by C. K. Brooke
Jon took the hat. He said nothing, examining it. He gave her a strange look before placing it carefully atop his head. He turned, and the others followed suit as they pressed through the forest on foot.
But Dainy was barefoot. And she was moving all too slowly, holding up the group as she winced and tiptoed around the brambly undergrowth. She apologized when they had to stop for the third time, as she bent to tend her freshly bleeding heel.
“Here.” Jon reached for the tarp Bos carried. “I don’t have a knife,” he added, looking between Bos and Mac. Bos handed his over, and Jon began to cut a pair of squares through the material.
“Ah,” said Bos, evidently catching onto his plan.
“Stand on these.” Jon indicated the leather squares. Dainy did as told, relieved by the thick material beneath her aching feet. Jon proceeded to sever string-like slices from the tarp, to serve as ties.
Carefully, he folded over one of the squares, enclosing her foot within it, testing the fit. He unfolded it and punctured a row of slits. Dainy watched in fascination as, through the incisions, he interwove one of the strings and brought both ends together around her ankle, pulling them into a bow. Her foot now rested in a crude sort of slipper.
“I say,” she remarked, holding her foot aloft. “That is quite resourceful, Jon.”
“Hold still while I do the other.”
She waited patiently for her second foot to be booted.
“There,” the man said, once the second impromptu lace had been tied. He gave her feet a little pat. “Try them out, then,” he told her, peering up from beneath the rim of his hat.
Dainy walked in a circle. It was far more comfortable. Her feet were no longer bothered by the rocky forest floor. “Thank you, Jon.” She smiled at him.
He only made a noncommittal sort of grunt before turning away to head up the group.
“Quite fashionable, my lady,” teased Mac.
Dainy grinned, then twisted her lips to hide it. “Hush. We mustn’t tease Jon when he’s trying to be nice to us.”
“I heard that,” called Jon.
Dainy meant to say something clever in reply, but the hazy sky rumbled ominously. She hurried on, trying to keep pace with Jon’s swift strides and Bos’s long-legged ones. Mac kept up alongside her.
They traversed the Knights’ Forest for the better part of the morning. Dainy’s thoughts were mostly on Uncle Pascale, and the dull ache it left in her heart to know he was gone. She wasn’t paying much attention to where they were going. Everything about their journey felt strangely muted now.
As afternoon came upon them, and the sky darkened, Dainy began to realize they were not turning back to the coast. Distracted by her sorrow, she had failed to ask what, exactly, was their plan.
“Um,” she said, turning to the man nearest her. “Bos?”
The giant looked down at her.
“Are we not returning to the boat?”
“No, Eludaine. We’re continuing the journey on foot.”
Dainy did not like this idea. Already, her thighs chafed beneath her skirts, and her feet, though wrapped, were sore. “Can we not wait out the storm, then return to the boat once it’s over?”
Bos shook his head, though not unkindly. “That boat shall not survive this storm in one piece. And besides, Cosmith is right. It is not equipped to carry us all.” He looked to the sky as deep gray clouds blotted out the sun, and a leaf whipped from the treetops, swirling in a heady breeze. “Cosmith,” he called ahead.
Jon did not turn.
“We must take shelter, and soon.”
Dainy felt a single drop of rain fall onto her sleeve.
“Help us out then, Macmillan,” Jon demanded over his shoulder. “You’re from the forest. Where can we go for cover?”
“I am not from the coast,” argued Mac.
A skeletal blade of lightning seared the sky. Dainy glanced up at the towering trees. She was beginning to feel claustrophobic in this foreign place, full of overcrowded trees and flittering, hissing insects. With a pang of homesickness, she recalled the soft rolling dunes, the wide, open sea of Beili.
Rain plopped down steadily as Jon commanded them to hurry, until they were running. Dainy could hardly make out what was before her for the wet mist hanging in the air, and cried out as she narrowly missed an enormous snake dangling from a tree branch.
Mac caught her as she lunged into him. “You’re fine, Dainy,” he assured her. “Keep going.”
The rain pelted over them while a heart-stopping crash of thunder bellowed above their heads. “Where should we go?” Jon shouted through the deafening downpour, water rolling in sheets down his hat.
“I don’t know!” Mac called back. “Keep moving; we’ll find something!”
Bos unfurled the rest of the tarp and draped it over Dainy, protecting her from the torrent. She thanked him over the rush of the storm.
It felt as though they’d been running for an hour when Mac finally whistled between his fingers. They halted, drenched, faces dripping with beads of water. “I see a cave!”
They raced after it, Dainy slipping in her wet boots over the rocky terrain until, breathless, they crawled into the hollow to which Mac led them.
Dainy fell to her feet, tossing down the tarp that had cloaked her, and untied her slippers. The others crawled in beside her. Bos, too large to stand beneath their low-hanging roof, crouched down and eventually found a seat across from her.
Jon entered next, his vest unbuttoned, satchel soaked and drooping from his shoulder. Last, Mac folded in at Dainy’s left, and immediately began gathering twigs from the dusty floor.
Jon blinked. “You are not going to build a fire in here.”
“Watch me,” muttered Mac, strategically laying down sticks at the mouth of the cave.
“You’re too close to the opening,” warned Jon. “The wind and water shall blow out the flame.”
“If I build it any farther back, we’ll be smoked out,” argued Mac.
Jon fell silent.
Dainy was startled to feel Bos’s large hand resting upon hers.
“You mourn for Pascale,” he observed in a voice deep enough to match the thunder. “It’s all right to mourn.”
Dainy swallowed back the lump in her throat.
“I, too, know loss,” said Bos, as Mac rubbed two twigs together and blew on them. “Most of my family was killed on the same night.”
Dainy took in a breath.
“Yes, it was horrific. They were participating in a peaceful royalist rally, celebrating their support of your father, when the rebels barged in and slew them ruthlessly.”
Dainy looked down. She had never known. “I’m sorry. You must miss them.”
Bos shrugged. “I shall greet them again someday, in the Evermore. As you will your family, Eludaine,” he said, as if the notion would reassure her. But all she could think was how cruel and evil the Revolution must have been, as they both had lost their families to it.
Mac cursed, rubbing the twigs together again. Jon crouched beside him, gathering dried leaves and sprinkling them over the budding fire. Outside, the rain shot sideways, and more thunder rattled the sky, although the noise was muffled in their hollow.
“And anyway,” Bos spoke again, “that’s why I’m here. To avenge their deaths.” His tone hardened with satisfaction. “Your survival means that the New Republic has failed, that there’s one person they haven’t killed. It’s an honor to be among your escort. This will surely be a great blow against Mother Republic.”
Dainy felt strangely extinguished at his words. So, the man may not have been interested in marrying her or winning gold, but he had his own motives. She was a pawn in a ploy for political vengeance.
She looked away, shivering slightly, and watched as Mac produced a spark from his twigs. Soon, the pile of leaves and branch
es caught aflame, the thick gray smoke visible as it stacked against the rain outside. Everyone’s faces were suddenly alight in the new amber glow.
Dainy stood and inched toward the fire to warm her soaked clothes.
“They shall dry faster if you take them off,” suggested Jon, indicating her skirts.
“Cosmith,” groaned Mac.
“I’m only saying.” Jon shrugged. After a moment, however, his eyes glinted mischeviously. “Though, if you’d like,” he added in a low voice, watching Dainy with evident amusement, “you may remove those wet garments, and don my blouse again, instead. As I recall, it fits you quite nicely.”
Dainy’s face burned as hot as the fire’s flames.
Mac turned, his freckled brow pinched together. “What,” he demanded, looking at Dainy, “the hell,” he added sharply, “is he talking about?”
Dainy walloped Jon’s arm, but the man only smiled up at her rakishly, shadows of firelight dancing across his handsome features. She turned to Mac, irritated. “It’s nothing.”
“It sounds like something to me,” muttered Mac.
“Well, you’re wrong,” said Dainy curtly, and she would entertain the matter no further. That evening on the beach with Jon had been private, and was none of Mac’s business. Why Jon would bring it up now, in front of the others, she could not fathom.
The quartet fell silent as they listened to the rainfall washing over the treetops. The summer wind whistled as lightning crashed, this time closer by.
The storm didn’t let up as the afternoon wore into evening, the sky only becoming darker and more pendulous. Soon, they were hungry, and from his satchel, Jon extracted some dried game, as well as a pile of berries he and Bos had picked earlier.
Mac snatched the berries before they could be handed out, and threw them into the fire. “What are you trying to do? Kill us all?” he snapped. “Those are poisonous.”
Jon looked startled. “Sorry. I didn’t know.”
Mac huffed. “As long as you’re in my forest, leave the foraging to me.”
“We were only trying to do you a favor,” came Bos’s even voice. “You’d been injured. We were letting you rest.”
Mac blinked. “Thanks,” he finally grunted.
Dainy swallowed her food, staring at the dirty ground, and rubbed her swollen feet. She was unused to so much walking, and upon such firm terrain. Meanwhile, Jon leaned against the cave wall, bringing the rim of his hat down over his eyes, as though intending sleep. “Serenade us, Dainy,” he requested, stretching out his legs and crossing them. “And no sad songs. I want something cheerful.”
“Erm….” Dainy tried to recall what other music she knew.
“Do you know The Harper’s Meadow?” asked Mac.
“Ah, The Harper’s Meadow.” Jon sighed. “Yes, I should like to hear that one.”
“Is that a song?” said Dainy. “Sorry, no.”
“What about Bonnie of the Spring?” asked Jon, smiling beneath his hat.
Dainy grinned, although she knew he couldn’t see her. “Everyone knows Bonnie of the Spring.”
“Then sing it,” said Jon simply.
“I should like to hear it, too,” agreed Bos, “for I’ve heard it sung by naught but drunkards in taverns these great many years, and have forgotten how it is truly meant to sound.”
Dainy drew in a breath. She glanced at the men awaiting her performance in the firelight, then sang:
Hey Bonnie, come to the well with me
Splash up your pail, come a-chasin’ at me
Follow me down where we’ll laugh and sing
Hey-oh Bonnie, you’re my Bonnie of the spring.
Dainy was surprised to hear Bos and Jon singing along with her. It enlivened her spirits to raise her voice with theirs, so on she sang, with more gusto:
Hey Bonnie, ride on the wind with me
Take up your wings, come a-soarin’ with me
Follow me up where we’ll roam and fly
Hey-oh Bonnie, you can touch the sky.
Mac joined them in a lovely harmony, and Dainy was taken aback by the smooth richness of his voice as together, they belted out the last verse:
Hey Bonnie, dance on the moon with me
You’re my little dandelion, you’re my little honeybee
Step with your feet so nimble and lithe
Hey-oh, Bonnie, will you be my bride?
Hey-oh, Bonnie, will you be my bride?
They finished so loudly, they’d succeeded in drowning out the rain and thunder outside.
“Huzzah,” Jon cheered, tipping his hat in Dainy’s direction.
MACMILLAN COULDN’T SAY HE’D SLEPT particularly well upon the cave’s hard floor, but he did awaken feeling better than he had the day before.
With the sunrise, the four stepped out to the soggy, waterlogged forest. The storm had done its damage, not excluding several felled branches. After kicking down their fire pit to clear their tracks, Jon resumed his position in the lead, followed by Macmillan and Dainy, with Bos flanking them in back.
Macmillan hardly noticed when noon approached, for he and Dainy had been discussing all manner of topics throughout the morning.
“How do you know so much of the world?” she asked him at last. “Did you not grow up isolated in the forest?”
Macmillan laughed. “I live a mere twelve miles outside of Bainherd. I can go into the nearest village any time I want, and spend a day at the library.”
“Who taught you to read?”
“My mother, of course.”
“Your mother can read, strum….” listed Dainy.
“Sing,” Macmillan added.
“Sing.” Dainy laughed. “How does such an accomplished woman come to choose a life of solitude in the woods?”
Macmillan shrugged. “I don’t know.”
They climbed uphill, holding onto tree branches to propel themselves upward. Once they’d reached the crest, Cosmith turned, that annoying hat of his concealing the upper half of his face, and whistled sharply.
“What?” barked Macmillan.
“Lunch time. The man walked backwards, pointing up at the sun. “Since I’m so dreadfully incapable of gathering edible plants, how about Bos and I trap some game? You can stay here and forage, savvy?”
“Peachy,” said Macmillan flatly. Bos and Cosmith disappeared into a nearby brush, and he turned to the duchess. “All right, Dainy, ready to learn about the forest?”
“I’ll do my best,” she replied.
Macmillan pointed to a nearby crabapple tree. “See these here? They’re edible…but sort of as a last resort. They don’t taste all that great.” He knelt to the forest floor, feeling it beneath his palm. “Aha. And these roots down here are edible. See their yellowish shade? Some people find them bitter when raw, but they’re delicious if cooked.”
He guided her between the trees, warning her against certain plants and recommending others, glad that she seemed to be enjoying herself, when suddenly, he caught the stench of something putrid.
“Cor.” Macmillan wrinkled his nose. “It smells like a dead animal.” He peered into the brush for the culprit. Perhaps there was some decaying vermin nearby.
Dainy tugged frantically on his sleeve. “Mac,” she whispered. “There’s an animal, but it’s not dead.”
Macmillan swiveled around. In the clearing before them, eating from a pile of fallen crabapples, stood a midnight blue beast.
“The ornery blue,” Macmillan breathed. “Dainy,” he spoke between his teeth, “do—not—move.”
The girl froze, though her arms shook. Carefully, Macmillan extracted his sickle.
The great blue bear sniffed the air with its black nose and rose on its hind legs, emitting a snarl. Heart pounding, Macmillan held fast to his weapon. If he could stab Visidair, he could stab a be
ar. Although, Visidair did not quite have such sharp teeth, he reminded himself, taking in the bear’s oozing jaw…or such deadly claws….
The ornery blue lunged, heaving back its head.
Macmillan’s sickle shook in his hand. The bear snarled, but he couldn’t bring himself to move. Do something, he urged himself silently. For the love of God, Dainy’s watching you, he pleaded with himself, but to no avail.
The ornery blue encroached closer, and Macmillan didn’t know whether he possessed the strength or wherewithal to attack the beast without being maimed in the process.
He heard Dainy gasp, and the bear growled, baring fearsome teeth. When it lunged again, this time directly at him, and swiped a paw with aim to strike, Macmillan plunged his sickle into its neck. It collapsed with a thud, head thrashing, until Macmillan dragged his blade through its throat. The beast twitched and shivered, then lay still.
Dainy dropped the berries she’d collected in her skirts and ran to Macmillan, leaping onto him with a cry of relief. Panting, he wrapped his arms around her.
“That was horrifying! I thought for sure you’d be mauled.”
“Not in the presence of the duchess of Jordinia,” Macmillan told her, smiling. But he lost his breath the moment she leaned in and kissed him. It was a concise, happy peck of relief upon his lips, but a kiss no less.
He met her eyes, astonished, when she suddenly backed away, slipping out of his hold. “I’m just so glad you aren’t hurt,” she said loudly, as if for an audience.
Suspicious of the abrupt change in behavior, Macmillan turned. Bos stood in the brush, clutching a dead rabbit by the ears, while Cosmith lingered at his side, glaring daggers at Macmillan.
“What has happened?” asked Bos, looking concerned.
“An ornery blue,” explained Dainy. Even Macmillan could see that her cheeks were pink, and she was refusing eye contact with either of them. “Mac saved me.”
Bos glanced down at the meager rabbit in his hand and shrugged. “I suppose it’s bear for lunch, then.” He disappeared into the brush to gather firewood, and Dainy hurried after him.