“Sorry about that,” Peter said, his cheeks burning red. “There was an incident with a raccoon and a bottle of sweet-meade.”
He hurried to grab a rag from the sink and, after wetting it, quickly wiped at the mess at the top of the map.
It didn’t matter. The area they needed to see had been untouched.
“The sanctuary is here,” she said, pointing to a large oval shape in the bottom left corner. “When last I knew her whereabouts, she was in an abandoned mining hut just beyond Crystalline Lake. There.”
She pointed to a tiny square on the right side of the map, just below the sweet-meade smear.
“Her?” Peter asked.
Tearloch did not answer as he moved behind Arianne, leaned close over her shoulder to see where she was indicating. His hot breath tickled her ear and she had to suppress a shiver.
“There is a trail here,” he said, pointing at a thin dotted line that circled one side of the lake.
Peter frowned. “Only if you brought a canoe.”
“Why?” she asked.
“The trail around Crystalline Lake’s blocked by a rock slide.” He made a wry smile. “Unless you’re planning on a chilly swim, you’ll have to detour around Mount Winter.”
“That would add several days to our trek.” Arianne knew they did not have that kind of time. The Moraine would not be that patient.
“No,” Tearloch said. “My father used to take me hiking there as a boy. There is a wildlife path that circles the opposite side. It is more precarious, but it is passable.”
“Good,” Arianne said. “Then we should leave as soon as—“
In an instant, the mood in the cabin changed. Tearloch and Peter both tensed, and Tearloch held up a hand for silence. Like a fox who sensed a warning signal from others in her pack, Arianne tensed as well.
Then she saw it. The slow movement of a shadow across the very edge of the table. She turned, tracing the shadow’s origin.
The kitchen window.
Silent as a mountain lion, Tearloch padded across the room. He pulled a dagger from a hidden sheath in his right boot, and with his left hand, slowly turned the door handle.
It all happened in a flash. The door swung open. Tearloch reached out. He dragged the unwanted observer inside, his hand wrapped around her neck.
The intruder wore the insignia of the Morainian Royal Guard on her right sleeve. Her long, dark blond hair hung over her shoulders in countless braids. The sword she wore on her left hip was almost as large as Tearloch’s.
“Regan?” Tearloch nearly choked out.
He released her. It was not until her feet hit the floor that Arianne realized he had been holding the guard—Regan—suspended.
“Nice to see you too,” Regan bit out.
To her credit, she did not gasp for breath or reach for what had to be bruises forming on her neck.
“What are you doing here?” Tearloch demanded. “Are you following us?”
Regan swept her gaze around the room. When she looked at Arianne, her gray-green eyes narrowed.
“On the prince’s orders,” Regan said, turning dismissively away from Arianne and focusing her attention on Tearloch.
“What orders?”
There was a threat lurking in Tearloch’s tone, but Arianne did not think Regan looked the sort to back away from a warning. In fact, she looked like the sort to meet it head on.
“To escort you on your—“ She flung her gaze briefly, derisively, at Arianne. “—quest.”
Though Arianne might not have the look of a warrior—she did not wear the colors of a military unit, her hair had been arranged in a more feminine style, and what was visible of her skin was free of scars and blemishes—but in her heart, Arianne was as much a fighter as Regan. She saw Tearloch open his mouth to reply, to tell Regan her escort would not be necessary. Arianne beat him to it.
“I’m afraid that is not possible,” Arianne said.
All three sets of eyes in the room turned to face her, as if they had forgotten her presence. Though she hid her smile, she delighted at the uniform look of shock on all three faces.
“If my sister sensed anyone but me and my escort approaching…” Arianne made a deliberately helpless gesture. “Well, I could not promise anyone’s safety.”
Regan did not even flinch. She snarled, “I don’t take orders from you.”
“No,” Tearloch said, “but you take them from me.”
Regan turned back to face him, confusion and—if Arianne had to guess—desperation in her expression. “Captain?”
“The princess is correct,” he continued. “As I explained to the prince, it is too dangerous for any to accompany us.”
“But Prince Cathair—“
Tearloch shook his head. “Return to the palace. Tell the prince this is my command. My judgment.”
Regan hesitated, as if she wished to argue but knew that to do so would be rank insubordination. Finally, she threw one last glare at Arianne before turning to storm out of the cabin.
“Making friends wherever you go, are you?” Peter asked.
She turned a sunny smile on him. “Always.” She turned her attention back to the map. “Now, let us get back to planning this journey.”
Chapter 8
As they ventured into the forest at the far end of the sanctuary, Tearloch had to make a decision. Should he take the lead, as was his natural inclination, since he was the one more familiar with this terrain and more experienced with wilderness hiking? Or should he allow the princess to go first, as was tradition?
Tearloch was not normally one to stand on custom, but in the end he elected to take the rear. Not for any particular sense of politeness or chivalry, but for the simple reason that from this position he could keep his eye on her.
They had not gone far into the wood when he was certain he made the right decision. The princess moved like a spirit. Her feet barely made a sound, despite the uneven terrain.
Were she walking behind him, he’d have been constantly turning to make sure she was still there. Like something out of an ancient Greek tale he once heard.
Thanks to Peter’s maps, they had a solid ascent plan that would take them from the sanctuary to the witch’s hut in less than two days. The first half day would take them through the Forest of Shadows, before emerging at the base of Mount Winter. They would ascend to a campsite on the south end of Crystalline Lake to spend the first night. And, if things with the witch went smoothly, they would return to camp at the same location the following night.
Not that Tearloch held out hope that things with the witch would go any way but problematic.
“Don’t think I don’t know why you have me in the lead,” the princess called out as she leapt over a moss-covered tree root.
Tearloch did not reply.
“You can admit it,” she said. “You have no sense for navigation.”
He couldn’t help but laugh. “I could find my way through the forest blindfolded.”
“Fine,” she said, dancing around a pine that had been felled by lightning strike. “Then it must be because you prefer the view from behind.”
When she cast a teasing look back over her shoulder, he knew she was deliberately taunting him. They both knew he did not trust her. They both knew precisely why she was walking in front.
But as she turned her attention back to the path, her teasing suggestion wormed its way into his mind. He could not help but skim his gaze over her.
He would have thought the clothes she chose for the journey—a pair of soft leather breeches, a heavy woolen sweater, and a pair of lace up boots—far less flattering and less feminine than the lavender gown in which she arrived at the Castle Moraine. He was wrong.
Forcing himself to redirect his thoughts, he clenched his jaw and pointed his gaze above the pile of curls atop her head. Better he keep his attention on the upcoming path than on his companion. The last thing he needed to be thinking about was the way the soft leather hugged her form.
&nbs
p; He shoved the thoughts from his mind.
They soon fell into a rhythm. The princess spent most of her time throwing barbs at him. And despite his best intentions he found himself rising to the bait more often than not.
So when they emerged from the woods into a clearing, with majestic Mount Winter looming high above them, and she stopped in her tracks, he fully expected another verbal spar. If he were being honest with himself, he was actually looking forward to it.
But instead of the snide comment or teasing barb, she gave him a pained look and said, “I’m famished. Shall we lunch?”
For several long seconds he stood there, stunned. She stared at him, her expression growing more and more confused and concerned the longer he stood silent.
Finally, he shook himself out of his trance.
“Of course, Princess.”
She spun in a circle, surveying the area around them.
“There,” she said, pointing to a long, flat rock formation that sat about the height of a bench. “That looks like the perfect spot for a picnic.”
Tearloch nodded. He swung his pack into one hand and carried it over to the bench. As he began to undo the laces that held the contents secure within, the princess set her own pack on the rock.
“If you’ll excuse me,” she said, “I’ll be right back.”
She started to turn away, but Tearloch grabbed her. “Where are you going?”
“I need a bit of privacy,” she said. When he did not let go of her arm, she said, “I have to relieve myself. I prefer to do so without an audience.”
Tearloch released her as if she had caught fire. He mumbled something that he hoped was, “Of course,” and, “My apologies,” but he couldn’t be certain.
As she disappeared around the nearest rock large enough to conceal her from view, Tearloch mentally berated himself. True, he did not trust the princess, but what did he expect her to do? Where did he think she could go? They were a full half a day’s walk from the sanctuary. Farther even from any fae settlement.
Reassured that she was only doing as she had said, Tearloch went about the business of locating their lunch. He found the carefully wrapped sandwiches the palace cook had prepared, along with a pair of what looked like squash cakes and a small bottle of sweet-meade.
He laid out one of his blankets over the rock. Set out the food. Poured sweet-meade into a cup for the princess and set the bottle in front of his setting. Then he switched them. Why should the princess drink from the cup? It wasn’t as if she’d thought to pack it. Then he switched them back. What would it hurt to be a little polite? He was stuck with her for the next two days at least and he did not relish the idea of her stabbing him in his sleep.
He was just about to switch them a third time, when he realized he had been arranging and rearranging the lunch setting for quite some time. The princess had been gone for far longer than it should have taken her to relieve herself, as she said.
He set the cup and bottle on the blanket and crossed to the near side of the rock she had disappeared behind.
“Princess?” he called out.
No response. Not a sound.
“Princess Arianne?”
Still nothing.
“Princess, if you have a problem…” He held his hands over his eyes and stepped carefully around the rock. He kept his gaze trained on the ground, so he could see where he was walking and not accidentally see something he shouldn’t.
He expected a shriek of outrage. Maybe even a rock to the head.
But again, nothing.
“If this is a joke…”
Finally the silence overcame his hesitation. He dropped his hand and, much to his lack of surprise, saw absolutely nothing. She was gone.
He muttered a foul curse.
“Princess!” he shouted, not caring if the entire mountain heard him. “Princess Arianne, return immediately or face the consequences!”
He was not quite certain what those consequences would be. It was not as if he could dish out punishment to a royal princess, enemy or not. But he would think of something.
He squatted down on the ground, searching for any trace of her lighter-than-air footsteps. Now he wished he had allowed Regan to accompany them. She was as skilled a tracker as he had ever known. Her abilities far outstretched his in such things. She could have easily told him if the princess had been here, when she had gone, if she had gone under her own power or—
Tearloch jerked up. Muttered another curse.
He had been so concerned about Arianne betraying them, betraying him, that he had not stopped to think that perhaps she had not gone willingly. She had done nothing but cooperate since the moment his clan surrounded her palace. All of their sparring had been of a teasing nature, with no real venom behind the words. He should not leap to the conclusion that she had run off. He should at least consider the possibility that foul play was—
“Oh, there you are,” her voice sing-songed from right behind him.
Tearloch spun around.
She stood there, looking just as well as when she’d vanished behind the rock, a blindingly proud smile on her face.
He closed the distance between them, looming over her with all the menace his additional height could convey. He was at once relieved to see her unharmed and furious at himself for even caring. His only concern should be her holding up her end of the bargain, getting him to the witch and finding out to where the traitor Ultan had fled. That she might have come to any harm should be the least of his concerns.
“Where did you go?” he ground out.
Her smile flickered, but did not fall. She raised a hand between them. “Alpine strawberries.” She waved the handful of red berries beneath his nose. “I can smell them from a mile away. I couldn’t resist.”
“Strawberries?”
She nodded. “A special treat for our lunch.”
She sauntered past him, circling back around the rock to where he had spread out their picnic lunch.
“Strawberries,” he muttered, following after her. For the first time, Tearloch was not certain he would survive this mountain trek. At least not with his sanity in tact.
Chapter 9
Arianne’s feet felt like blocks of ice. Their pleasant lunch in the clearing was nothing but a distant memory. The higher they climbed into the mountains, the colder the air. The more she missed the ability to do anything about it.
She had never resented the curse on her people more.
What she wouldn’t give to be able to warm the air around her, even a little bit. To send her energy into a stone and use it to heat her shivering skin.
But there was no point in bemoaning her inability to use her powers for anything short of survival. Wishing wouldn’t change reality.
Her feet felt like leaden icicles at the ends of her legs. She tried to lift them high enough to overcome the rocks and branches in her path. For the most part she had been successful.
But each step became harder. Stiffer. More frozen.
She tried to clear the next rock… and failed. She went down.
Powerful hands wrapped around her arms before she hit the ground.
Tearloch pulled her upright and turned her to face him. “Are you all right?”
“Yes-s-s,” she said, unable to hide the shiver. “J-j-just c-c-cold.”
She could feel the heat of his palms through the thick layers of her clothing. In that moment, all she wanted was to step into him, to let him wrap her in that warmth.
“Why don’t you use your magic?” he asked.
“C-c-can’t.“ She was too cold and exhausted for explanation.
He did not push for any.
“We aren’t far from the campsite,” he said. “Can you make it a few minutes more?”
Arianne forced her spine straight, her shoulders squared, and her chin lifted. “Of c-c-course.”
He nodded. “I’ll take the lead. Grab onto the back of my shirt if you need support.”
She was equal parts grateful for
the offer and determined not to accept it. Everyone always thought she was too weak, too soft. She had spent every day of the last ten years, since her father disappeared and she had to take his place on the throne, proving that she was just as strong and tough as he had been. She had learned to show no weakness.
That she had let this stranger, this soldier see her even shiver was too much.
She would not let him see more.
Digging deep, she fell into step behind him as he forged his way up the mountain. Every several steps he would glance back over his shoulder, just barely. Just enough to make sure she was still there.
Whether he was making sure she was okay or that she had not run off, Arianne didn’t know. Nor, at this point, did she care. If she had the inclination to flee, she could have done so a thousand times before, in a thousand better situations. She could no longer focus on anything but forward.
He scrambled up one particularly steep stretch, then turned back to help her.
“It’s here.” He reached down. “Just over this ledge.”
Arianne shunned his help, instead forcing her frozen fingers to grip the stone and her frozen legs to make the climb. It took more effort than she wished, but she made it.
In preparation for the journey, she had opted for an easy-to-move-in sweater over a much warmer, but bulkier cloak. Never had she regretted a decision more.
“I will light a fire,” Tearloch said. “Why don’t you set out our dinner.”
It was not a question.
Arianne was grateful for the distraction of a task to accomplish. She carried both packs over to the flat area where they would make camp, then proceeded to pull out their dinner selection.
Salted rabbit. A small pot of sweet potato stew. An array of hand pies, containing—if her nose identified them correctly—pheasant, some kind of ground meat, and a root vegetable medley.
Considering the amount of energy they had exerted that day, Arianne decided they should have some of each. As she laid her selection out on a small blanket, the same one Tearloch had used for their lunch, he returned with an armful of small branches.