Page 16

16

Frayed Nerves

Anya

E ven as he knelt in the dirt, Idris’s expression was open—probably more patient than I deserved. It occurred to me that even a reluctant amiability between us would make our three-week quest far more bearable—so, with a resigned sigh, I held out my hand.

Idris’s fingers grazed my wrist, featherlight in their search for the ends of the bandage. My eyes rose to the cobalt sky as he removed the fabric, realigned it across my burned knuckles, then wrapped it snugly and tied it in place. It took all of fifteen seconds, but with my eyes trained on the stars, I felt every brush of his skin against mine. His touch was gentle, perfunctory, but sent my nerve endings scattering.

“There,” he said when he was finished. “Was that so hard?”

My gaze slid back to his. “Nothing about any of this is easy .”

He chuckled. “Fair point.”

His amusement shook some of the tension loose in me. At least we were both on the same page about our quest together being…fraught.

Idris stood and began packing up the spare bandages and salve. As I watched his injured hand gather up the supplies, a soft laugh of bemusement escaped me.

“What?”

I pointed at his wound. “We match.”

“Your left and my right,” Idris noted dryly. “Between the two of us, we have one functional set of hands.”

“We’re quite the pair,” I said without thinking, then pinched my lips together with my teeth.

Idris didn’t respond to the awkward comment. He dished up dinner in silence, then returned to his side of the log—far from me. “I only have one bowl,” he said. “I did find an extra spoon, though.” He handed both to me, then took up his own spoon and began eating straight from the cooking pot.

The fire crackled. Briar snorted. Wind rattled the branches of the trees. If I didn’t think too hard about why I was out here, the night was almost peaceful.

Following Idris’s lead, I dug into my supper. The porridge was surprisingly tasty. He’d seasoned it well, with warming spices like clove and ginger, along with a sweet flavor that complimented the mushrooms’ earthiness. In between bites, I sipped the tea, relishing the sharpness of the rose hips and the freshness of the mint.

By the time I was halfway through the meal, I felt more like myself than I had in days , the warmth of the food and fire mending my frayed nerves.

Idris still seemed tense, though. Weary.

“This is really good, Idris. Thank you,” I said—a peace offering after my cold countenance earlier.

He merely grunted.

“You must have taste magic,” I continued. “The flavors are so well-balanced. What gives it the sweetness?”

“Maple syrup.”

“Excuse me?”

At that, he glanced up. “Have you not had maple syrup?”

I shook my head. “Never heard of it.”

Abruptly, he stalked over to where his rucksack rested by his bedroll. He pulled out a small bottle, uncorked it, and held it out to me.

I took it, careful not to touch his fingers in the tradeoff. I lifted the bottle to my nose. It smelled nutty and sweet.

“Go on, have a sip,” he prompted.

I did—just a small one, but delightful, the thick liquid coating my tongue. It reminded me of honey, but better.

“Decadent.” I handed the bottle back to him. “Where did you get it?”

Tucking the bottle away again, he then returned to his place on the log, lowering himself slowly—stiffly. “I made it,” he said. “It’s a northeastern delicacy. I learned about the process during my training—” He faltered. “Up in Porkirk.” Seeming to want to skim past whatever he’d been about to say, he continued quickly. “In winter, you hammer a metal tap into the tree, and it leaks out a thin sap, which can be boiled down into a syrup.”

It was the most he’d said to me unprompted since this morning. The conversation felt almost…normal.

“And to answer your question,” Idris went on, “I possess scent magic, but it still translates well to cooking, as you might guess.”

Scent magic . While everyone possessed one heightened sense, each individual’s skill with their magic varied. In rare cases, scent magicians could not only discern fragrances with ease, but also pheromones. I hoped Idris wasn’t the latter. It would embarrass me to no end to know that he could smell my fear—and other base urges.

I took another bite of porridge, feigning nonchalance. “I’m impressed. Although—Hattie could tell you—I’m not much of a cook, myself. It’s why she manages the kitchen at the Possum.”

While this morning my determination to clear my name and return home as soon as possible had motivated me, now, the thought of the Possum and Waldron filled me with a subdued, anxious yearning. Perhaps the long day had worn me down, and another sound sleep would restore my optimism.

But as we returned to silence—with only the snapping of the fire, the soft snuffling of Briar snacking on leaves in the underbrush, and the scraping of our spoons occupying the space created by the lull in conversation—dark thoughts crept in. It’d been easy to put the horrible monster out of my mind in the daylight, but now, the memory of last night’s terrors clung to my cloak like the fog.

I looked at Idris, hoping more chit-chat would banish my rising fear, but he was focused on his meal, seemingly lost to his own musings. Usually, I found it easy to engage with others—to make small talk and ask questions and banter playfully. I loved the flow of good dialogue, the sparks of intrigue in getting to know someone. Behind the bar at the Possum, conversing came naturally—but I didn’t possess the same dynamic here in the woods. This wasn’t my domain; I wasn’t in control.

Idris wasn’t making this any easier, either. Tipsy guests were far simpler to engage than a stoic knight.

Still, his quietude wasn’t agitated, just broody. Anyone who sweet-talked horses and carried around syrupy delicacies seemed unlikely to be a cold-blooded killer; he had a gentleness about him that was at odds with the Mirror of Death. Perhaps it was strange to try and befriend him, but friendliness had a way of softening edges—maybe even enough to alter Fate.

I tried again.

“My magic is hearing,” I offered.

Idris’s gaze remained trained on his porridge. Clearly, he’d exhausted his conversation for the day on maple syrup. But I was undeterred.

“It’s not just a heightened sense for me, though,” I went on. “I also possess the rare secondary ability of sound suppression and amplification.”

His nod was the only proof he’d heard me. His resistance to my chit-chat only made me want to get a rise out of him more.

“Do you always speak to horses, or is Briar the sole recipient of your praises?”

That got him to look up. “You heard me?”

“Don’t be embarrassed. We should all be so lucky as to receive mushy compliments from time to time.”

“I’m not embarrassed,” Idris said. “Just surprised you heard from so far away.”

“As I said, my magic is sound. Lends itself to eavesdropping.”

“I’ll keep that in mind next time I want to sweet-talk the horse,” Idris said wryly, returning to his meal.

I set my bowl aside. “So what’s with the blue fire sword?”

He dropped his spoon into the pot with a clatter, then frowned down at it like it’d fallen into his dinner on purpose. Wiping some of the goo off the handle, he muttered, “Halgren.”

“Huh?”

“My sword’s name is Halgren.”

“Swords have names?”

“Mine does,” he said, taking a huge bite of porridge.

“I suppose if it glows blue fire, it deserves a name,” I remarked.

He didn’t acknowledge that.

“Is it magic, then?” I shook my head. “What am I saying? Of course it is. But what kind of magic? I didn’t know weapons could be imbued with power.”

He kept eating, clearly unwilling to answer.

“Must come in handy when fighting monsters,” I needled. “That’s what you do, right? Fight monsters? It explains your visit to the Possum with that gruesome wound, and your appearance at the caravan. And seeing as you didn’t seem like you were about to piss yourself with horror last night, it must’ve been something you’ve seen before.”

Idris stood. “Finished?” he asked, gesturing at my bowl.

“Not quite,” I said, cradling it again.

Wordlessly, he carried his pot off toward the stream for washing.

Alone in the dark, I stared into the underbrush after him. Talk of monsters made me suddenly hyperaware of the possible existence of more of them. My magic flared, listening intently to Briar’s contented nibbling, the steady trickle of the stream, and Idris’s returning footsteps.

“Will you say anything about last night?” I asked when he reappeared in the firelight.

He tucked the clean pot into his rucksack. “No.”

“ Can you say anything about last night?”

He continued rummaging around in his pack without answer.

“A gentleman would comfort a lady, after such a disturbing sight.”

“I told you this morning, it’s not my job to reassure you.” One corner of his mouth kicked up—the bastard. “Besides, I thought I wasn’t a gentleman?”

“You seemed concerned with being one earlier,” I said tightly. “Figured I’d give you a tip.”

He pulled a small flute out of his pack and sat on the log again. “Noted.”

A mix of anger and unease swirled through me, but I didn’t want him to see the extent of my emotion, so I folded my arms across my chest and stared at the fire.

Idris lifted the flute to his lips and began to play a slow, wistful tune. The notes were crisp and lilting in the quiet night. His deftness with the instrument surprised me. While I didn’t recognize the melodies, I found them lulling, my agitation gradually easing from my shoulders until my eyelids began to droop.

After a few songs, I gave in to my weariness. I laid down on my bedroll, tucking myself inside the thick blanket. I stared up at the night sky, watching the stars twinkle. Idris continued playing until the fire diminished to coals, then stalked off to wash my bowl. All the while, I listened to his movements; he seemed so mindful and at ease out here in the countryside. Far more comfortable than he’d been seated at my bar.

When he settled down for the night, I swiveled onto my side to regard him across the flickering embers. Without supper or music to occupy my mind, harrowing flashes from yesterday began to encroach on my mind like shadows encroaching in the absence of our campfire.

“Do we need to worry about… them tonight?” I whispered.

Idris’s hulking shape turned toward me, mirroring my position. “No,” he answered.

“Is that really all you’ll say?” I asked, allowing the true depth of my worry to reach my tone. It felt vulnerable to admit I was scared, but it also felt vulnerable to be out here at all. I feared what I’d seen last night far more than I feared Idris.

“I can’t—” He broke off. Restarted. “Can’t say much. But we’re safe. You can trust me.”

“‘Trust me,’ says my killer,” I quipped, even though his confidence in our safety did ease my worry a bit. He’d obviously faced many foes; surely, he’d survived for a better reason than mere luck.

“I am not your killer,” he insisted.

“What makes you so sure? You’ve only seen a sliver of how truly irksome I can be.”

He chuckled at my joke, and the sound made me smile. “I’m sure,” he said.

“How, though?” I asked, propping myself up on an elbow. “How can you be so confident in your contradiction of Fate ? How can you appear in my Mirror of Death and walk free unreported, when I appear in someone else’s and am imprisoned? How can—”

A sigh gusted out of him. “Anya, I can’t speak freely about these things.”

“About killing me?”

Silence.

“About monsters , you mean?”

“Bears,” he insisted gravely. “Rabid bears.”

“What do ‘rabid bears’ have to do with you appearing in my Mirror? With a knight being exempt of Fated murder?”

“They have no Fate,” he said—then sat up abruptly, coughing as if a strong spice had suddenly hit the back of his throat.

“I’m going to need you to elaborate.”

“Can’t,” he choked.

“Won’t?”

He heaved a breath, settling his coughing fit. “Can’t.”

Was that…his Oath preventing him from speaking?

It was a well-accepted fact that citizens were not permitted to know the exact tenets of Oaths—not even for the most famous Orders—but the public knew enough to understand that Oaths were spun from powerful binding magic.

That seemed like a logical explanation for Idris’s apparent limitation in speech.

“Monsters…have no Fate,” I mused.

The very idea of that disturbed me—deeply. The Fates were as natural as the seasons. As the sun and the moon. Soil and water. To be disconnected from Fate was to be…unnatural. Unpredictable. Lawless .

“But you aren’t a monster,” I said.

“Thanks.”

“ Idris —”

“To interact…”—he paused meaningfully, swallowed—“can warp one’s Fate.”

Proximity to monsters warped Fate? That explained my cellmate’s insistence that the abomination wasn’t how he was supposed to die.

“Is warping the same as a Fate that isn’t fixed?”

I took his silence as a no .

“That’s how you’re exempt, then,” I concluded. “That’s how you can guarantee you won’t—”

“With a Fate like mine, nothing is guaranteed.”

“So you’re saying you could kill me, after all?”

“Anya,” Idris said exhaustedly. “Get some sleep.”