Page 53 of Tusk Love

He couldn’t bring himself to say it. There was a permanent goodbye at the end of the road, and there were some things that could never be taken back. So he pressed his lips to hers instead, closing his eyes as she responded in that sweet, warm way that he couldn’t get enough of. The newly mended tunic slipped from her grasp, falling to the forest floor in a heap, but neither of them cared overly much. Maybehecould teachherhow to do laundry.

Chapter Thirty-Two

Oskar

The rest of the week passed in a tranquil haze. There was the monotony of slogging through rain and mud—or, when the weather was not being quitesorotten, somewhat drier mud. There were consecutive meals of hardtack and barely ripe berries, and freezing nights in damp bedrolls, and tough scrambles over steep slopes.

And yet, through it all, there was also Guinevere. Chattering away about anything and everything. Singing Rodregg’s song whenever the melody entrenched itself back in her head. Complaining about all the walking they had to do. Keeping Oskar warm in the evenings with that delectable, terrifyingly addictive body. Skipping ahead of him, the curtain of her hair swaying silver amidst the scarlet fumes of autumn.

She entertained him like no other and brought out an affectionate side that he hadn’t even realized he was capable of. The Vigilance Stone never glowed, not even once. When Oskar allowed his guardto relax, he had to admit—much to his chagrin—that he was having fun.

The undergrowth eventually thinned out and the trees grew more scattered. Through the gaps between the trunks, he could see the rolling grasslands of the Marrow Valley. They were almost to the Wuyun Gorge; at the tip of that would be the gates, followed by the Coast, which in turn would be followed by…

Journey’s end.

Herjourney, anyway. As for Oskar, he would have to turn around and go back the way they’d come, which was—fine.It was what it was. He’d made that choice when he strong-armed her into accepting his escort.

For some reason, though, the prospect of traveling the Amber Road without Guinevere by his side seemed unbearable.

He was getting far too used to her.

They left the forest’s dense embrace under a sky that, while overcast, had yet to spit out rain. The entrance to the Wuyun Gorge was only a short gallop away through tall stalks of golden grass. Leading into it was the Amber Road, dotted with wagons and carriages and figures on horseback as far as the eye could see.

Oskar turned to lift Guinevere into Vindicator’s saddle. But, for someone who’d haughtily declared a few hours ago that walking was a fool’s game, she was strangely hesitant now.

“I actually might prefer to just sit here for a little while,” she told him painstakingly. “Why don’t we have an early lunch?”

They’d eaten an uncommonly hearty breakfast of roasted mushrooms and quail eggs not too long ago, the six approved gods having smiled down on that morning’s foraging attempts. Oskar wasn’t hungry yet. But he heard himself say, “All right.”

Because, once they entered the ravine, it would be less than a day’s ride until the Amber Road came to an end at the Wuyun Gates. Their time together was fast running out, and it was with a pang that Oskar realized he would do whatever it took to make the remaining hours last longer. To grab hold of them and never let go, to spin them intoyears and years until they became a tapestry that encompassed all of forever—

No. That line of thinking led to madness. Andherthoughts were probably along the lines of how damn tired she was, and how she wasn’t eager to be back on that dusty, crowded road anytime soon.

They sat down in the long grass and broke out the last of the hardtack and some forest fruits that they’d picked yesterday. They didn’t bother securing the horses, as they’d learned that Pudding and Vindicator weren’t prone to wandering off as long as there was the promise of food—and, indeed, the black stallion leaned in over Oskar’s shoulder and shamelessly nosed for crab apples while the gray-and-white pack mare did the same with Guinevere.

Guinevere was happy to share her fruit, Oskar a little less so. She shot him a sympathetic grin as she patted the bridge of Pudding’s nose. “I’m going to miss the horses,” she said wistfully.

What about me?“You don’t have to miss them,” Oskar grunted. “We bartered for them with your parents’ merchandise, so they technically belong to your family. You should keep them.”

“I couldn’t possibly,” she protested, her violet eyes wide. “You’re so much better with them than I am. And…” She hesitated, swallowing. “And you’re going to need them more.”

Yes, because once she arrived in Nicodranas and Lord Wensleydale started wooing his would-be bride, she would have her pick from stables full of the finest destriers and most impeccably pedigreed mares that gold could buy. Amidst the affluence of that new life of hers, Pudding and Vindicator would soon be nothing more than distant, bargain-bin memories. As would Oskar.

He gave what he hoped was a flippant shrug. “If you don’t want them, I’ll be happy to take them off your hands.”

“I never said Ididn’twant them, only that—”

“There won’t be a place for them,” he finished for her. He had an uneasy feeling that they weren’t talking about the horses anymore. Or, at least, notjustthe horses.

They finished eating in desultory silence. Once she’d choked downthe last of the hardtack and wiped the crumbs off her skirt, Guinevere busied herself with picking wildflowers from a vibrant cluster an arm’s length away. It was high time to get going, but Oskar’s body refused to obey his common sense. Instead, he watched as she skillfully braided the stems together into a circle, taking care not to damage the delicate blooms. She’d always been good with her hands. Aside from the night she taught him how to stitch, there’d been nights when she sat by the campfire with needle and thread, embroidering a patch of roses on the collar of his one good jacket, her tiny nose scrunched up in utmost concentration. He was going to miss the sight of that. The sight ofher.

But the memory of firelight gave him an idea for a relatively safe topic. “Any luck practicing with your wildfire spirit?”

Guinevere frowned down at her task. “I wouldn’t be so eager to wish for that, if I were you. Teinidh’s hard to put out once she gets started.”

She’d told him of a few incidents from her childhood while they were traipsing through that forest. Her mother’s singed eyebrows, the scorch marks that devalued formerly priceless furniture and art, the burns on tutors with loud voices and heavy hands. For each tale, Oskar had assured her that it hadn’t been her fault. He never grew tired of saying it, because it was what she needed to hear—and maybe if he said it often enough, she would believe it. She wasn’t automatically apologizing for every single thing anymore, and that was a start.

“All done!” Guinevere held up her handiwork for Oskar’s perusal. It was a profusion of crimson flowers set like rubies into a band of leaves and stems.

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