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“Henrik,” Clover says softly, bringing my attention back to her. Still asleep, her face scrunches.

“She’s been doing that all night.” Lawrence glances at me just long enough to roll his eyes.

Shadow stubbles the prince’s jaw, and his skin is pale from a sleepless night. With his hair contained, at least he finally looks more like a soldier on a mission than a spoiled prince tagging along for a holiday.

“How long have we been asleep?” I ask him.

The words cause a spasm in my chest, and I’m suddenly racked with a series of coughs. I try to hold them in for Clover’s sake, but it’s no use. Startled out of her dreams, the noblewoman sits up, blinking at me first with confusion and then with concern.

My throat is raw, and the stale taste of marsh water coats my mouth. I clear my throat, wishing we had water.

Since Clover’s now awake, I sit up, holding in a groan.

Even though it’s early morning, the insects are thick. Minuscule gnats buzz about in clouds around us, and my companions swat mosquitoes every few minutes.

After slapping one on my arm, I rub my chest and take in our surroundings. We’re deep in the swamps now, traversing a waterway that’s surrounded on both sides by waterlogged ground. Tall blades of verdant green grass grow right into the water. The overhead canopy is thick here, blocking much of the direct sunlight, and the air is warm and humid despite the early hour.

Judging from the position of the lightening sky, we’re heading northwest. Eventually, the marsh will meet semi-solid land, and we’ll be able to continue on foot if the energy crystals wane.

Our first priority will be finding water, but then we must locate a village to replenish supplies and ask for directions to Revalane.

But how will we manage that when our one and only High Vale is a wanted man?

“Ayan,” I say, shifting to sit beside Clover on her bench, nudging my legs next to Bartholomew. “Exactly why has Duke Augmirian put a bounty on your head?”

I rebuke myself for bringing the elf, remembering that he ended up with the gnomes because he was running from Vallen guards. But I figured he was a common thief—far below the notice of the elven nobility.

Ayan gives me a dry look. “Likely because he doesn’t want me to boot him out of my dukedom.”

“The truth,” I say impatiently.

“Thatisthe truth,” he insists. “I swear.”

I stare at him, searching his face for signs of deceit. He raises his brows, openly challenging me as if he has nothing to hide.

“I have a better question,” Lawrence says, lazily steering the boat through the swamp like he’s been a river runner his entire life. “Why didn’t you use your magic on the ralnauth when it was about to take off Henrik’s leg? Or fight the elves when they were trying to capture you?”

Ayan blanches. “That’s…complicated.”

“We have nothing but time,” Pranmore points out, not bothering to look up from his journal. He’s writing poetry again, in the middle of the bog of all places. A bottle of ink balances precariously on his knee, just waiting to spill on Bartholomew.

But what else is he supposed to do to pass the time?

Curiously studying the High Vale, Clover asks Pranmore, “He does have magic, doesn’t he?”

The Woodmore glances at Ayan absently before he looks back down. “It appears he does.”

“I used it in Heistone,” Ayan says testily.

“Then why?” Clover asks Ayan. “Are you just not very good with it? Bad aim or something?”

“No.” A sheepish grin flashes across Ayan’s face. “When I can access it, I’m a pretty good shot.”

“What do you mean?” I demand.

“I…well.” He rubs the back of his neck. “Remember how I said I was raised in a Woodmore community?”

Clover nods as if she knows, but the men’s surprise mimics my own. A High Vale growing up amongst Woodmores is like a family of rabbits raising a rock leopard.