Page 13 of Pippa of Lauramore (The Eldentimber #1)

F or once, Galinor is prepared. He has his gauntlets with him and is able to search the waspnettle without being stung.

The sun lowers at an alarming rate. Galinor’s already been looking through the patch without any luck for nearly half an hour.

Archer and I watch, but neither of us ventures in.

Galinor is better dressed for retrieving this particular item.

I glance at Archer. He’s frowning at the horizon. We both know we should have set back for the palace long before now, but I don’t want to leave until I know Galinor has the inger egg.

“I’ve found one!” he calls from the middle of the thicket. He holds up a green speckled egg, and I squeal, elated.

Archer sighs, relieved we can leave.

Galinor makes his way back to us, batting at the wasps hovering near his face.

The waspnettle is thick, and the ground is uneven.

The prince stumbles a few times, and I gasp every time, thinking he’ll fall.

He carries the small egg in the palm of his steel-covered hand, holding it like it’s precious—which it is.

“How many items do you think Lionel has?” I ask Archer, keeping quiet so Galinor won’t overhear.

Archer thinks about it before he answers. “I don’t think the question with Lionel is how many items he will retrieve, but rather, how soon will he have them all.”

I roll my shoulders, feeling stiff. “And Rigel?”

“I know nothing of Rigel, but those from Errinton are known for their…resourcefulness.”

I squirm, feeling the weight of the competition. “Should we go for the Eldentimber resin? It’s not yet dark.”

It’s the second day. Lionel may already be back at the palace with all his items. Unlike Galinor, Lionel is very familiar with Lauramore. I don’t doubt Percival chose the collection with him in mind.

“Not tonight, Pippa. If you are discovered, Galinor will be disqualified.”

I want to argue, but Archer is right. The stakes are too high. Galinor reaches us, and for the first time today, my prince looks confident.

“You did well,” I say, beaming at him.

He takes the egg to his horse and fumbles to open the saddlebag with his gauntlets still on.

I step forward, nervous. “Careful not to drop the—oh no!” I shriek in horror.

When he tries to save the egg from its perilous drop, Galinor crushes it in his hand. Runny white and dark yellow yoke run through his fingers. My sweet, kind prince looks about ready to murder something .

“It’s all right,” I say, rushing to him.

“It’s not all right,” he snaps. His face falls, and he bows his head. “I’m sorry, Princess.”

I wish he would stop treating me as if I am as fragile as that egg. My fingers wrap around his chin, and I jerk his face back up. “Galinor, we’ll find another.”

“It was the only one in the nest.” His voice is tired.

I take him by his shoulders and stand on my tiptoes. “We’ll find one tomorrow. It won’t take long.”

“Pippa—”

“No! You will not give up. You will not.”

He nods. “Do you really believe I can do this?”

It doesn’t matter what I believe. Galinor must do it, so he will.

“You will not fail,” I assure him.

I won’t allow it.

“Don’t say it, Archer.”

I’m weary and more disheartened by the broken inger egg than I wanted Galinor to know.

“I wasn’t going to say anything, Princess,” Archer says, unusually respectful.

I glance at him. He’s been quiet since we parted ways with Galinor, and I’m not sure what he’s thinking, though I am certain he believes I put my trust in the wrong prince.

I feel so guilty at my thoughts, I think I might cry.

Galinor is kind and strong, and I am cruel to doubt him.

The scavenger hunt isn’t his event, that’s all.

The tournament is designed to test a man in many ways.

He’ll do better with the joust. From what my brothers have said, he’ll excel at the hand-to-hand event.

But what about the archery tournament? Or the dragon?

I shake my head, pushing the thoughts away.

“What is it?” Archer asks.

“I’m very tired.”

Willowisp plods under me as if she also feels the day was too long. Right now, the setting sun shines golden on her mane and body. It will be dark before we reach the palace.

I will be found out. Galinor will be disqualified. I will marry Lionel.

“Stop,” Archer says sharply, startling me out of my thoughts. “You’re brooding. The tournament isn’t over yet—the scavenger hunt isn’t even over yet.”

“Do you think he can win?” I ask, voicing my fears. Saying them out loud makes them more real, and panic rises in my chest.

“You are unfair to him, Pippa. Give him a chance.” He pauses. “You are also unfair to the other twenty-seven men you never discuss. Just because none of them looks like Galinor doesn’t mean they won’t win. The chances are high it won’t be Lionel, Rigel, or Galinor.”

“You think I should stop meddling?”

He rolls his eyes. “I believe I’ve been saying that from the beginning.”

“Then why do you help me?” I’m watching him, waiting for his answer.

His eyes flick to mine. “Because you asked me. ”

I laugh. “I wish you could compete in the tournament, Archer. Then I would have no doubt who the victor would be.”

Too late, I realize what I just said. I turn to him, my mouth working as I try to find a way to amend my words.

He raises an eyebrow, amused. “I fight for you, and then you choose whomever you wish to marry? Wouldn’t that put an interesting spin on the tournament?”

I scowl at him, irritated for no reason. “And why should it be like that? If you were to win such a hypothetical tournament, you should have the princess. That’s how it works.”

“If I were allowed to compete—and let’s remember I am not—I am still a lowly archer. Archers don’t marry princesses.”

We’re in murky territory, and I should leave it alone—but, alas, it’s not in my nature to leave things alone.

“That’s ridiculous. What difference does it make if you’re a master archer? It’s only one social step under a knight—just one. I could marry a knight if he were to win the tournament. Why couldn’t I marry you?”

Archer’s no longer smiling. In fact, he looks angry. “To be a knight, you must be a lord’s son. I am not.”

“You’re a lord’s grandson. Doesn’t that count for anything?” I demand, yet again bringing up the tender subject.

His eyes flash. “My mother chose to marry my father, knowing full well it would forfeit any right to a title she or her offspring would have.”

“It’s so unfair! ”

“Enough! I would not wish to compete anyway,” he snaps, his voice hot and angry.

I feel like I’ve been slapped. I look away, my eyes stinging with tears. I pushed too hard, and I’ve hurt him. I know that. But he is my friend, and what he said was cruel—even if it is true.

Archer clears his throat. “Pippa, I’m sorry.”

I nod, refusing to look at him.

“Princess, I know my place. Let’s not confuse things with fanciful what-ifs,” he says, his voice soft and remorseful. “We are friends. Let’s not fight over something neither of us would want.”

“All right.” But it doesn’t feel all right, not really.

The sun continues to set, and we continue toward the palace.

“Pippa?”

“Hmmm?” I murmur, not looking at him.

“I believe we’ve found ourselves an inger nest.”

We stare at the waspnettle for too long, debating how we’re going to retrieve the egg without protection, and finally Archer decides to simply go in. It’s a tiny patch, only four or five plants together, and the nest is fully visible from the trail.

“Careful,” I coax, unable to watch.

It only takes Archer half a minute to claim the egg, but he still gets stung several times along his arms and twice on his neck .

As we near the palace, I glance at him, concerned. “Does it hurt horribly?”

The red welts on his arms are swollen. His jaw is clenched, and he looks like he’s in pain. “It’s uncomfortable.”

The inger egg is tucked safely in his saddlebag. No harm will come to it until we meet Galinor tomorrow.

“How will you get to your rooms without someone noticing you?” His chambers are in the lower halls with the unmarried knights. He’s bound to meet someone on his way in.

“There’s an empty cottage a few minutes from here. It used to belong to the woodsman before his family outgrew it. I’ll stay there tonight. The welts should be better by tomorrow.”

“Let’s go there now. I can sneak into the palace by myself.”

He shakes his head. “I need to see you to the gate.”

I give him a stern look. “You know very well I can take care of myself, and we can’t risk you being spotted in this condition.”

Too uncomfortable to argue, Archer gives in and leads me to the cottage. I’ve never seen it before, though it’s not far from the palace. In the dim light of dusk, I can just make out the small stone structure in the dark.

“I will be back with a salve from Yuven,” I tell him, turning Willowisp back toward the palace. We’re off before he can object.

I don’t like the look Yuven gives me.

“What exactly do you need a salve for?” He runs a hand through his messy black hair.

I shift from one foot to the other. “Poisonous plants.”

“Like…” He sits down at his bench and taps his fingers. “Stinging waspnettle?”

“Something like that,” I mumble.

“And it’s for…?”

I grimace and then answer, “Archer.”

Yuven takes a deep breath. “Pippa?—”

I lean down, making him look at me. “Please, Yuven.”

He gives the table another tap, and then he goes to the cabinet along the wall. There are dozens of tinctures, tea mixes, and salves.

“Thank you,” I say as I gratefully take the glass jar of green goo.

He purses his lips and nods. “You made it last time you helped me, remember?”

I nod and make my way to the door, turning back before I leave. “How did the garden maid like the yallow?”

The herbalist turns a deep shade of red. “She liked it.”

“I’m happy to hear it,” I say with a teasing grin.

“Don’t forget my herbs.”

“I’ll see if I can find them tomorrow.”

He pulls a thick volume off a shelf, already dismissing me. “Oh, and Pippa? Be kind to Archer.”

I blink at him. “I’m always kind to Archer.”

He raises an eyebrow but doesn’t answer.

Firelight shines from the cottage when I arrive. I knock on the door and go in, not bothering to wait for an answer. Archer’s lying on a cot in the corner, and he sits up, looking groggy when I come in.

“How are you?” I ask as I sit next to him.

The welts look angry and have darkened to a nasty red color. I check his forehead for a fever. He’s hot but it’s not too alarming yet. I don’t, however, like how pale his face is.

“I brought the salve.”

“You shouldn’t be here.” His voice is ragged. The poison from the waspnettle has taken effect.

I release the seal on the jar and dip a finger in the green goop, scrunching my nose at the strong herbal smell. Too late, I remember my training with Yuven. “Oh, I need to wash the welts first.”

Smearing the goo back in the jar, I wipe my finger off as well as I can and glance around the cottage. There’s not much in here. There’s a kettle on the table, though.

“I’ll be right back.”

“Pippa, you don’t have to?—”

“Hush.” I push him back down on the cot. “You rest. I’ll only be a moment.”

I hear the creek from outside the cottage, but I’m not sure how far away it is.

It’s a dark night. A storm has moved in, and the clouds cover the moon. I walk through the woods, feeling a little spooked in the dark.

When I finally find the creek, I fill the kettle and stumble back to the cottage. Archer is already asleep. I set the water to boil and then wander the room, feeling lost with nothing to do. With nowhere else to sit, I settle down next to Archer.

He shifts. His arm bumps my leg, and he groans in his sleep. I turn toward him, careful not to disturb him, and brush a few short strands of hair away from his face. Idly, I brush my fingers over his temple.

He’s got a small, light scar just under his left cheekbone. I’ve never noticed it before, and I’m not sure where he got it. I glance down at the long scar on his arm, and I softly run my finger along it. His skin is hot under my hand—his fever is rising.

The water comes to a boil, and I remove it from the fire. Finding no clean cloth, I pull my knife from my boot and slice a rectangle of fabric from my underskirt. I dip the cloth in the water and wait just a moment for it to cool, so I don’t scald him.

If I’m careful, I might be able to tend him and slip away without disturbing him. His eyes flutter open when I dab the cloth over the welts, and I give him a rueful smile. “You weren’t supposed to wake up.”

Archer blinks several times and cringes like his head hurts. “What time is it?”

“Late,” I answer. “I wasn’t able to sneak away until the palace was asleep. I’m sorry it took so long.”

I clean the two welts at his neck. “I believe these are the only two wasp stings. The rest are from the nettle.”

“It’s cold.” He tries to rise. “I’ll add more wood to the fire.”

“You have a fever. It will break soon.” I still him with my hand. His chest is hot and feverish under my fingers.

He looks at my hand, glances around the cottage, and finally meets my eyes. “You shouldn’t be here,” he says, his voice a whisper.

Something knots in my chest and then releases—like a key in a lock. Archer’s gaze is still on me, and there’s not enough air. I rip my eyes back to my work. I gently smear the salve on the wounds, but I feel his stare.

“Pippa…” he says, his voice deep and rough.

I don’t dare look up. I’m not sure what’s wrong with me, but I know I can’t acknowledge it.

His hand finds my cheek, and I close my eyes, leaning into his touch.

“Look at me,” he whispers.

I shake my head, my eyes still closed. He sits up, and the bed shifts underneath him. He cups my other cheek, and I finally open my eyes.

His gaze is strong but bright with fever. “I lied to you.”

A shiver runs through me, and I try to move away. I wave my hand. “It doesn’t matter—what’s done is done. My father would have found out somehow.”

Archer looks confused, but then he laughs—a soft, surprised sound. “No, Pippa, not about the other night. About the tournament. If I were able, I would fight for you.”

My heart races, and for the second time today, tears sting my eyes.

He leans forward, his sea-blue eyes intent on mine as he strokes my cheek with his thumb. “It makes no difference. It doesn’t change anything, but I want you to know. I need you to know.”

Then his hands slide from my face, and he lies back down on the cot. His eyes are already closed. Slipping into sleep, he murmurs, “I would fight for you.”

I watch him, stunned, and I don’t stand until I am sure he won’t wake when I go. I leave the cottage, shutting the door softly behind me, and then I lean against the rough wood, trying to catch my breath.

It’s the fever speaking, that’s all. Just the fever.