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Bartholomew frowns, thinking it over. “But all the books refer to them as Dornau—”

The elf clears his throat loudly, cutting Bartholomew off.

Bartholomew shoots Pranmore a cautious look. “They refer to them as…that.”

“The High Vales who penned the tales weren’t known for their…” I pause. “Let’s call it tact.”

Pranmore snorts, but like Henrik, he obviously believes it’s better to stay silent if you have nothing nice to say.

“What happened to the gnomes anyway? Do you know, Pranmore?” Bartholomew gestures to the gnome-like rock that’s now behind us. “Did they really all turn to stone like the stories claim?”

“They went back to the earth,” Pranmore answers sadly. “They were a solitary people. Once the humans won the war, the Dorians withdrew, becoming one with the trees and rocks. Silent sentries, they watch these mountains, protecting them to this very day.”

He pauses and turns toward the trees, bowing deeply at the waist as if to honor their service.

Personally, I find the thought of the trees watching us slightly disturbing, but I don’t voice my opinion aloud. Instead, I say, “It sounds as if they had a lot in common with your people.”

Pranmore shakes his head. “They were vicious fighters—defending their territory and the land. More than anything, my people wish for peace. Peace between the races, peace with the earth. Chaos and war and death—who do those serve? It rips apart families and destroys this continent on which we live.”

We ride in silence for a bit after that, the mood becoming oddly somber.

“We’ll camp here tonight,” Henrik says when the sun is low in the sky and the late afternoon light is golden as it filters through the trees. He stops in a small glade that’s protected by forest on three sides. A large rock outcrop rises to the north, backing the area.

“We’re not the first people to stop here,” Bartholomew says when he dismounts his horse, pausing by a circle of rocks that contain the crumbling ashes of an old campfire.

“Hunters use these game trails,” Henrik explains as he scans the area, seeming unconcerned.

As expected, the word “hunters” makes Pranmore visibly shudder, but he doesn’t have a comment for once.

“Do you think anyone nefarious frequents this area?” Bartholomew asks, looking more eager than nervous. “Bandits? Thieves?”

“Possibly, but I doubt we’ll run into trouble of that kind.” Henrik shoulders his pack.

I feed my mare an oat lump, smiling as her muzzle tickles my palm. “We’re more likely to wake to an aynauth in our camp.”

“Not where we’re spending the night,” Henrik says cryptically. He then jerks his head toward the rock wall. “We’ll camp up there.”

My eyes follow the outcrop wall up. Way up—at least twenty feet.

“Having reservations about joining us, Lady Clover?” Henrik asks in a tone that’s far too innocent. In fact, I would say the gleam in his eyes is almost mischievous—if the valiant soldier were capable of such an emotion.

I untie my pack and heft it over my shoulder, careful of my bow and quiver. “I think we’ve already established that I can climb.”

“You can go up anyway.” Henrik scans the rock wall. “You seem to have trouble coming down.”

“I don’t know,” Pranmore says thoughtfully, perhaps not realizing Henrik is teasing me. “It seems Clover found the most direct route out of the tree in the ruins.”

Choosing to ignore them, I make a scoffing noise under my breath and begin to roll up my skirt. Bartholomew lets out a peep of surprise as I secure the fabric at my waist, and his gaze momentarily drops to my legs and the mercenary wear that covers them.

Henrik’s amusement shifts to irritation, and that gives me far more satisfaction than it should. I know I’m perfectly well dressed, andheknows I’m perfectly well dressed, but the outfit still offends his delicate sensibilities, the poor man.

I step up next to the soldier, studying the stone wall. “Shall I go up first?”

21

Henrik

Clover isthe most intriguing inconvenience I’ve ever encountered. I can’t decide if I want to march her right back to the guard post or back her against the rock wall and—