Loren winds one lock of hair around his finger and tugs it playfully, chastising her. “I’m atravelingbard, Jay. Where do you think I get all of my songs? All of my stories?”
“I assumed you made them up.”
“No, love. All of the best ones are true.” With most of the tangles taken care of, he brings the comb down from the crown of her head through the ends in slow, even strokes. “Are you from Belandar originally?”
“I grew up on the outskirts of the city, but—yes. It’s home.” She sighs softly. “This is the first time I’ve ever left.”
“Were you always with the church of Marlana?”
“Not always, but for most of my adult life. I don’t like to think about the times before,” she says stiffly. She tries to relax a little, resting the small of her back against Loren’s shins. She allows the sensation of the comb’s teeth threading over her scalp to calm her. “Where do you call home?”
Despite his curiosity, Loren doesn’t pry. “Funnily enough, I’m from Belandar, too. But I was born many years ago, and likely left the city before you were even a thought in your parents’ heads.”
Jaylie twists to squint at him over her shoulder. With the darkness so thick around them, it’s difficult to make out much more than the deep maroon sheen of his hair and the brights of his eyes. It makes it even more difficult than usual to read him. “What are you, then? Over a hundred?”
Loren simpers, placing his palm flat to his chest. Among the elves, one hundred years would be barely into adulthood. “So young? You flatter me.” Loren sets the comb aside and begins to braid her hair with well-practiced motions. This way, it won’t tangle as she sleeps. “But to your question—Belandar isn’t home.Thisis.” He gestures to the sky, his sleeping roll, his lute, and finally the campfire sitting cold in its ring of stones.
Jaylie wrinkles her nose. Her mind wanders back to Marlana’s temple. Wistfully she recalls the meals shared with her fellow clerics, the familiar pink-and-gold marble arches surrounding the stained glass mosaics, and the little black kitten, Charm, she rescued last month. He’s probably missing her by now, and her chest aches with the thought. “But what ofthe adoring fans you told me about? Don’t you worry that they’ll miss you?”
Loren chuckles under his breath. “That’s the point, actually.”
“How do you mean?”
Loren clutches Jaylie’s shoulders and squeezes. “Don’t you see, Jay? Iwantthem to miss me. I want my songs to get stuck in their heads, and I want them to look forward to seeing me play again. To wonder when I’ll come back.” He loosens his grip and gently circles his thumbs in the curves between her shoulders and neck. “If I stay somewhere for too long, I’ll get stuck. I’ll get boring. The world will pass me by, and all of the great legends and adventures will happen without me.” As he massages her shoulders, the pressure increases with his resolve. “I want to be the one to tell those stories. I don’t want them to forget me.”
Jaylie is quiet for a moment. His hands are hot on her skin, and though her muscles unwind under his touch, the pads of his thumbs press too deep to feel soothing. There are aspects of his words that resonate with her faith in Marlana—luck has everything to do with opening yourself up to opportunity and new experiences—but she’s not wholly convinced. “That’s not true,” she murmurs. And then, teasingly, “You’re impossible to forget, Loren.”
“Is that right? Do you think of me often, Jaylie?”
“I can’t help it when you never shut up. Constantly talking our ears off or waking us up in the morning with a burst of song,” she says with grudging fondness.
“Stop it, you’ll give me a big head.” His touch becomes light, gentle. His fingers sink into her hairline at the base of her skull and gently weave in circling motions.
“I couldn’t possibly make your head any bigger than it already is.” Despite the way her mind races, her eyelids begin to droop. Hair petting has always been her weakness; she melts completely into his touch. “You’ll have to tell me of your other stories, Loren, but…you’re off to a pretty good start with this one.”
“You think so?”
“A daring tale of a stolen bride, blood magic, and a team of adventurers vanquishing an evil witch while saving a beautiful woman? Utterly compelling. You’ll have damsels throwing themselves into distress just for the chance to be your next muse.”
Loren exhales a gentle laugh. “You must be very sleepy indeed, priestess, to be complimenting me so much. Is your guard down so completely?”
Jaylie’s expression goes stormy, but she can’t keep up the act for long; a smile peeks through as her eyes drift closed. “You said you’d send me to sleep, but here you are again, chattering away.”
“Allow me one last try, then. Lie down.”
“Don’t try your luck, bard,” she warns, though her threat is half-hearted. She lies down on the faded blue canvas of her sleeping roll. Already she can feel the roots press into her back, tempting knots back into the muscles of her shoulders that Loren just smoothed out.
“I wouldn’t dream of it.” He comes to sit beside her in the dirt and gently lifts one of her hands to hold it in his lap. He leans close to her face, so that his hair falls in a sheet of red between them, and cups his palm around the shell of her ear. He casts a spell—and begins to sing. It’s a lullaby of a sort, a magic charm to ease someone quickly and gently into slumber. He sings it slowly and draws her softly down into a dream.
It’s a language that Jaylie does not recognize. As the spell sinks into her bones and embraces her like a warm bath, she concentrates on the sound of Loren’s voice. When everything else fades, it’s the last thing she holds on to.
When he is sure that she is asleep, Loren presses his lips to Jaylie’s forehead. “Good night, Jaybird.”
Chapter
Sixteen
On Friday morning, the interview goes so well that I think I might throw up.
