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Chapter Thirty-Two

Oskar

The rest of the week passed in a tranquil haze.

There was the monotony of slogging through rain and mud—or, when the weather was not being quite so rotten, somewhat drier mud.

There were consecutive meals of hardtack and barely ripe berries, and freezing nights in damp bedrolls, and tough scrambles over steep slopes.

And yet, through it all, there was also Guinevere.

Chattering away about anything and everything.

Singing Rodregg’s song whenever the melody entrenched itself back in her head.

Complaining about all the walking they had to do.

Keeping Oskar warm in the evenings with that delectable, terrifyingly addictive body.

Skipping ahead of him, the curtain of her hair swaying silver amidst the scarlet fumes of autumn.

She entertained him like no other and brought out an affectionate side that he hadn’t even realized he was capable of. The Vigilance Stone never glowed, not even once. When Oskar allowed his guard to relax, he had to admit—much to his chagrin—that he was having fun.

The undergrowth eventually thinned out and the trees grew more scattered.

Through the gaps between the trunks, he could see the rolling grasslands of the Marrow Valley.

They were almost to the Wuyun Gorge; at the tip of that would be the gates, followed by the Coast, which in turn would be followed by…

Journey’s end.

Her journey, anyway. As for Oskar, he would have to turn around and go back the way they’d come, which was— fine. It was what it was. He’d made that choice when he strong-armed her into accepting his escort.

For some reason, though, the prospect of traveling the Amber Road without Guinevere by his side seemed unbearable.

He was getting far too used to her.

They left the forest’s dense embrace under a sky that, while overcast, had yet to spit out rain.

The entrance to the Wuyun Gorge was only a short gallop away through tall stalks of golden grass.

Leading into it was the Amber Road, dotted with wagons and carriages and figures on horseback as far as the eye could see.

Oskar turned to lift Guinevere into Vindicator’s saddle. But, for someone who’d haughtily declared a few hours ago that walking was a fool’s game, she was strangely hesitant now.

“I actually might prefer to just sit here for a little while,” she told him painstakingly. “Why don’t we have an early lunch?”

They’d eaten an uncommonly hearty breakfast of roasted mushrooms and quail eggs not too long ago, the six approved gods having smiled down on that morning’s foraging attempts. Oskar wasn’t hungry yet. But he heard himself say, “All right.”

Because, once they entered the ravine, it would be less than a day’s ride until the Amber Road came to an end at the Wuyun Gates.

Their time together was fast running out, and it was with a pang that Oskar realized he would do whatever it took to make the remaining hours last longer.

To grab hold of them and never let go, to spin them into years and years until they became a tapestry that encompassed all of forever—

No. That line of thinking led to madness. And her thoughts were probably along the lines of how damn tired she was, and how she wasn’t eager to be back on that dusty, crowded road anytime soon.

They sat down in the long grass and broke out the last of the hardtack and some forest fruits that they’d picked yesterday.

They didn’t bother securing the horses, as they’d learned that Pudding and Vindicator weren’t prone to wandering off as long as there was the promise of food—and, indeed, the black stallion leaned in over Oskar’s shoulder and shamelessly nosed for crab apples while the gray-and-white pack mare did the same with Guinevere.

Guinevere was happy to share her fruit, Oskar a little less so. She shot him a sympathetic grin as she patted the bridge of Pudding’s nose. “I’m going to miss the horses,” she said wistfully.

What about me? “You don’t have to miss them,” Oskar grunted. “We bartered for them with your parents’ merchandise, so they technically belong to your family. You should keep them.”

“I couldn’t possibly,” she protested, her violet eyes wide. “You’re so much better with them than I am. And…” She hesitated, swallowing. “And you’re going to need them more.”

Yes, because once she arrived in Nicodranas and Lord Wensleydale started wooing his would-be bride, she would have her pick from stables full of the finest destriers and most impeccably pedigreed mares that gold could buy.

Amidst the affluence of that new life of hers, Pudding and Vindicator would soon be nothing more than distant, bargain-bin memories. As would Oskar.

He gave what he hoped was a flippant shrug. “If you don’t want them, I’ll be happy to take them off your hands.”

“I never said I didn’t want them, only that—”

“There won’t be a place for them,” he finished for her. He had an uneasy feeling that they weren’t talking about the horses anymore. Or, at least, not just the horses.

They finished eating in desultory silence.

Once she’d choked down the last of the hardtack and wiped the crumbs off her skirt, Guinevere busied herself with picking wildflowers from a vibrant cluster an arm’s length away.

It was high time to get going, but Oskar’s body refused to obey his common sense.

Instead, he watched as she skillfully braided the stems together into a circle, taking care not to damage the delicate blooms. She’d always been good with her hands.

Aside from the night she taught him how to stitch, there’d been nights when she sat by the campfire with needle and thread, embroidering a patch of roses on the collar of his one good jacket, her tiny nose scrunched up in utmost concentration.

He was going to miss the sight of that. The sight of her.

But the memory of firelight gave him an idea for a relatively safe topic. “Any luck practicing with your wildfire spirit?”

Guinevere frowned down at her task. “I wouldn’t be so eager to wish for that, if I were you. Teinidh’s hard to put out once she gets started.”

She’d told him of a few incidents from her childhood while they were traipsing through that forest. Her mother’s singed eyebrows, the scorch marks that devalued formerly priceless furniture and art, the burns on tutors with loud voices and heavy hands.

For each tale, Oskar had assured her that it hadn’t been her fault.

He never grew tired of saying it, because it was what she needed to hear—and maybe if he said it often enough, she would believe it.

She wasn’t automatically apologizing for every single thing anymore, and that was a start.

“All done!” Guinevere held up her handiwork for Oskar’s perusal. It was a profusion of crimson flowers set like rubies into a band of leaves and stems.

“Very nice wreath,” he said.

“It’s a flower crown.” That was the only warning she gave before plunking it over his head.

“Guinevere.” Oskar levied his most fearsome scowl upon her. “Kindly take this thing off me.”

“Whatever for?” she protested. “You look rather dashing!”

“I don’t want to look dashing,” he snapped, “and I don’t want to wear a damn flower crown, either.”

“But—but I made it for you.”

Her beautiful face took on a plaintive expression. Hah. That wasn’t going to work on him this time. He would harden his heart, by the gods.

Her bottom lip wobbled.

Fuck.

Minutes later, Oskar was holding Vindicator still while Guinevere slipped another flower crown around the latter’s head. The stallion eyed Oskar with something like distress, but no one could help either of them now.

“We’ll get through this together, old friend,” Oskar muttered to him.

Pudding merely shot him an amiable grin, her eyes half-closed beneath her own flower crown, while Guinevere surveyed the three of them with her hands on her hips, her satisfied smile as radiant as the sun.

“Why aren’t you wearing one?” Oskar demanded.

He sounded like a rude son of a bitch, but Guinevere was unfazed. She pointed to the once colorful patch on the ground. “There aren’t any flowers left.”

“Not very environmentally friendly, now, is it?” he said under his breath as he tucked their waterskins back into the rucksack dangling down Pudding’s side.

“Sorry?” Guinevere looked over at him, all sweet, blissful innocence. “I didn’t quite catch that.”

“Nothing, dear.”

It came so easily to him, that endearment. It rolled off his tongue the way a breath was exhaled by the lungs, an action that required no mulling over. It simply… was.

“Oh, Oskar,” Guinevere scoffed, and she turned away from him, but not before he saw her smile brighten even more.

Vindicator’s new accoutrements appeared to have thoroughly sapped him of his pride. There was a distinct lack of vigor in the stallion’s steps as he bore Oskar and Guinevere across the golden grasslands and into the procession of travelers entering the Wuyun Gorge.

As their party eased into an open space between two other groups, the five human riders behind them didn’t bother hiding their stares—first at the flower crowns on Oskar and the horses, and then at Guinevere, at which point the staring turned to outright gawking. Some of their jaws actually dropped.

Oskar shot them a nasty glare over his shoulder, his arm tightening around Guinevere’s waist. Then it was her turn to look around, wondering what bee he had in his bonnet. Or, to be more accurate, in his flower crown.

But soon her attention swiveled back to what lay in front of them.

It truly was an incredible sight. Oskar had passed this way before, but he was far from immune to the awe it inspired.

The Wuyun Gorge was a large ravine that snaked down in a stony gash through the center of two mountain ranges—the rugged Cyrios, which cordoned off the Menagerie Coast from the rest of Wildemount, and the Ashkeeper Peaks, the forested and treacherous spine of the continent that separated the Dwendalian Empire and the Wastes of Xhorhas.

From left to right, there was only ridge as far as the eye could see, holding up the gray sky like the shoulders of giants.

The heart of autumn had burst upon the world.

The mountains looked as though they’d been dipped in fire, their vast slopes boasting endless waves of scarlet and ocher and magenta, the highest peaks wreathed in silver mist. And slicing into the middle of it all, the burnished carpets of foliage abruptly giving way to platforms of barren red rock, was the enormous gorge, which lay as though in wait.

“I feel…small.” Guinevere’s soft voice threaded through the chime of hoofbeats and wooden wheels echoing all over the road.

“But not insignificant. Like I’m a part of something greater.

Like maybe I’m meant for better.” She turned back to Oskar then, sharing this moment with him, her violet eyes alight, her pale hair streaming in the wind.

“Like—I don’t know, Oskar. Who could ever describe this feeling? I don’t have the words.”

“I do,” he said, staring at her, framed as she was against a backdrop of open road and high mountains. “I feel like the look on your face.”