normal circumstances, Kellan avoided scouting with the same enthusiasm he avoided hard labor, angry women and losing at cards.
Tonight, however, he had been the first to offer because he deserved it and also because Lettie deserved the space.
It also gave him hours alone with his thoughts, which had not helped in the least. It only made the memory worse. The look on her face when he walked away, the confusion, the hurt.
He hadn't been thinking. Kellan had plenty of women all over Kaldyr, hard women, women who played games like him and drank and slept their way through taverns. Women who knew the rules before the game began.
He had tried to play that game with Lettie. Lettie had spent her entire life in a hamlet with no marriageable men. Lettie who didn't think she deserved expensive things. Who thought the clothes he bought her came with debt. Who probably thought her use to him was based in tasks or intimate favors.
His whole body shuddered in revulsion.
The northern winds blew harshly over the camp. His boots crunched through snow and brush. His hood pulled low over his head. He was tired, cold and exhausted.
It didn't feel remotely sufficient.
He opened the tent folds and ducked inside. Mirielle was buried in Reis's chest under a pile of furs and curled beside her was Lettie—her brows pinched and her expression pained in sleep. Strands of copper hair spilled across blankets framing pale cheeks and reddened ears.
She was cold.
Kellan studied the arrangement for all of three seconds before realizing the problem.
Mirielle was many things. A furnace was not one of them. The woman was practically pocket-sized.
Kellan retreated to the fire outside where several stones sat nestled amongst the coals. Kellan crouched and tested one with the back of his hand.
Hot.
Good.
Gathering several, he carefully rolled them in damp linen sacks, tying them shut before the heat could escape.
He quietly walked back into the tent. Thankfully, sneaking objects into places without notice was one of the few practical skills his profession had provided.
He knelt beside her bedroll. Then slowly, carefully, he eased the heated stones beneath the blankets near her feet and along her side, taking great care not to let the warmth sit too close to her skin. There were no unnecessary movements. No sounds at all.
She shifted. A soft, sleepy sound escaped her.
Kellan froze.
Then to his relief she settled back into heavy breathing.
He unclasped his cloak and gently settled it over her. The curl of her body loosened. The furrow of her brow relaxed. The pink of her cheeks began to return under scattered freckles.
For a while he watched her in pensive silence. Watched the soft rise and fall of her breathing. It was the first time all day she hadn't looked hurt. Some part of him clung to that.
Kellan wanted what was best for Lettie. He always would. The trouble was that he was beginning to suspect that the happiest version of her future might be one where he wasn't in it.
Quietly, so quietly making sure nobody stirred, he settled himself near the tent entrance and stared out at the dark.
*
Lettie woke slowly to the sound of wind on tarps. The tent was dimly lit by lanterns and the first light of dawn. Mirielle was still sleeping next to her, buried in Reis.
For a moment she didn't understand why she was warm. Her blanket felt heavier than she remembered. She frowned and looked down.
Dark blue wool pooled over her shoulders. It was Kellan's cloak.
She went rigid.
For a long moment she simply stared at it. It smelled of woodsmoke and cedar. Unmistakably Kellan.
She pinched her brow. Had she taken it? No. She would have remembered.
Slowly she sat up, gathering the cloak tightly against her and she noticed the bedroll beneath her was warm. Too warm.
She felt something hard near her feet. Shifting the blankets, she found a stone wrapped in linen, still slightly warm. Then she found another near her back. Her confusion deepened. She looked across the tent.
He was sleeping by the entrance. Or at least trying to. He was sitting upright against a pole, arms crossed tightly over his chest. His head tilted at an angle that looked very uncomfortable.
The man wasn't even wearing a ruddy blanket.
He looked exhausted. More exhausted than she had ever seen him. His sandy hair was disheveled, his face pale. Dark circles lived under his eyes.
Something twisted in Lettie's stomach.
That night he had kissed her.
Gods, that kiss.
Heat flooded her face at the memory.
Then he looked at her like she had broken him. And then he left. She spent the night wondering if something was wrong with her. Maybe he regretted kissing her. Maybe he regretted her.
It hurt, that thought.
She looked down at the cloak, then the stones. The idiot sleeping at the entrance like a freezing scarecrow. It made everything more confusing.
Men who regretted women probably didn't spend the night making sure they were warm.
"Kellan," she said quietly.
He didn't stir.
Lettie retreated because somehow the word felt dangerous now.