Page 64

Still, Lyrik lived more comfortably than most commoners.

From below, a distinguished whinny clashed with a demanding bray. This happened just as the boy in question swaggered across the terrace, the serrated jewelry lining his ear flashing like a spiked scythe.

Nicu glanced at him curiously, while the squatter did no such thing. Ignoring the lot of us, he slumped on the bench and stuffed dried vegetation into a small cylinder of paper. Leaning toward the flames, he lit the butt and sucked on its contents, which released a distinctly crusty scent that permeated the atmosphere.

Nicu’s green eyes covertly inspected the young man, who remained heedless of the attention, or indifferent to it. Had I ever witnessed my friend this quiet? Despite his compulsion for chatter and his overt zeal for community?

Being accosted by Lyrik’s dagger could have inspired the silence, though I sensed that it did not.

With the cylinder propped between his lips, Lyrik reclined and slapped his seat, beckoning his visitors. As we settled around the fire, I scrutinized his character—hosttoo charitable a term to bestow on him,gueststoo precarious to describe this mismatched gathering of wayfarers.

The introduction of this potioneer further complicated my sentiments toward this woodland. If the need arose, I could best his dagger, but not the vapors he concocted, should any prove to be perilous.

The banquette next to mine creaked, the lumber maiden’s figure a blot in my periphery. I shifted on the hard seat and threw my gaze elsewhere.

“Is that Mista weed?” she asked Lyrik, her voice matching the smoke pumping from his mouth.

“Nah, just the basics,” the enabler drawled. “But if you’re asking, I might have a stash of the jolly stuff. It’ll cost you.”

She flipped a pile of hair over her shoulder. “Thanks, but I don’t pay for things.”

“A talent, indeed,” I muttered, receiving a girlish sneer for my trouble.

“I have my lackeys get them for me. If I want, they get—because I say so.”

“I would not boast such an accomplishment with pride.”

“Of course, not. You’d judge and then congratulate yourself for being perfect.”

She and I exchanged a look ripe with conflict.

Lyrik stretched an arm across his bench and observed our feud with a slant of head, the sizzling cylindrical paper poised between his fingers. “So. Why are we all here? I’ll go first. I’m here because this is where I started, and I don’t feel like leaving.”

“That’s it?” the girl asked. “How boring.”

“What about you? You said you’re here to find something. What’s that?”

She evaded his eyes. “A cure.”

“Your skin looks healthy to me.”

“Why does everyone think I’m talking about myself?” she griped, her forehead crinkling rather...cutely.

“What cure?” Lyrik inquired. “I might be able to direct—”

“I don’t know yet.” I sensed her deciding what to reveal and what to repress. “My mother is sick. I think there might be something growing in this forest that’ll help her.”

“How sick is she?”

She and Nicu glanced at each other, something confidential locked between them, accompanied by the gust of another gentler emotion.

Lyrik shook his head. “Can’t tell you what grows where unless you—”

“Leave her be,” I said.

“The hero coming to the damsel’s defense?”

“I’m not a fucking dams—”