Page 27 of Tusk Love

Oskar lost his patience. “Thanks for nothing.”

“It’s not as though my magic drew me a picture,” Elaras huffed. “It doesn’t work like that.”

“Of course not. That would betooconvenient.” Oskar dropped a hand on Guinevere’s shoulder, waiting until she had faced him again before he spoke anew. “It’s safe to assume that this is the same person who hired those mercenaries. I think we should hole up somewhere—perhaps Zadash, which is teeming with the Crownsguard—and send word to your folks. Wait for them and Lord Walnutdock to come get you.”

“Wensleydale.No.” Guinevere’s reply was shaky, yet it came without hesitation. “There’s a ball to be held in my honor. The invitations have already been sent out. I need to get to Nicodranas as soon as possible.”

“Guinevere—”

“And I’ll do it with or without you.”

Oskar was getting heartily sick of these revelations that Guinevere kept casually tossing out. First she was betrothed, and now—“You’re willing to risk life and limb just so you can attend a damn ball?”

“It’s not a damn ball, it’smyball,” she retorted. “It’s very important. One doesn’t simply reschedule a ball!” She drew a quick breath before retreating into that prim composure of hers that he normally found charming against his will, but now it set his teeth on edge. “However, I am not willing to riskyourlife and limb, so I believe that it would be for the best if we part ways.”

“Fat chance.” He released her shoulder, all the better to clench his hand into a fist at his side. “I already said that I wasn’t going to leave you.”

And he wasn’t going to glare at her any longer, either. It was sort of…ripping at something within his chest, to treat her this harshly.

He settled for glaring at Elaras instead. The feygiant had looked away to give them privacy while they argued; he was contemplating a wall of vines as though he longed to disappear into them.

In all honesty, becoming one with the undergrowth didn’t seem like such a bad idea at this point. Mysterious luggage, killer mercenaries, a sinister magical presence…Oskar couldn’tbelievethat he’d gotten into this mess.

But he’d be damned if he didn’t see Guinevere through it.

“I’ll prepare our lunch,” he told her, nodding at the bag of catfish. To Elaras, he said, “I found a huge shelf of hen of the woods for you. I’ll fry them up with some of our onions.”

Elaras blinked. “Thank you. That’s very kind.”

Oskar rolled his eyes. “You don’t have to soundsosurprised.”

They found the Bromkiln Bywaywithout further incident. It was a road that cut through the otherwise interminable murk of Labenda, spilling from the mists in a well-trodden ribbon. Elaras moseyed back into the undergrowth after wishing them good fortune in the journeys to come, and the party—such as it was—continued on to Berleben, reaching it in the late evening.

“Oh, it’s positively quaint!” Guinevere declared in a tone of hushed awe. “How charming.”

Oskar shot her a skeptical look. Berleben was a ramshackle city that seemed one mild earthquake away from collapsing into the swamp from which it had sprung. Several thatched stone buildings jostled for space atop wooden stilts and rickety platforms connected by fraying rope bridges, but the entire eastern side of the city was a mess of hovels lying dolefully slumped in several inches of brown water. In the long shadows of the banyans, the districts were illuminated—a generous term—by feeble torches that flickered over the ambling silhouettes of Berleben’s inhabitants, bringing into soft relief their swamp-colored clothes and catching in their eyes like lanterns.

Unlike the Silverstreet innkeeper back in Druvenlode, the one manning the Drowned Nest was amenable to bargaining. This probably had more to do with Berleben’s remoteness than with any discernible powers of persuasion on Oskar’s part, but the desired result was achieved: one room, in exchange for him chopping the firewood that had piled up on account of the innkeeper’s bad back.

Well, it wasalmostthe desired result.

“What do youmeanthere’s only one bed?” Oskar snapped.

“I meant exactly what I said,” the elderly innkeeper snapped right back. “All the rooms with double beds are booked. Take it or leave it.”

“Like I have a choice.” A resigned Oskar grabbed the key and led Guinevere to the room at the end of the hallway, where they dropped their bags and he tried not to stare at the too-small bed before ushering her back out and plunking some coins down on the innkeeper’s counter for her supper.

“Where are you going?” Guinevere asked him.

“To chop some damn wood.” He had to get started on it now if they were to have any hope of leaving the next day.

The girl he’d met in the clearing off the Amber Road would have quailed at his surliness.ThisGuinevere took it in stride and bestowed upon him the warmest, most beatific smile that he’d ever seen.

“For you I shall negotiate a meal fit for a king,” she promised.

“Bread and ale is fine. Don’t use any more of your trinkets.”

She ignored this and waved him off.

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