“Someone woke up rested,” Eli said, and Rey nearly jumped. “Why’d you bathe as a fox?”
“The creek’s too small for a human,” Rey said, trying to cover his front. “Excuse me.” He ducked behind the cart, and Eli rolled his eyes.
“Is the story about the waterwheel true, by the way?” Eli asked. “The one where you tricked a noble’s son into throwing all his money into the river?”
“I did that?” Rey peered at Eli from around the cart. “I don’t recall. I did make someone bury gold, once. Money trees, you know, they grow out of gold coins exclusively.”
“Of course they do.” Eli rolled up his tent. “Why would a trickster become a Starian god, though? No offense, I just don’t see the purpose of some of the gods or spirits we have.”
“Well, we’re not gods.” Rey appeared from behind the cart, doing up the laces in the front of his shirt. “We’re more like… magic from the land, I suppose. Look, you know how in Mislia,they have magic that works well with demons? And witches tend to come from Diabolos these days?”
“Didn’t know the last part, actually.”
“Now you do.” Rey tied off his laces. “Magic comes from the land first, before it comes from bloodlines. People here don’t tend to have traditional magic the way witches or mages do. Starian magic is a collective effort. Enough people gather around a fire and tell stories about little sprites who live in rotting trees, and suddenly those sprites are real. Miners whisper about dragons in the rocks, and look at that, the quarries are practically infested. A bunch of people make brooms or puppets to ward off evil spirits and the next thing you know, those brooms feel more comforting to have around, and the puppets feel so sinister they have to be burned every solstice.”
“So you’re here because people tell stories about you? But the King of the Hunt used to be a living person.”
Rey rolled his eyes. “You think people didn’t tell stories about him? Warrior kings were all sort of half story, back then. Somewhere along the line, your kingly friend there jumped between worlds officially.”
“He isn’t my friend,” Eli said. “Trust me.”
“Well, I’m not about to risk saying his name.” Rey went to collect Unicorn. “He has a habit of coming when you call. By the by, we’re not too far away from the spring, your highness. Less of a strain on your poor legs.”
“I’m not a prince, I told you.”
“I wastalkingto myhorse.”
Rey clearly felt ill at ease in the countryside, which was bewildering to Eli, since Rey spent most of the morning as a fox, rolling about in the back of the cart and shouting at Eli from the gap behind the bench. Apparently he’d become more of a street-wise fox over the centuries, because he muttered about missing markets and fresh bread, and made quite a fuss over hiswrinkled clothes when he clambered out of the cart as a human again.
Eli didn’t mind the country. He’d never had a reason to go there as a child, but there was something comforting in the worn walking paths and stone benches people had rolled there decades before, the raspberry bushes and tidy grass where herds of sheep or cows used to be. A flock of geese blanketed a field next to a nearby lake, and a jaunty tune rang out as the goosegirl watching the flock played a wooden flute.
Time moved differently there. Days could pass like hours, hours like months, nights like centuries. In Duciel, everything had been planned for him. Every second of his day was monitored, as though if Aline de Valois didn’t keep an eye on him, Eli would shake off the image of a dutiful daughter he’d been shut into and run off into the wilderness.
Perhaps she was right. Perhaps he would have.
When they unhitched Unicorn from the cart and Eli went to tickle trout at the edge of the river leading into Whet’s Forest, Rey stood a good ten paces away with Eli’s cloak held up like a shield.
“Are you sure this is a real thing people do, not something that someone told you as a joke?” Rey asked. Eli, who was half submerged in the murky water, gave him a warning look and flipped a trout onto the grassy bank.
“Told you,” Eli said, unsheathing his knife. Rey turned aside as he killed and gutted the fish on a stone by the bank. “Don’t you kill animals when you’re a fox?”
“Not in ages,” Rey said, sounding more than a little nauseous. “Not since I learned what currency could do.”
“Someone’s spoiled.”
“Spoiled?” Rey’s voice went up half an octave. “I’m particular!”
“I see why your stories always involve you chasing after gold,” Eli said, leaving the remains of the fish for carrion-eaters to find. “I bet you use scented oils in your fur and everything.”
Rey’s face went pink. “Where and how I apply scent has nothing to do with anything.”
“All right, fancy lad.”
“Fancy?” Rey sputtered the word. “You only say that because you’re awildman who catches fish with his hands.”
“Nothing wrong with being a fancy lad, Rey.” Eli smiled to himself as he tossed the fish with some dill he’d picked that morning. The fire was a bit warm for the afternoon, but the air was slowly starting to cool. “I bet you know all the noble dances, don’t you, son of the archduke?”
“Ha, ha. In fact, I know plenty. You have to, if you’re to impersonate a—to create an identity others find palatable.” Eli gave Rey a long stare, and Rey sighed. “AndI know the piano.”
