Page 41 of Tusks & Saddles

Chapter Fourteen

Beatrix

T hey were down one horse.

It wasn’t ideal, but something Beatrix had expected was likely to happen on their journey.

She just hadn’t expected it to happen so damn soon.

Based on the mercenary guild’s account—and her own experience—most folk didn’t lose their travel animals until six or seven days in.

By then, it was usually a lot rougher as the water grew more and more scarce.

Fucking killer tumbleweeds.

Welborn had taken first watch, giving Beatrix time to recover from her injury.

A combination of Kay’s tonic and light sleep had already improved the wound on her thigh, but Beatrix knew the ride later that morning would be a bit rough.

Healing always took time, no matter how much magic someone threw at the problem.

Beatrix gaze shifted from the low burning fire to Welborn’s sleeping form.

He looked… young . Perhaps not in the physical sense—he was old enough to help build a sanctum to his god, for goodness sake.

No, it was a lack of experience. There was still hope in his eyes, the same way there had been tears in the corner of his lashes when he regretfully informed her of the horse passing .

The animal was too heavy to move, even with the two of them.

Welborn had covered the horse with a spare sheet he had in his pack.

Beatrix would have argued against it—they really ought to bury or burn the body—as he would need that layer in the night.

However, his face had stalled her complaint.

For whatever reason, Beatrix felt as if Welborn needed the process of grief.

He needed to mourn an animal that he knew for but a day.

Her mind wasn’t occupied with mourning so much as planning their next steps.

Hunting for anyone in the wastelands was always risky, but Beatrix had done it enough to know where the missing High Cleric might have found refuge.

Most folk didn’t travel too far from water and there were slim pickings in the desert.

There was a small stream a day’s ride past the rock formations they were camping at.

A man-made water tower that collected rain—a relic from early settlers who decided it was better to pitch their tents in Irongarde.

Worse case, we can manage some water from the Canna cactus—

Welborn groaned.

Beatrix golden eyes narrowed at his prone form. Welborn slept with his body curled tight, forehead furrowed even in his sleep. The fire separated them, but Beatrix could see the noise he had made was involuntary.

A nightmare?

It would be fitting for someone like him to have nightmares.

Though, Beatrix was curious as to what counted as a nightmare when it came to the young cleric.

He was far too good natured to have witnessed anything truly awful—at least, Beatrix thought as much.

However, the old rule of looks being deceiving crept up Beatrix’s spine.

Perhaps Welborn was simply that good of an actor—

“Miss Eaves…”

Never mind, Beatrix thought dryly.

Perhaps she had given him far too much credit. At the end of the day, Welborn was still a stranger and Beatrix wasn’t sure if she liked her name on his lips. Especially not while dreaming.

And yet…

There was something open about Welborn’s face—about his character.

Beatrix spent most of her adult life shielding herself from the world around her and while the sleeping man was arguably as covered as she was, Welborn’s face was entirely open.

Anyone with a lick of insight would be able to read him like a book, but was he a book worth reading?

Beatrix had yet to figure that part out.

He did save my life, she thought. That’s always been worth something.

Her father was significantly younger than her mother.

Human and elf relationships tended to work that way.

Beatrix’s parents would never have forever, but they did have right now, and that was worth it’s weight in gold.

Whatever feelings Beatrix may have had—have—with her mother, it had never been worth staying angry.

Elyassundra—Lady Tel’vera—would have never anticipated that she would give birth to a daemon child.

While Balthazar had taken to Beatrix immediately, her mother had been a different story.

There was pain in her eyes whenever she looked at her daughter.

And Beatrix’s mother was unaware of her stare, as the young child had no visible pupils to speak of.

It made eavesdropping very easy for Beatrix, as she simply had to pretend that she had been staring at something else .

Her mother wasn’t perfect, but Beatrix had seen her at least try.

Mother hadn’t treated her any differently from her brothers, but the bond wasn’t the same as the one Beatrix had with her father.

She knew it was because her mother had known the origins of Beatrix’s mysterious ancestry. There was simply no other explanation.

Welborn let out another muffled sound, body pressing deeper into his side as if he was trying to bury himself into the ground. Whatever nightmares plagued his mind, Beatrix hoped they would be over soon. She hoped he would find comfort in sleep, and she hoped he would awake well-rested.

Beatrix hoped, and it was a funny thing that seemed to dance with her battered heart.

She would blame the silly organ as she gingerly pushed herself to her feet.

Her thigh stung, but the pain was manageable as she crept to his side.

Carefully, Beatrix lowered herself to the ground near his head.

She eyed the area, one last look for trouble and when she found none, her shoulders slowly relaxed.

It was strange to feel so much trepidation as Beatrix slowly extended her fingers toward him.

She had faced bandits, beasts, monsters, and arcanists with little to no fear as she aimed her firearm and pulled the trigger.

So, why was she having so much trouble with reaching out to a sleeping cleric?

And why did she desperately want to touch his brow with her bare hand?

Silly, really, Beatrix thought as her fingers brushed the worried lines of Welborn’s forehead.

He was warm through the layer of her glove, but Beatrix found herself wondering what his skin felt like. She softly brushed her fingers back and fourth along his forehead, until the worry eased and his face was lax once more. A subtle shift, but one that brought Beatrix a strange sense of relief.

Worry doesn’t suit you, Beatrix thought.

Her musing opened a dam worth of thoughts. They rushed to the front of her mind, assaulting Beatrix with an overwhelming sense of curiosity.

What was Welborn’s childhood like? Was it happy?

Had his father been kind or cruel? Was his mother sweet or distant?

How old had he been when he decided to devout himself to one of the gods?

How had he gained that strange hole in his hand?

What oils did he prefer when taking a nice hot bath?

Was there a way he preferred his eggs? How many people had he killed—

No.

There wasn’t a chance in all of Ordia that Welborn had taken a life.

For all its beauty and glory, the world was not kind.

Nearly everything in the wild was made to combat an adventurer and if a stray monster didn’t take them out, a sly wave of the hand could take someone out.

If Beatrix’s father knew how many people she had slain in the pursuit of coin and justice, he’d likely be disturbed.

It was difficult to be the daughter of a lawman when you were a bounty hunter for hire.

While her father had worked with bounty hunters from time to time, he rarely utilized them due to the fact that they held no loyalty.

Her father wasn’t wrong in that regard. Beatrix worked with Gimdor and the mercenary guild in Irongarde, but she had no allegiances to them.

Even the contract she signed was easy enough to argue against—thank her father for teaching Beatrix to read the fine print.

Amazing what a little ale and a fire will do, Beatrix thought .

Balthazar’s schooling in the nature of contracts had come in handy.

Observing her mother’s social graces had given Beatrix a way to get what she wanted without compromising her autonomy.

Despite her gruff exterior, Beatrix understood when to lay it on thick when she needed.

However, that was partially why she had left in the first place.

Beatrix was not suited for extravagant dinner parties with local politicians, lords, and ladies. She had always been bored and the children her age had been horribly prejudiced. Even in the most dazzling of dresses, Beatrix would wilt under the judgmental stares of high society.

No, that life was not for her; it was for her brothers. The twins—Grady and Knox—were most likely on the verge of engagement. They were turning twenty-three late in the winter. If not engaged, than surely they were assisting father with managing the land.

Her older brother, Talerith, was most likely married by now.

When Beatrix had left, it was shortly after his engagement party.

His bride-to-be—wife, now—had been a nice if not flighty thing with pale blond hair and a button nose.

Human, which meant she would age before Talerith, though not as drastically as father did.

Stop thinking about them, Beatrix chided herself.

The strange sense of sentimentality was meant for late nights or hot baths.

They were musings meant to be had entirely in private, not in the middle of the desert.

And definitely not while Beatrix was stroking the face of a sleeping cleric.

While there was nothing necessarily untoward with the action, Beatrix wondered if perhaps she was breaking some sort of religious rule.

The Dauntless Verity didn’t swear celibacy but Beatrix knew there were some gods who did.

Or, at least, some whose followers claimed it was part of the worship.

A comforting touch was hardly encroaching on Welborn’s honor, but Beatrix wouldn’t be surprised if it was.

After all, the gods were an odd bunch that most of Ordia knew existed, yet could never fully know them.

They were on a completely different level in terms of an unknown variable.

Much like the tumbleweed monsters, Beatrix wouldn’t know how she would tackle a god. She quite suspected she wasn’t meant to. The thought of being put into a position of helplessness made her squeamish.

Beatrix had built her identity around precautions, preparedness, and suspicion of the unknown.

There wasn’t anything she could think of that would make her feel more vulnerable than what had occurred at sundown with the dead weeds.

And the fact that it was Welborn—unimposing, soft-spoken, could-barely-ride-a-horse Welborn—of all folk that saved her?

Well, Beatrix didn’t know what to make of that. She wouldn’t call herself a damsel in distress by any means. Honestly, if Gimdor had cracked a joke like that, she’d likely shoot him in the ass.

So, why is this cleric so different? Why does it matter that he stuck to his promise?

Promises made and kept. Those were things a younger Beatrix valued, that she still valued. Welborn held those values, too, and how refreshing it was to have something in common that wasn’t attached to a wanted poster. Wasn’t it good to speak with someone who wasn’t focused on coin or taking coin?

He doesn’t want coin, doesn’t want the kill for the sake of glory…could it really be that simple ?

Beatrix pulled her hand away and ignored the way Welborn’s brow wrinkled as if he was upset at her absence.

She had been gazing at him for so long, she failed to notice the slow glow of the sun barely rising in the distance.

Welborn’s horse was nosing the ground—he had insisted on moving her away from the dead horse.

Insisted that ‘Sandy’ would be upset if she had to be near the body.

It’s nonsense…it has to be.