Page 25 of Tusk Love

Guinevere

Try as she might, Guinevere couldn’t stay away from Oskar.

No matter how charming Elaras was, in his own rough, earthy manner—no matter how fascinating she found him, the first warden of the forest she’d ever met—her thoughts were never far from the scowling man drifting behind them like a particularly dour thundercloud. It wasn’t long before she left Elaras to his own devices—not that he seemed to mind, as he was quite happy crooning at Pudding and Vindicator—and she doubled back to walk beside Oskar.

“I’m sorry,” she said ruefully.

He blinked. “What for?”

“I complained again. Right after I promised I would stop.”

Somehow, he looked even grumpier. “You’re going through a situation that you were never expected to face. You’re handling it much better than I would have, had our lives been reversed. From now on, Guinevere, quit apologizing for every little thing that’s not your fault.”

“I’m sorry,” she said automatically. Then she realized that she’d apologized for always apologizing, and something in her went cold.

She knew why she did it, of course. She knew where that habit of hers came from. But for someone else to put it into words…it was embarrassing, and awful.

They eventually reached a clearing, where they stopped for lunch. Oskar attached the feed bags to the horses, then vanished into the undergrowth to hunt. Guinevere perched on an exposed tree root while Elaras leaned against its trunk, and the look that he subjected her to was so penetrating that she soon began to fidget. Even the caterpillars in his blond beard were staring at her.

But it eventually became clear that the feygiant’s gaze was fixed somewhere south of her chin. With a start, she realized that her totem had spilled from her bodice at some point, and she hurried to tuck it back in, safely out of sight.

“Wait.” Elaras held up a furry, long-fingered hand. “Watch.”

Guinevere did as he instructed, quietly subsiding while the swamp burbled and thrilled around them. And, when it happened, it happened like spring sped up—the humid, greenish air took on a brighter tone, the weak sunlight fell in a cloud of gold upon the tiny bird skull dangling from her neck, and the little fern in its hollow rustled amidst a breeze that blew in from another world. The lacy fronds twitched and unfurled around a new stalk that sprouted from the plant’s center, a stalk that swelled into a fresh green bud that then opened, ever so gently, into a miniature swirl of spiked magenta petals.

Guinevere let out a gasp. She cradled the pointed skull in one trembling palm, her fingertips carefully brushing against the thistle flower that now adorned it. Her veins thrummed with echoes of power. Everything about this moment was too big for her heart to hold.

“So much of magic like ours is this,” said Elaras of the wilds. “The leap in the sparrow’s pulse as it casts itself into the wind. The galloping of horses over an open plain. The sound grass makes when it grows. All you have to do is listen.” He scratched his shoulder idly. “It’s around us, the song of Exandria. All you have to do is embrace it.”

Guinevere shuddered. “My magic isnotlike yours.” To say it out loud for the first time—to admit to someone else that she had magic—it felt like sacrilege. It was an upset to the careful order of things. Her fingers curled a bit more tightly around her totem. The petals brushed against her skin, as soft as butterfly wings. “I cannot create anything. I can only destroy. If you knew what lives inside me—” The words caught in her throat.

If Oskar knew…

“I can hear her, somewhat,” Elaras told her. “The embers. You have never really listened to her before, have you?” Taking her silence as confirmation, he suggested, “You should give it a try.”

“I can’t.” Guinevere swallowed. “If she manifests, she’ll hurt you.”

An understanding smile broke out on the feygiant’s cowlike face. “She won’t manifest. It’s a harmless little chat. And, in any case, I can take care of myself,” he said soothingly. “Just listen to her. Shall I teach you?”

Guinevere knew that she really shouldn’t. Not only could Oskar come back at any moment, but this thing that lived inside her was a sickness. It should not be encouraged.

That was what the rational part of Guinevere believed. The part that was a good daughter and a proper lady.

But there was another part as well. The part that belonged to the wilderness that she’d found last night, in Oskar’s arms, her throat bared to Catha and Ruidus. Her stable, orderly, well-behaved future lay at the end of the Amber Road, but before she got there, she could be the girl who wanted to see the elven ruins, who wanted to summit the Dunrock. The girl who had ranted at a troll and lived to tell the tale.

If she didn’t try now, could she really live the rest of her life not knowing?

Guinevere took a deep breath and nodded mutely at Elaras. It was a rush akin to stepping off a cliff. The warden taught her how to sit, back straight, arms folded, legs crossed over the grass. He bade her close her eyes, and she did, the darkness seeping in, the sounds of the swamp roaring to life in the absence of sight. He guided her througha slow and rhythmic breathing pattern, telling her to focus on the air collecting in her lungs and on the letting go of it. Over and over again.

“Find the connection, Guinevere.” Elaras’s voice was as deep as the moss. It beat on like a drum. “It’s there inside you. Let it all unfold.”

Guinevere tried. She really did. But something about sitting still and quiet made her uncomfortable. All her little doubts, every unpleasant thought and memory she’d ever had—they rose to the surface, unimpeded. She felt vulnerable, laid bare—and also like she was doing something wrong. Any moment now her parents would come charging in from the bushes and yell at her, because why wasn’t she hiding her curse, why was she putting her family’s future in jeopardy—

It was a child’s fear and, thus, bigger than worlds. Guinevere gave a violent jerk, opening her eyes with a panicked exhale.

Elaras was frowning. But it wasn’t directed at her. His hazel eyes were open, too, glazed over with a faint, eerie light. The air trembled, stirred by invisible currents of magic.

“Mr. Elaras?” Guinevere called out anxiously. “Are you quite all right—”

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