Page 19 of The Arrow and the Alder
A lder’s first thought was that he’d actually slept. It’d been months since he’d felt so rested—maybe even years—and no nightmare had plagued him, which led him to his second thought.
He wasn’t sleeping alone.
Another body lay against his, curled into his side, and something tickled his nose.
Hair, he realized, opening his eyes. White hair.
Her hair.
He lay on his back, one arm bent behind his head, the other wrapped around Josephine, who’d tucked herself right into the opening. He practically cocooned her. The implications of this penetrated his sleepy haze just as Josephine’s eyes opened and settled on his.
Alder hadn’t noticed her tiny freckles before. A few dusted her nose, and were growing more prominent against the bright crimson now staining her cheeks.
Josephine sat up with a curse, looking wildly around them—at the forest now visible in the soft light of dawn—before burying her face in her hands.
For Alder’s part, he was just thankful he’d taken greater care drawing the glamour last night, otherwise they might not be waking up at all. He should be furious—at her, at himself—but fury evaded him.
“Saints…I am so sorry,” she said into her hands. “I didn’t mean to…I didn’t realize…”
Alder didn’t say it was all right. It wasn’t. But this was his fault as much as it was Josephine’s—probably more so, because he understood the breadth of their present precariousness. Alder should have known better, but he’d let down his guard. Something he seemed to keep doing around her. He wanted to blame Rys for it. That the familiarity and trust he’d come to know with Rys was being—mistakenly—projected upon the sister, but Alder knew that wasn’t all of it.
He was stepping into dangerous territory, and it needed to stop. Now.
He shoved himself to his feet, picked up his satchel, and slung his bow over his shoulder. “We should get moving,” he said without turning.
“Marks, I’m sorry.”
He looked at her then, and immediately regretted it. She was far easier to deal with when she was angry, but this—the softness in her voice and vulnerability in her expression, with all of that life and color…
His thoughts slid back to the way she’d felt in his arms, her hard body and warmth pressed against his, and it made him feel…
It made him feel .
Alder looked to the trees. “Are you ready?”
His words came out harsher than he’d intended, and he knew they stung her, but he let them hang regardless. Better to warn her away, to rile that fiery temper so that she wouldn’t grow any false notion that Alder would do more for her than he’d promised. He’d already promised too much.
“Yes…” she said quietly. He could almost taste her disappointment. “Just…maybe, give me a moment.”
Alder nodded once, waiting as she ducked around a tree and reappeared shortly after. Her expression was closed off again, if not a little uncertain, but Alder told himself it was better this way.
She didn’t bring up the incident again. In fact, she didn’t bring up anything again, but that wasn’t to say her presence was quiet. It wasn’t, not at all. He felt her there behind him with every step he took, like the sun beating relentlessly upon his back. She was difficult to ignore, really.
So Alder focused on figuring out what he was going to do once they arrived. Josephine added an unexpected complication, but surely his mother could solicit someone to escort her safely through the Rift.
She was Weald’s queen, after all.
The battle was ugly at the front lines but not impassible, if one knew what they were doing. Alder didn’t know the state of the war at present; it’d been a few months since he’d passed through the Rift, and a lot could have changed. His mother should know more.
And Alder…well, he just prayed he wasn’t murdered on sight. He hadn’t exactly left on the best of terms. The coat should help with that—which was why he’d bargained it from Josephine in the first place.
Trees eventually gave way to moors, the temperature dropped and dark clouds stretched overhead. A greedy wind tore across the open field, rippling the grasses, but Alder kept a swift pace. Josephine didn’t complain. Not once, though he caught her jogging intermittently to keep up with his long stride. She was easy company, if Alder was being completely objective. Much easier than most soldiers he’d journeyed with, and Alder had journeyed with his fair share.
Not even Rys had been this agreeable.
They crested a rise, and Alder spotted the small hamlet ahead, nestled against an endless stretch of dark water that frothed beneath the churning sky.
Peressian.
They were close now.
Alder used to set sail from Peressian’s harbor, when he was much younger. He’d always loved the sea. The freedom it afforded. The sea was never trying to be anything other than what it was, subject to storm and season, beholden to no one. And life at sea was always so simple: survive or die.
Alder preferred simple.
Even now, sailboats bobbed beside docks that jutted out from the shore like grasping fingers, while those good sailors worked to secure sails and cargo before the storm berthed. He wondered if Marwyn’s crew was still there, or if they were out at sea. They never liked to dock for very long, where they were subject to the expectations of queens and kings.
A cloud of brilliant white birds flapped overhead, fighting furiously against the wind.
“Is that an ocean?” Josephine called out suddenly.
Alder was shocked she’d spoken, and then further surprised by her question.
He stopped and glanced back at her. The wind made her white hair wild. “Have you never seen an ocean before?”
She stared at the endless blue as she shook her head. “The Sarandian Sea is at least a week away from Harran on horseback.”
“And you weren’t ever curious to see it?”
“I was plenty curious. I just never had the resources to get there.”
Alder searched for bitterness in her tone, but heard only truth with a hint of sadness.
She had never seen the ocean. Never. Not once.
He had the strange and sudden urge to take her there, to lead her aboard one of those boats and set sail, to leave this world behind and all the expectations that strangled like a noose.
She would love it. The freedom, the sheer wildness of the sea. The simplicity of survival. Alder couldn’t help thinking that he would love it too: surviving, with her.
He kept walking.
“Are we not stopping?” she asked, jogging after him.
He wanted to. “No.”
Thunder cracked overhead.
“What about the storm?” she pressed.
“A bit of rain won’t kill us.”
“No, but lightning will. We’re completely exposed out here.”
“That didn’t seem to bother you last night.”
He’d meant to tease her, but his words came out sharper than intended. Josephine fell quiet, and when he glanced back, her lips were set in a firm line and she wouldn’t meet his gaze.
Which was for the best. They were nearly at their destination, where their paths would diverge.
They must . And she would agree once she discovered who he truly was.
They’d made it halfway across the moors before the clouds opened and rain fell in a torrent, soaking them both, and it didn’t fully relent until they crested the final ridge. Behind him, Josephine was waterlogged and shivering—still without complaint—her hair a blanket upon her back. Her boots made obnoxious squelching sounds as she followed him around a mound of granite boulders.
Where Alder stopped in his tracks.
The valley stretched below, hemmed in by the Minarets’ infamous jagged peaks, and at the heart stood the charred remains of the fortress. The towers were toppled and bridges collapsed, resting upon crumbling stone walls—all of it stained black from fire. Rainfall had flooded the surrounding lawn in many places, and old fence posts poked through the still water like gravestones, while a thin layer of mist hovered just above the ground, as though the spirits of the fallen had gathered there to haunt their final resting place forever. A single banner fluttered from the scorched parapets of the sole remaining spire, though most of that banner had disintegrated, leaving blackened threads to flap sadly in the wind.
A pit settled in Alder’s stomach, and he started running.