“What sort of game?”
“Doe, mostly. Sometimes a boar or two, but only if they were disturbing the gardens.” I pause, shoulders lifting in a shallow shrug. “I may be a decent shot, but I didn’t often hunt with my bow back at home.”
“Why not?”
“I never liked to take too much from the forest. The herds get thinner every year.” The last few springs, game was so sparse I could go days without seeing a single deer. “Besides, it always felt wasteful to kill a large animal when I could get by with just my snares. Sometimes, I could sell the extra meat, but…” I chew my bottom lip. “Lots of folks won’t buy from a halfling.”
Farley looses a low, unhappy grunt. “Ignorant fucks.”
I say nothing, rather startled by his strong reaction. Sure, he and the others have treated me better than the last company of male soldiers I found myself caught up with…but I doubt the Northlanders as a whole are beacons of tolerance. The Cull affected all of Anwyvn, a unified extermination from the ice-capped North Sea to the Desert Depths of Carvage. Forgetting that would be beyond foolish.
“Anyway…” Farley steers us past the awkward silence. “You said you used snares? For what kind of quarry?”
“Foxes. Hares. Sometimes squirrels, if things got desperate.”
“Things get desperate often?”
I smile wryly. “I take it you haven’t spent much time in the Midlands, if you feel the need to ask.”
“Mmm. Doesn’t sound like paradise on earth, that’s for certain.”
A bitter exhale shoots from my mouth. “Paradise burned a long time ago. All that’s left are the ashes.”
He’s silent for a moment, absorbing that. “So, Ace, are you ever going to tell us your real name?”
“Why would I?”
“Why wouldn’t you?” he counters playfully. “We’re all friends here.”
“Friends?”
“We’ve done battle together. Fought side by side. If that doesn’t make us friends, nothing will.”
“Farley,” I say with emphatic enunciation, as though he’s a bit slow in the wits. “You do realize I’m a prisoner here, don’t you?”
At that, he barks out a laugh. He only sobers when he sees I’m not laughing with him. Twisting in his saddle, his eyes shoot to the back of our group. I don’t turn to see, but I know he is looking at Scythe.
“Penn!” There’s that name again. “Why does Ace here think she’s a prisoner?”
“Farley,” comes the terse reply. “Keep talking and your leg won’t be the worst of your injuries.”
“Testy, testy.” The redhead returns his attention to me. “Trust me, Ace. You don’t need to be so closed off. We’re not going to hurt you. Well, Penn might, but his bark is worse than his bite. Most of the time.”
“How comforting.”
“Oh, don’t be like that. He’s fresh off a campaign. Can’t reallyblame him for nursing a grouchy disposition, after spending all that time in the Midlands. Enough to drive a fyre priestess to drink, I’ll tell you. It’s going to take him some time to adjust to normal life again. Give it a week or so; we’ll get him laughing.” He pauses, mouth twisting. “A fortnight at most.”
I contemplate the idea of a different version of Scythe than the one I’ve come to know. One who makes his comrades’ faces light up with joy. One who laughs with his friends. One who does anything besides brood and scowl and insult me.
Frankly, it seems incomprehensible.
Farley must read the doubt in my expression. “Despite what you think, Ace…you’re safe with us. I promise.”
I give him a halfhearted smile. It feels like a lie on my lips.
Safe?
I am not safe. I haven’t been safe in so long, I barely remember the feeling. And after all I’ve endured these past weeks at the hands of human males, I doubt I’ll ever allow myself to actually trust another one.