Romeria
Isense a figure standing over me a second before a toe digs into my calf.
“Wake up,” Abarrane snaps.
I grimace into the shadows of my tent. Zander walked me back last night and laid beside me but must have left when I fell asleep because I’m alone now, aside from this brackish warrior kicking me. “What’s going on?”
“Scouts have seen the supply wagons approaching. They’ll be here soon.”
I pause to rub the sleep from my eyes. “And?”
“And Rengard is with them. Do you not think he will ask about your poisonous little pet?”
“Oh, shit.”
“Yes. Exactly. Zander can answer for his decision, but you need to get the witch to mark that imbecile so it appears we’re taking the issue seriously.”
“We are taking it seriously.”
“Seriously would be my blade across his jugular.”
Low voices and rustling carries outside my tent. “Where’s Zander?”
“Too busy for you.”
I scowl as I haul my body up. While my thigh feels mostly fine, my shoulder still aches. “I think I’d rather deal with Jarek in the mornings.”
“I will be sure to send him in next. I’ll tell him you did not get enough in the bathhouse last night.” She throws the tent flap open, allowing me a glimpse of the dawn light and the bustling camp. My cheeks burn. I suppose there was no keeping Zander’s and my reconciliation from her.
I quickly dress and roll up my bed before venturing out. Dense fog veils the farm, hiding the barn from where I stand. It must have rained after I went to bed; the long grass weeps under the weight of moisture.
One of the Freywich mortals sees me emerge and rushes over. With a bow and YourHighness, which I don’t bother to correct, he begins taking down my tent.
I head in the direction of the wagon while scanning for Zander and Pan, but I find neither within the mist.
Gesine is already awake and working on Zorya’s wound again. She’s changed out of the caster’s ruined white gown and back to the beige linen dress from Freywich.
The warrior stands with her vest hiked halfway up her torso, a cautious glower marring her face as she studies Ianca, seated in the wagon, guiding spoonfuls of cold porridge to her mouth with surprising precision. The seer’s sparse white hair seems thinner today, if that’s possible, exposing patches of her scalp.
Zorya isn’t the only one wary. I doubt anyone here has ever seen a seer before, and many nervous glances drift this way. I understand that. I used to watch my father from a distance. People would change course when they noticed him sitting on the sidewalk, as if he might lash out at a passerby without warning, like his enraged rants would lead to ambiguous violence.
Thankfully, Ianca is quiet this morning.
“Nice scar,” I say by way of greeting. All that’s left is a jagged silver mark on her ribcage.
“I am collecting.”
I draw the collar of my tunic aside, where the faint, thin line from my dagger crosses over my collarbone. “Me too.”
“Not bad, but not lethal.”
“I’ll try harder next time.”
She smirks. “Good.”
“There. You should be fully healed now.” Gesine gently pats Zorya’s scar before shifting away.
The warrior yanks her vest down and turns to leave, but then falters. “Thank you, witch.” She meets Gesine’s gaze as if to silently convey her gratitude.