Jac runs a hand through his dark blond hair, blowing out a sharp breath. “We’ll owe you a debt, old friend.”
“I’ll add it to the tally.”
“There’s a tally?”
“Mmm. Long one.”
“Damn.” Jac shakes his head, chuckling. His eyes drift to me but his words are for Scythe. “Come to think of it, it might not be the worst idea to clean up a bit before you go traipsing into the throne room. Your excess baggage is looking rather rough around the edges. And while you may not care what anyone else thinks…a bath would go a long way before you throw her to the court wolves.”
Court wolves?
That sounds ominous—far more than any wild variety I might encounter in the woods. I jerk my chin higher, covering my unease with my most withering glare. I am fully aware of my dreadful appearance without his reminders.
“Apologies.There wasn’t much time to pretty myself for your viewing pleasure,” I seethe. “I’ve been a bit busy trying not to be lynched or gutted or eaten alive. Next time I’m kidnapped and dragged to the Northlands, I’ll bring a lady’s maid along with me to keep my countenance fresh as a daisy in spring. Unless you’dlike to volunteer for the role. How are you with plaiting hair?” My eyes narrow on his long blond mane. “Seeing as your own looks like it hasn’t seen a brush since you left civilization, I’m guessing not so great.”
Farley cackles so loud, Onyx prances his front hooves against the snow in protest. Mabon and Uther both seem to be choking down laughter. Jac merely grins at me, not at all offended, and turns back to Scythe.
“Best do what you can to make her presentable. Her charming disposition isn’t going to win any favors at court.”
Scythe’s lips twist. “You’re not wrong.”
“Plus, it’s time you ditched the Eldian getup. You look like Midland swine. I know you were trying to blend in but, gods, if this shoddy shit is what they dress their commanders in, what do the foot soldiers wear?”
“Typically whatever they can steal, salvage, or strip from the corpses on the battlefield before the stiffness sets in,” Scythe says darkly.
“Foul place.” Jac grimaces. “Glad you’re done there. Your homecoming is long overdue. Shame we won’t be around for Fyremas, but we’ll have a proper celebration when this mountain stint finally ends and the whole guild is back together in Caeldera. Start ordering ale as soon as you arrive; you only have a few months to import the good stuff. None of that flavorless Frostlander swill, either. I want Titan gin from Prydain.”
My mind struggles to sort through the terms he’s rattling off, rapid-fire.Caeldera. Frostlander. Prydain.None of them sound remotely familiar to me. That’s not exactly surprising. Not one of Eli’s many maps had covered the Northlands. When I’d once asked him why, he told me they’d all been burned.
The Cull spared few fae records. Even the maps weredestroyed when the empire fell. The mortal kings were resolved to erase all lingering traces of maegic. Not only those who could wield it, but every aspect of their—your—very culture, Rhya.
It had seemed like an unnecessary step. An overreaction. I’d told Eli as much, but he’d fixed me with one of his wise looks and gently disagreed.
To annihilate a race, you must do more than kill its people. You must kill its music, its artwork, its architecture. Its customs, its traditions, its religions. You must eradicate the beauty, so only horror remains in the memories of those who live on in the aftermath. So no one attempts to rebuild—or even remembers why they might ever want to.
“Oh, is that all?” Scythe mutters, jolting me out of my thoughts.
Blithely ignoring his sarcasm, Jac adds, “A cask of Daggerpoint lager wouldn’t go amiss, either.”
“By all means…” Scythe’s amused snort puffs visibly in the chill air. “Use me as your next excuse to get falling-down drunk.”
“Don’t be absurd. When have I ever needed an excuse?”
“Fair enough.”
They grin at each other. The sight of that ultra-bright smile on Scythe’s face is so startling, I have to look away. Thankfully, there is little time to dwell. We are soon on our way—me wearing a laughably large pair of boots borrowed from Farley, who’d declared, with considerable vehemence, that he wasn’t using them so I should put them on my godsdamned feet and keep my godsdamned mouth shut about it. The laces are pulled as tight as they can go, but they still rattle loose around my calves with every step we take across the stretch of crunching snow.
Mabon and Uther lead the way, Onyx plodding after them with his hefty load of gear and the additional weight of a grumpy Farley on his back. I stick close to the horse’s side as we make thejourney, steadfastly ignoring the moment Scythe drops his cloak around my shoulders as he walks past me to join Jac at the rear of our ragtag band.
It’s deliciously warm, and it smells like flame.
Like him.
To keep Farley company, I chat with him as we cross the valley. He seems to crave the distraction from his injury, firing question after question until I have no choice but to answer.
“Where’d you learn to shoot like that?”
“Hunting.”