Page 24 of Tusk Love

The troll staggered, its bellows shaking the treetops, the feathered shaft vibrating in its gullet. It frantically swiped one enormous, clawed hand toward Guinevere.

The vines stopped it. They erupted from out of the waterlogged ground in a swirling mass of thick green tendrils, anchoring the troll’s arms in place, wrapping around its legs. It put up a struggle, but the vines only coiled tighter in response to its every spasm.

Oskar’s next arrow sank deep into its chest. The vines fell away, and, with one final groan, the troll collapsed at Guinevere’s feet. But Oskar didn’t relax. Not yet. He knew magic when he saw it. He notched his bow again and swung around, taking aim at the spellcaster.

Or hewouldhave, if he couldseethem.

The swamp was a muddle of earth colors in the wan morning light. It took far too long to spot the brown-cloaked shape lounging underneath the banyans. When his brain finally assembled the figure out of the bark and the roots, out of the moss and the rocks, it was all Oskar could do to not let out a wail of utmost despair.

Anything but this. Anything but one of…them.

There were various types of magic users throughout the world of Exandria. There were the relic smiths, who infused eldritch power into their wondrous mechanical creations; the divine healers, who sewed up skin and mended bone with the blessing of their gods; the fathombound, who sold their souls to dark, otherworldly beings; the arcanists, who stretched the limits of magic with their noses buried in books.

Then there were the wild mages, whose powers came from nature. Many of them disavowed violence and meat. They voluntarily withdrew from civilization to live as hermits, in harmony with the wilderness. People called them the wardens of the forest.

Oskar called them bloody treehuggers.

There was no mistaking them, really. They were generally unkempt and covered in grime, with a certain light in their eyes—not madness, but close to it. The glint of someone who had gone many moons without talking to another sentient being.

This particular warden was no different. He was of the feygiant race, which—well, if anyone had to be a warden, it might as well be the reclusive feygiants, who were rarely truly at home in the cities, anyway. His towering physique would have been imposing had his floppy ears and broad pink nose not contributed to an illusion of perpetual gangliness. Everything about him was hair, from the pale gray fur that covered every inch of his skin, to the golden beard that twitched with all manner of insects, to the tufts on his bare toes.

The feygiant didn’t seem all that concerned about the arrow being pointed at him. His hazel eyes were trained over Oskar’s shoulder. He was frowning at the sight of the dead troll.

“There was no need to spill blood,” he chided Oskar in a raspy voice that sounded like some drowsy creature burrowing into a pile of leaves. “I could have calmed it.”

“It was inches from her,” Oskar said tersely. “I wasn’t going to take any chances.”

The feygiant’s frown softened. “You guard her as I guard the forest. That, I can understand.”

Guinevere turned a very fetching shade of pink. Judging from the heat suffusing his own cheeks, Oskar knew he was pink, too, although probably less fetching. He returned the arrow to its quiver and the bow to his back.

“We’re looking for Berleben,” he told the feygiant. “Could you point us to the road?”

But the other man had stopped paying attention to him. He was studying Guinevere with keen interest. “You have…something,” he mused. “The troll stopped and listened to you. That usually doesn’t happen, unless—”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, sir,” Guinevere hastily interrupted. “I surprised it with my carrying on, that’s all.”

“No need for honorifics. My name is Elaras.”

Guinevere flashed a shy smile and then very prettily introduced herself, Oskar, and the horses. Pudding and Vindicator were absolutely taken with Elaras, and he with them. They nuzzled at him, and he petted them and clutched both their reins in his hand, and even though Oskar had been the one to ask the question, he addressed his response to Guinevere. “You are quite a bit off course. The Bromkiln Byway is another two hours from here, as the crow flies. But I shall be honored to guide you.”

“Oh, we couldn’t possibly,” she demurred. “It’s so much trouble…”

“Not at all,” replied Elaras. He cast a derogatory glance at Oskar. “At least this way, no more hapless beasts need perish.”

He and Guinevere set off, chatting happily, the horses in tow. Oskar was left to trail after them, thinking dark thoughts about how much he hated treehuggers. But his sudden extraneity also gave him a chance to reflect on Guinevere’s behavior.

The first time he saw her, she’d been on fire. The night of the bandit attack, her eyes flashing, her hair lifting in an unnatural wind, the spirit surging out of her form. He’d been awed by such raw magic, until she’d failed to call upon it when the bandit leader grabbed her, and Oskar had to step in.

Then he’d brought up making a fire, in the cave, and she’d said that they didn’t have any kindling. As though she couldn’t summon flames with a snap of her fingers.

To be fair, she probably couldn’t—that much had become apparent as the days wore on, as he learned more about what kind of parents she had, as her wildfire hadn’t blazed into existence during the mercenary attack. There was no room for magic lessons amidst all the napkin folding and the curtsying. Back in the cave, instinct had warned Oskar not to pressure her into talking about her wildfire spirit, and he was glad that he’d listened. The way she’d cut Elaras off just now, it was obvious that she wanted to keep her abilities a secret.

From everyone. Including Oskar.

He couldn’t deny that it hurt a little. But she would tell him when she was ready…and if that day never came, what of it? She owed him nothing.

Chapter Seventeen

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