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Chapter Thirteen

Oskar

He had to hand it to her. She was a trooper. She rose to his challenge. To the challenge set by Vindicator’s speed and spirit and by the rough, uneven forest floor with its myriad obstacles.

Eventually, the ground softened into bog.

Stately oaks gave way to gnarled banyan trees, tangled so close together that sunlight became a distant dream, occasionally peeking in through sparse gaps.

The horses slowed down, Pudding nickering anxiously as her heavy hooves navigated the shifting wetland.

Guinevere reached out to pat the mare. “You did such a good job,” she cooed. “You protected our things valiantly! A queen among packhorses, indeed. And you!” She transferred her tender ministrations to Vindicator. “You’re not just a stallion, are you? You’re a destrier!”

“He had better be, for how much you bartered for him,” said Oskar, more grumpily than he wanted. Hadn’t he done a good job, too? Why wasn’t she stroking his hair?

And perhaps because he lived to be contrary—or because Guinevere’s praise encouraged him to show off—Vindicator reared again.

The ground wasn’t conducive to it. The stallion stumbled, though mercifully did not fall.

But Oskar and Guinevere did. They tumbled down into an elevated patch of mud and grass.

He managed to slip his palm behind her head to cushion the impact, but the rest of his body landed right on top of hers as they hit the ground with a dull thump.

“Shit. Guinevere.” His other hand drifted along the delicate contours of her body, gently squeezing, checking for anything broken. “Are you all right?”

She didn’t say anything at first. She was staring up at him. There was an entire universe in her violet eyes.

“I’m fine,” she said at last. “We’re both fine. I didn’t think we would be.” She wasn’t talking about their fall. “When those people attacked…”

“I would never have let them hurt you,” Oskar growled.

But he might have hurt her, and he rolled off in a panicked bid to relieve her of his considerable weight as soon as possible.

Her soft palm came up to rest against his cheek in the slightest of nudges, and he found himself rolling back on top of her. It was supremely awkward. Leave it to Miss Guinevere to take the air out of his bellows. Her touch was as light as a butterfly’s, but he would remember it forever.

“It’s you I was worried about, Oskar.” She confessed it like it hurt. “I don’t know what I would have done if—if you’d died.”

“There was no way I would have allowed myself to die,” he said roughly. “Not when it meant leaving you there alone.”

She smiled at him. She was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen, lying in the mud, her silver hair as wild as a bird’s nest. Her action drew his focus to her lips.

Their dusky pink color, the winsome curve of them.

The bow that gilded the upper; the pillowy lushness of the lower. How would it all feel?

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’ve not been much help to you. From now on, I’ll…”

He was leaning in almost before he knew it.

Her hand trembled against his cheek, and her eyelids fluttered tentatively shut.

He took her chin between forefinger and thumb, carefully angling it so that she wouldn’t be grazed by his tusks.

Then he was closing his eyes, too, his heart pounding as his lips met hers…

Her mouth felt rather velvety. Like it was covered in short, sleek—hair?

Oskar’s eyes flew open.

Pudding the mare had nosed between them, sniffing inquisitively, probably wondering why they hadn’t stood up yet. Now she was also probably wondering why Oskar was kissing the side of her muzzle.

He sprang away, scrubbing his lips with the back of his hand. Guinevere got to her feet, blushing. She dusted off her dress, ran her fingers through her hair, absently petted Pudding. Looked everywhere but at Oskar.

It was the dose of reality he’d sorely needed. What had possessed him? Daughters of wealthy merchants betrothed to equally wealthy Dwendalian lords did not dally with former blacksmith’s apprentices.

There was something about that line of thought that bothered him in a way separate from what had just happened, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. So he did what was best for all parties concerned—he cleared his throat and changed the subject.

“They were after you and the trunk. Why?”

“I don’t know.”

It occurred to him that she might be lying. “What’s inside, Guinevere?”

“I don’t know.” She wrung her hands. “I apologize for not knowing, but don’t you think I would tell you, if I did?”

He shrugged. They’d only just met. He must never forget that. This was a hard conversation, but it was necessary. Still, he made an effort to gentle his tone. “If you’re transporting something dangerous—or something that people like that would want…”

“Oskar.” She finally met his gaze. “I swear by the Lawbearer, I have asked and asked over the years what’s in there.

My parents were never anything but vague.

I fell out of the habit of prying, and the trunk became just another piece of furniture in my room.

It had never occurred to me that it could be something people would—would kill for.

” Her voice wobbled slightly, yet her face revealed nothing but the raw, unvarnished truth.

“And now I’m wondering again. But the answer is in Nicodranas. ”

“Well, it’s too bad that you’re not going there anymore, then,” Oskar retorted. “I’m taking you back to the capital, where you belong.”

Guinevere’s mouth rounded in shock. After a beat, she lifted her chin, an uncharacteristically steely glint in her eyes. “I have to go to my parents. Alone, if I must.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he snapped. “Those people were mercenaries. If they pick up your trail again, you won’t stand a chance.”

“It’s a risk I’ll have to take.”

He swore, and she flinched but stood her ground, a stubborn set to her jaw. They regarded each other warily, from opposite sides of an impasse. Oskar felt a migraine coming on, although that might have been an aftereffect of Bharash’s ringing punches to his skull.

It was a troublesome mess he’d gotten tangled up in, and no mistake.

He’d lost both swords, and his body ached everywhere from the dragonblood’s blows, even parts he hadn’t known he possessed.

The sensible thing to do would be to wash his hands of the whole affair—but he couldn’t very well take his leave of the bullheaded, na?ve miss.

People helped one another, be it in the Dustbellows or on the Rime Plains or in these woodlands.

His mother had taught him that. It would be an insult to her memory to let Guinevere fend for herself.

Grumbling under his breath, he stomped over to Pudding and retrieved a map from one of the packs, consulting it in the dim light.

“If we can find the Bromkiln Byway, it will take us straight to Berleben, which is the nearest settlement. But that will have to wait until tomorrow morning. Right now, we need to set up a defensive perimeter and get some rest.”

“A defensive perimeter?” Guinevere echoed, sounding lost.

Oskar shot her a wry glance. “This is the Labenda Swamp. You can’t go ten feet without something trying to kill you.”

He was half hoping that she’d lose her nerve, that she’d cry off and agree to let him take her back to Rexxentrum, now that he’d laid out for her how dangerous Wildemount was beyond the safety of city gates.

But Guinevere had been surprising him ever since they met. She paled only slightly, then nodded.

A trooper, he thought again. A trooper who was going to ruin his life, if she didn’t somehow cause the end of it.