Page 23

23

Gossip

Idris

T he night following the second river incident, the rain had cleared, and the weather had warmed, so Idris laid their blankets across the fire from one another. Separating himself from Anya seemed to be the right move, given how close he’d come the previous night to giving fully into temptation.

What was worse: Anya had seemed tempted, too. When had her fear of him shifted to…something else? It must’ve been the alcohol that made her so flirtatious; he couldn’t imagine a world in which someone as vibrantly funny and sexy as Anya had any true interest in him. It was clear she possessed a rare willingness to see the good in people—even under extraordinarily contrarian circumstances—but that was all the more reason for Idris not to take her behavior last night too seriously. Even if she did want him, his Oath would never allow him to give her what she deserved.

Besides, he had his own Fate to contend with.

If Anya took offense at the unspoken signal of tonight’s separate sleeping arrangement, she didn’t show it. In fact, she’d been perfectly pleasant all day, and her apparent lack of self-consciousness remained intact throughout the evening, easing Idris’s tension.

From his bedroll across the fire, Idris found himself telling Anya about the bird he’d cared for in the Bone Mountains (careful to omit that he’d thought of her similarly, at first); she, in turn, told him about the colony of violet-green swallows that nested under the Possum’s eaves every summer. Their night of drinking had broken a barrier of some kind, and now that they knew each other better, it seemed no amount of space could keep him from seeking connection to her. It felt like a different sort of indulgence.

In the two days that followed, she remained chipper, buoying his mood even when he tried his best to anchor it in reality—but her amiable small talk and stories from Waldron-on-Wend amused him. By the afternoon on their tenth travel day together, Idris knew all the names of the townsfolk, and was embarrassingly invested their lives.

This was one thing the wilds truly couldn’t offer him: good gossip. Serious as Idris saw himself, he loved gossip. The interplay of people’s whims and wants was endlessly entertaining—and this seemed to be yet another opinion he and Anya shared.

Walking beside Briar, Idris found that his pace quickened slightly with intrigue as they discussed a bit of gossip Anya had heard from Martha, Waldron’s baker. “Wait, so the cobbler’s daughter—”

“Illian,” Anya interjected.

“Right, Illian,” Idris said, “was seen kissing the jeweler’s son? I thought she was all but engaged to that Benny fellow?”

“She was ,” Anya said. “But truth be told, I’m not sure she ever loved him as much as he loved her.”

Idris snorted. “Sounds like self-sabotage.”

“I think it’s the restlessness of youth,” Anya said thoughtfully. “It’s not uncommon for small-town youngsters to want… more . To travel, to meet new people, to set out on their own. So, when they’re faced with the real prospect of settling down, they act out.”

“Is that how you felt in your youth?”

“No, I’ve always been too responsible for my own good.”

“Somehow I doubt that.”

He was walking in line with Anya’s stirrup, and she nudged him in the arm with her boot. “I was ,” she insisted. “I—well—my mother got sick when I was thirteen. After she died, I ended up caring for the owner of the Possum, my honorary grandmother, in a rather intense capacity. It gave me purpose during a dark period—but it didn’t leave me much time for daydreaming about adventure.”

Idris’s heart twisted; he knew intimately what it felt like to lose family at a young age, and it pained him to imagine Anya experiencing the same. “Have you dreamt of adventure since?”

“My wildest dreams are in Waldron,” she said, not without a hint of wistfulness. “Even before my mother died, I loved small town life. I still do. The connections, the community, the sense of belonging—it all gives my life meaning.”

The twisting sensation in his chest screwed tighter, this time with…longing. Had his life ever possessed meaning, beyond the tenets of his Oath? He’d been so focused on his brother’s legacy that he’d never much considered his own. It unsettled him and filled him with envy for what Anya had: a welcoming home to return to, when all was said and done.

“I’m sorry about your mother,” he said sincerely. “I lost my parents when I was a boy. My brother, Grinnick—” Idris’s throat tightened, but he pushed through. “He looked after us for a time. Died when I was twenty.”

“ Fates , Idris,” Anya said. “That’s awful.”

He kept his chin up, facing forward, hoping she didn’t catch the sudden color that stung his cheeks.

“So that’s when you took your Oath?” she asked.

“Thereabouts.”

What he couldn’t divulge was that, unlike voluntary Orders such as the highly respected Order of the Mighty or the well-known Order of the Mirrors, the Order of the Valiant was a sentence . He hadn’t taken Grinnick’s place out of mere honor, but because Lord Haron had forced his hand. It didn’t hurt that the monsters had a volatile effect on Idris’s own disturbing visions in the Mirrors of Fate—but he put that out of his mind now. It was a mental path not worth walking—ever.

“What happened with Illian?” He prompted. “Did Benny find out?”

She hesitated a beat, no doubt noting his clumsy attempt to change the subject. “I’m not sure,” she answered finally. “I was—well, not long after I heard about Illian, I ended up here.”

Idris glanced over his shoulder at her. “Oh. Well. I guess you can look forward to hearing more about it when you return home.”

She smiled weakly. “I suppose so.”

They walked for another while in amiable silence, the sun poking out from behind the clouds. Soon, they crested into a shallow valley that was neatly bisected by the Wend. A town was clustered around the river on both sides, poplars and chimney smoke rising over the thatched cottage roofs. The wilds of the Western Wood swept inward from the left, dark and tangled branches reaching toward farmland; to the east, verdant hills were dotted with white sheep, black cattle, and late-season crops.

They’d reached Brine-on-Wend, their halfway mark.

“ Blessed be the Fates ,” Anya breathed, urging Briar into a faster walk. “Can we stay at an inn tonight? I’m dying for a hearty stew and a soft mattress.”

The past handful of days had seen them through the most spread-out parts of the Fenrir territory—mostly empty countryside and the occasional homestead nestled against distant stone fence lines. The relief and longing in Anya’s words was apparent, and Idris found it difficult to find an excuse not to stay the night in Brine.

“Very well,” he relented.

“ Really ?” she asked. “No grumbling protest? No cranky speech about unnecessary indulgences?”

“Are you trying to talk me out of it?”

“I’m just surprised you’re being so amenable .”

He glanced up at her again. Clearly enlivened by the mere hope of a proper bed, she appeared revived—reborn. She sat taller, her rosy cheeks puckering with glee. He thought of the sorrowful story she’d shared; a modest inn in Brine would do nothing to erase past pain, but if he could offer Anya even a temporary balm, Idris felt pulled to do so.

The pull was made stronger by seeing the way her body swayed with Briar’s quickened strides. Idris hated that he now knew what her breasts looked like and could now picture their perfect shape at any moment. It made him miserable with desire. It made him desperate to please her. Perhaps a night away from her was just what he needed—a chance to get ahold of his resolve without her charm undermining his efforts.

“Enjoy it while it lasts,” Idris said wryly, solidifying their plan.

“Oh, I will!” Anya clapped her hands, bouncing in the saddle.

Idris looked quickly away, hating how happy her happiness made him.