Indridi slips back out into the rain and gathers some of the wood from our mound of supplies, which is protected beneath yet another length of canvas. For a moment I watch her uneasily through the tent opening.
Pala and Commander Leifur finish eating and leave to check on the horses, and Saga mumbles something incoherent and conveniently leaves, too.
I briefly eye Vil before plopping down beside him, careful to keep space between us. “You all right, Vil?”
He shrugs a little ruefully. “This is taking solong.”
I laugh. “It’s only been a day. And it won’t rain the whole time. Probably.”
He turns to grin at me, and he’s close enough I can feel the heat of his breath on my face. My own breath hitches as his eyes flick down to my mouth.
Outside, Indridi lets out a little whoop, and I start away from Vil. Flames lick up from her woodpile, hot enough to burn even in the rain. I don’t think it’s my imagination that the rain starts to slacken, bit by bit, as the fire grows brighter, until it’s hardly dripping at all.
I leave the tent with Vil at my heels, and then there is indeed tea and toasted cheese, enough to warm my belly, enough to ease the prick of ever-present fear in my heart and dispel a bit the tension of whatever it is that’s building between Vil and me. He sits on the opposite side of the fire and I’m able to relax, to enjoy the hot cheese and scalding tea.
I’m full to bursting when Saga slips away from the fire, rummages among our supplies, and returns with a tray of jewelry and an alarmingly sharp-looking needle. She thrusts the tray into the firelight and orders me to scoot closer, too, so she can see better.
“Gold or sapphire?” she asks.
I laugh. “What?”
She rattles the tray and shoves it nearly into my face. “Sooner we do this, sooner it heals. Now. Gold or sapphire?”
I focus on the tray and the dozen or so earrings spread out on it. Some are simple gold twists, some are heavy with jewels.
I look at her in absolute confusion, and it’s her turn to laugh. Vil’s laughing, too, into his tea on the other side of the fire.
“You’re posing as Skaandan royalty, Bryn,” says Saga. “If you don’t have an earring or two, your story will fall apart pretty quickly.”
“Oh.” I take another look at that needle. “Will it hurt?”
“Nothing you can’t handle.”
“That means yes!” says Vil helpfully.
Saga swears at him and then turns back to me. “Will you please pick out the ones you like? Two or three will do to start. I would have done this weeks ago, but you only decided you were coming this morning.”
I sigh, studying the earrings carefully, then choose two simple gold rings and a single flashing ruby.
Saga nods approvingly. She uncorks a bottle of strong-smelling alcohol and pours it on a cloth, which she then dabs onto my left ear. She jabs the needle in without any sort of warning, and a bright prick of pain shoots through me. I curse perhaps more vehemently than the situation requires, up and down the pantheon of all twelve gods. Saga just laughs and pierces my ear twice more. Then she fits the earrings in and hands me a fresh mug of tea by way of apology.
Vil winks across at me, his eyes glittering. “No one else lets her touch them with needles anymore.”
“I did afinejob!” Saga objects.
Vil ignores her. “They look nice, Brynja.”
His compliment warms my belly nearly as much as the toasted cheese, but it doesn’t do much to dull the smarting pain of my ear. I chase down the tea with the remaining contents of that potent bottle.
The rain stops altogether, and stars prick through the clouds. We sit around the fire, everyone but Pala—she and Commander Leifur will trade off standing watch through the night. Indridi keeps glancing at Vil. Vil keeps looking at me, a question in his eyes, wanting perhaps to continue our interrupted moment from inside the tent.
But I’m tired and my ear hurts and I don’t know what I want.A river rushing in the dark. Blue pebbles in the palm of my hand. His magic bursting bright inside of me.I push the memories away with an inward curse.
Saga has brought out her carving things, her fingers deft in the firelight as she works on a knife hilt. I squint to see what she’s carving: a sun design, the rays wrapping around the hilt. It’s beautiful, and the familiar snick of her knife cutting into the wood comforts me. Saga is not a great advocate of being still. When she has to be, she carves tokeep her mind steady and her hands busy and, she informed me once, to keep from shouting at whoever is making her be still in the first place.
“Stories,” Saga declares, blade glinting. “Before we sleep. You start, Brynja.”
Vil smiles across at me, and despite myself my chest goes tight. Indridi pokes at the ground with one finger. The fire seems to flare a little hotter.
