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But now, I could see things had changed. Even those three or four hours were too long for her now. The closer our proximity grew to my father, the stronger his pull.

I didn’t know what was involved in Guinevere blocking him from accessing my mind as I slept. If it was anything like what I’d gone through, I could easily imagine it and didn’t need the details.

All I could do was pray we’d reach the Black Mountain soon.

Pray. Now that was laughable. And yet there seemed to be no other word for what I kept doing. Childlike, I chanted silently in my own head. Hoping beyond hope that I wasn’t going to fuck everything up. For the sake of my friends. For the sake of Eskira.

In the meantime, Guinevere was stoic. Lancelet was furious. And Hawl... Well, Hawl kept cooking.

Good old Hawl did everything they could to make sure that we were properly fed.

And the further into the Mountains of Mist we got, the easier said than done that was.

They’d put no more moths in the food, but there were some scraggly looking rabbits Draven caught. After days on the road with no fresh meat, Hawl managed to turn those into a feast.

Sunstrike and Nightclaw guarded our flanks as we traveled, prowling by day, hunting at night. Throughout our journey, they had contributed to our meals from time to time. A haunch of deer, a leg from a boar.

But now that we’d entered the mountains, the terrain was rocky with sparse vegetation and even sparser prey. The most they seemed able to catch were rabbits, squirrels, and mice. I couldn’t even imagine how many mice it would take to satisfy the appetite of a massive creature like Nightclaw.

So we’d told the exmoors in no uncertain terms to stop providing for us. It was a fair command, I’d thought, until I’d seen the hurt in Nightclaw’s eyes. A hurt I’d forced myself to look away from.

I’d already refused to fly him. To use him in any way that might involve him or Sunstrike becoming injured again. I wasn’t going to use the exmoor to fight my battles for me. Not like my father had done.

But instead of being grateful, he’d been hurt. As I should have known would be the case.

Nightclaw had chosen me. Chosen me to fight for. I should have understood what he was determined to give me wouldn’t be that easy to reject.

We’d stopped for the evening. I sat on a large, not particularly comfortable rock, letting my mind wander as I watched Hawl butcher two skinny rabbits and toss them into a pot filled with small potatoes and herbs.

When Lancelet’s hand grabbed my upper arm hard, I squeaked.

“Come with me,” she ordered, dragging me off my rock and into the scraggly bushes nearby.

“Why is it you always grab?” I complained. “Why can’t you greet me with a gentle pat on the back? Or, I don’t know, a clasp of hands?”

Lancelet snorted as I’d known she would. “A pat on the back?”

I rolled my eyes. “So this isn’t a friendly chat then?”

“Guinevere is not well,” she said with her customary bluntness.

“Yes, so I’ve noticed. I suppose I should be grateful you didn’t hit me on the head with a rock and pull me into these bushes.”

“Don’t think it wasn’t tempting.”

“It would solve your Guinevere problem, too,” I pointed out. “I’m surprised you haven’t done it already.”

Lancelet grimaced through surprisingly feral-looking teeth. “Then I’d be left with a Draven problem.”

“There is that,” I acknowledged. “Not to mention Nightclaw.”

“Not to mention you’re my friend,” she said, grudgingly.

“Oh, so you’re still willing to admit that?” I made a show of rubbing my arm where she’d grabbed me.

“You’re my friend, yes,” she said. “But Guinevere... She’s my... Well...”

“Oh, ho, so this is how we’re finally going to get you to acknowledge what she is.” I rubbed my hands together gleefully. “Yes, do continue, I beg. She’s your...?”