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Chapter Ten

Oskar

Of the six approved gods, Oskar trusted least in the Matron of Ravens, whose province was death and fate.

The existence of a goddess for whom everything was set in stone periodically annoyed him like an itch he couldn’t scratch.

Out here in the mountains, down in the dark of the mines, people made their own destiny.

And yet…

Perhaps some things were inevitable. Maybe he’d always known what he was going to do from the moment he first saw Guinevere in the light of the inferno.

But that didn’t mean he had to be happy about it.

“You cannot escort me all the way to the Menagerie Coast,” Guinevere was protesting as Oskar divided up the stash of rations and supplies between their two rucksacks, hers glossy and brand-new. “You have to go to Boroftkrah. It was your mother’s wish…”

“It can wait,” Oskar said shortly. “My mother’s shade will bean me over the head if I let a girl like you walk the Amber Road alone.”

“Whatever do you mean, a girl like me ?” cried Guinevere.

“Someone who gets in the middle of a fight between two rival gangs.” Gods, just remembering it was enough to make him break out into a cold sweat. She was a danger to herself. “Stop arguing, princess. It’s done.”

She blushed violently. Then she asked, with the absentmindedness of an afterthought, “How did you know I was in the marketplace?”

“People told me they’d seen you there.” With the Butcher and Phineas “Disembowelment” Warwick.

Shit. Oskar was not about to recount how he’d torn out of his house when he woke up to find that she wasn’t in his bed.

How he’d gone around describing her to various passersby like a lunatic and nearly laid out the hapless street sweep who’d spotted a silver-haired girl haggling at the marketplace in the company of two lowlifes who had a body count in the triple digits between them.

He surveyed what it was, exactly, that she’d haggled for: far too much, and they would need to leave some of it behind, but it was incredible, really, what a few useless trinkets could get you, just because they were made of precious metals…

Inspiration struck.

“Do you know how to ride?” Oskar asked Guinevere.

The stable master on the outskirts of Druvenlode drove a hard bargain in spite of Oskar’s best glowering. In the end, he could be persuaded to part with only two horses—a dappled gray-and-white draft mare named Pudding and a jet-black stallion called Vindicator.

The exchange had required nearly all the contents of Guinevere’s satchel. Oskar could see how hard she was biting her lip not to complain, and he silently vowed that he would thump her father if the merchant said anything once they met him at Nicodranas.

But, in any case, Guinevere was rather quick to cheer up once Oskar began tying all their luggage to Pudding, the pearwood trunk included. She kept up a steady stream of chatter while he worked.

“This is brilliant, Oskar. I was so tired of walking. And the horses look very sweet, don’t they? I wonder if they will turn out to be more intrepid adventurers than myself thus far…”

On and on she went. And, to his shock, it didn’t bother him all that much. Hells, he was even listening to some of it.

He gave the trunk strapped to Pudding’s back a good nudge, satisfied when it didn’t budge, secure in its moorings.

Guinevere had insisted that they cart the cumbersome thing all the way, rather than stuff its contents into the rucksacks.

It was the shape that made it unwieldly; for a wooden box, it was light enough that he would have thought it empty if he hadn’t heard something inside clinking on occasion.

His mind was still on the trunk as he helped Guinevere up Vindicator’s back. “What have you got in there, anyway?” he asked, jerking his head in the direction of what was apparently Pudding’s most valuable burden.

Guinevere peered down at him as she petted the black stallion’s mane. “My dowry,” she replied, with a smile that trembled for a fleeting moment before smoothing into its usual perfection. “I’m going to Nicodranas to get married.”