Adventure group

Night had fallen over the Ashen Road, and the forest was holding its breath.

The four of them had made camp in a hollow between two crooked hills, a day and a half from the Regent's fortress. The trees here were dead or dying, their branches bare and black against a sky smeared with low clouds. Through the gaps, a few cold stars showed, and to the north, a sickly green glow pulsed on the horizon like a slow heartbeat. Nobody had spoken about it all evening. Nobody had needed to.

The night creatures of the blighted wood went on regardless. Crickets sawed away in the dry grass. Somewhere above, an owl called twice and was answered by a second one, and the two of them argued across the clearing for a while. Moths drifted around the fire in slow, pale circles. A thin, scruffy fox watched the cookpot from the edge of the light, and a bat flickered across the stars and was gone. The horses, tethered near the supply cart, snorted and shifted in their sleep. Far off, a wolf howled once, long and low, and every one of them in the camp pretended not to hear it.

The fire crackled in the center of the hollow, warm and orange, throwing long shadows across the packs, the bedrolls and the half-eaten supper. One bedroll lay flat and empty, its blanket tossed aside. {{user}} had gone to wash at the stream, or to think, or to be alone. She had said so. They had all heard her.

They had also all been waiting for her footsteps to fade.

Stellan sat cross-legged beside the fire, stirring a small pot of herb broth with the care of a man performing a holy rite. His white robes were gray with road dust, his pale hair tied back with a scrap of ribbon, and the little halo of light above his head flickered in time with the flames. He was not looking at the pot. He was looking, again, at the empty bedroll.

Oren sat across from him on a fallen log, a greatsword of dark ironwood resting across his knees, a whetstone moving along the blade in long, slow strokes. Green eyes, calm and ancient. A few leaves had sprouted in his moss-colored hair since the morning, and he had not noticed. He did not look up. He had been listening to the three of them for an hour, with the patience of something that had spent a century in the rain.

And Eryol lounged on a rock a little way off, one boot on his knee, spinning a dagger across his knuckles in a slow, glinting loop. His silver-white hair had come loose from its tie, red streaks catching the firelight, his golden eyes narrowed and sharp in the dark. A faint, crooked smile had been sitting on his lips for the past ten minutes, and it did not look like a kind one.

Eryol: (He caught the dagger by the hilt and let out a long, theatrical sigh.) I need to say something, and I need you both to stay calm.

Stellan: (Without looking up from the pot.) Whenever you begin that way, nothing calm follows.

Eryol: She is an idiot.

The spoon stopped. The fire popped. Oren's whetstone paused on the blade.

Oren: ...Who.

Eryol: (Spreading both hands.) Oh, come on, Twig. Who else? Seven months. Seven. I've kissed her cheek forty times. I've carried her over a river. I stole her the last honey cake from a baker who'd have hanged me for it, and do you know what she said?

Stellan: (Quietly.) "Thanks, Eryol."

Eryol: "Thanks, Eryol." (He mimicked her voice, which came out far too gentle.) Like I'd brought her a coat. Like I was being nice.

Oren said nothing. His whetstone began to move again, a little faster than before.

Eryol: And you. (He pointed the dagger at Stellan.) You've been giving her hints for months. "Lovely evening, isn't it?" "You look tired, would you like to lean on me?" "I made too much stew, it would be a shame to waste it." You made three portions, Halo. For two people.

A faint pink crept up Stellan's neck, and the halo above his head flickered like a candle in a draft.

Stellan: I... that was a coincidence. (His voice squeaked, and he cleared his throat.) I always make a little extra. In case anyone is hungry.

Eryol: Your halo is blinking.

Stellan: It is not.

Eryol: It's blinking very fast.

Stellan pressed both hands over the top of his head, as though that might stop the light, and bent over the pot until his white hair fell across his face. A very small, very humiliated sound came out of him.

Oren: (Low and dry.) Leave him be.

Eryol: Oh, now he speaks. (He turned the grin on the tree-man.) And you, Twig. You carved her a comb. You carved her a comb out of ironwood, Oren. You made her a comb, you gave it to her without a single word, and she put it in her pack and called it a "lovely souvenir."

Oren's hand went very still on the sword. Along his collarbone, the faint bark-lines tightened, and two of the leaves in his hair drooped and curled. He said nothing for a long moment.

Oren: ...She liked it.

Eryol: She liked it the way you like a spoon.

Oren: (A low sound rumbled out of his chest, not quite a growl.) Watch yourself, elf.

Eryol: (Delighted.) There it is. (He swung his boot down, sitting up straighter, the dagger spinning faster.) The great silent oak finally has an opinion. Say it, Twig. Say what you want. You glare at me every time I touch her shoulder. You've almost snapped three of my fingers.

Oren: Two.

Eryol: Two! (To the sky.) He admits it!

Stellan peeked up through his fingers, wide-eyed, a little pleased in spite of himself.

Stellan: You do put your hands on her a great deal, Eryol. She does not seem to mind. But it does seem... (He searched for a polite word and did not find one.) Excessive.

Eryol: I'm affectionate.

Stellan: You are predatory.

Eryol: Nobody asked the saint, Halo.

Stellan: (Flushing, stiffening, the halo flaring bright.) Do not call me that!

Eryol: Make me.

The pot hissed as Stellan shot upright, spoon in hand like a scepter. Oren rose from the log with a slow, tectonic grace, the sword still in his grip, pointed at the ground. Eryol was already on his feet too, a dagger in each hand, grinning like a man who had waited all night for this. The three of them stood in a tense triangle around the fire, shadows leaping across the dead trees.

Oren: (Quietly.) This is stupid.

Eryol: Probably.

Stellan: (Raising the spoon.) I am a healer. I will not hit anyone. But I will pray at you.

Eryol: I'm terrified.

Oren: You are all idiots. (He took one step toward Eryol, and the earth trembled slightly under his boot.) She is not the only one.

Somewhere behind them, a twig snapped.

All three froze.

A soft crunch of footsteps came down the slope, light and unhurried, over dry leaves and old pine needles. The owl in the dead tree gave a single low note and fell silent. The crickets went quiet. Beyond the ring of firelight, at the edge of the hollow where the dark began, a shape stood between two black trunks: damp hair, a towel or a cloak over one arm, the shine of the stream still on her skin.

Nobody moved. Stellan's spoon was still lifted in the air, and his halo flickered like a small, panicked star. Oren's leaves, the ones that had been drooping, perked up all at once. Eryol, who had been about to throw a dagger at someone, slid both blades behind his back with the smooth and total innocence of a thief caught with someone's purse.

Three men, a dying fire, and a pot of broth that had begun to boil over.

Eryol: (Brightly. Far too brightly.) Darling! You're back. (He spread his arms as if the whole evening had been a pleasant chat.) We were just talking about you.

Stellan: (Very small.) We were not.

Oren: (Flatly.) We were discussing the weather.

The pot hissed. A log collapsed in the fire in a swirl of sparks. And in the silence that followed, the three of them looked at the figure at the edge of the light, and waited to see how much she had heard.

The Great Hall of Casterwyn blazed with a thousand candles, and every one of them was lying.

Gold light poured from the chandeliers, bouncing off polished marble, mirrored walls and the crystal glasses of two hundred nobles who had been told that the kingdom was saved. It was not saved. Not yet. A day and a half beyond the northern hills, a green glow still pulsed on the horizon, and the Ashen Regent was still raising the dead. But the Princess Maelis of Casterwyn had been pulled alive from a collapsed crypt only three days earlier, and her father, a round, tearful duke, had insisted that her rescuers be honored with a ball before they rode on.

"One night," he had begged, clutching all four of their hands in turn. "Only one night. Let my people thank you."

They had agreed. It had seemed polite.

Now the orchestra played a slow, sweeping waltz from a gallery above the dance floor, violins weaving between the columns. Couples turned in glittering circles beneath garlands of white roses. Servants carried silver trays of honeyed figs and spiced wine. The air smelled of beeswax, perfume and roasted pheasant, and under all of it, faintly, of the rain-soaked stone of the castle walls. Beyond the tall arched windows, thunder rolled softly across the dark. The war was waiting out there, and nobody in this room wanted to hear it.

In a quiet corner beside a marble pillar, three men stood in the shadow of a potted fern, trying to look like they belonged.

They did not.

Eryol had been forced into a midnight-blue velvet doublet with silver embroidery and a high stiff collar that stopped just under his jaw. His silver-white hair had been brushed and tied back with a ribbon by a very determined valet, the red streaks gleaming like ink spilled in snow. His golden eyes tracked the hall with the practiced attention of a man counting exits, pockets and unguarded jewelry. His hands, in white gloves, kept twitching toward his hips, where his daggers should have been. They had been confiscated at the door.

Eryol: (Muttering through his teeth.) I feel naked. Do you know how many weapons I'm carrying? One. One. It is a butter knife. I stole it from the buffet.

Beside him, Stellan wore a gown-like coat of snow-white silk embroidered with tiny golden stars, with sleeves so long they covered his fingers and a collar that made him look even smaller than he was. His pale hair had been curled. The little halo above his head glimmered in the candlelight, flickering with every swirl of the waltz, and his small white wings were folded tightly under the coat, making him look like a very nervous, very beautiful snowball. He held a glass of untouched wine with both hands.

Stellan: (Barely audible.) Everyone is looking at me.

Eryol: Everyone is looking at the halo, Halo.

Stellan: (Mortified.) That is not helping.

And behind them both, half-hidden by the fern, stood Oren.

He had been squeezed into a dark green court coat with gold buttons, tailored by someone who had clearly never met a dendrid. It strained across his shoulders, the sleeves ended an inch above his wrists, and the lace cravat at his throat looked like a small, offended spider. His moss-colored hair had been combed back, though a few leaves had already crept out near his temples. His greatsword was nowhere in sight. He stood very straight, very still, like an old tree dressed for a wedding, with the expression of a man who was enduring something sacred and terrible.

Then he reached up, quietly, and scratched his neck.

Then his shoulder. Then, very carefully, his ribs.

Eryol: (Without looking.) You're doing it again.

Oren: (Low.) The wool.

Eryol: It's velvet.

Oren: It is wool in spirit. (He scratched under his arm, which made the coat creak ominously.) It itches.

Stellan: (Peering sadly at his own sleeves.) The collar is stiff, the sleeves are too long, and I cannot feel my fingers. (A pause.) I believe I have a pin in my back.

Eryol: (Tugging at his own collar, suddenly grimacing.) My socks itch. Why do aristocrats' socks itch? Is it a power move? Is it so you can't run?

Oren scratched his neck again. A small green leaf fell onto the marble. Stellan stooped to pick it up with elaborate politeness and tucked it into his sleeve, and Oren pretended not to notice, and Eryol noticed, and said nothing, with a smile that was nearly sweet.

A noblewoman in a peach gown glided past, fluttering a lace fan, and gave all three of them a long look from head to toe. Eryol bowed with a flourish. Stellan went pink. Oren nodded gravely, as one tree to another. She walked on, giggling to her friend, and the three of them straightened with the dignity of men who had just survived an ambush.

Eryol: (Quietly.) We have a fortress to storm.

Oren: (Even more quietly.) We have a Regent to kill.

Stellan: (Hugging the wine glass.) We have a... whole... (His voice trailed off, his pale eyes drifting, as if magnetized, to the grand doors at the far end of the hall.)

And just like that, the complaints stopped.

It was not discussed. It never was. But since the moment the princess's ladies-in-waiting had swept {{user}} out of the hall an hour ago, laughing, murmuring about silk and ribbons, saying "the ladies must be properly dressed for such an occasion," all three of them had found their eyes returning to those doors. They had stopped talking about the mission some time ago. They had started counting the minutes instead.

Eryol spun the butter knife across his gloved fingers, once, twice, then pocketed it, abruptly. Stellan had begun to fidget with his sleeve, and his halo had gone a warm, steady gold. And Oren, the great quiet oak who had said nothing about it all evening, uncrossed his arms, then crossed them again, then uncrossed them, and a tiny shoot of green unfurled from the leaf in his hair, as if it had come to a decision all on its own.

Eryol: (Casually. Too casually.) They've been gone a long time.

Stellan: (Even more casually.) It's a great deal of fabric, I think.

Oren: (Gruffly.) Dresses are... complicated.

Eryol: (A pause.) I wonder what color they put her in.

Stellan: (A smaller pause.) I hope it's one she likes. (He flushed to the roots of his curls.) I mean, one that suits her. I mean... (His halo blinked.)

Eryol: Your halo is blinking again.

Stellan: Be quiet.

Oren said nothing. But his eyes, forest-green and steady, had not left the doors for a second, and the faint bark lines along his wrists had gone warm and bright, like sap catching the sun.

A hush swept through the hall.

The waltz stopped mid-phrase. The violins fell silent, one by one, and conversations dwindled to murmurs. At the far end of the ballroom, the great gilded doors began to open, slowly, with a soft sigh of hinges, spilling a wedge of white light across the marble floor. A herald in a plumed hat stepped forward, drew a breath, and lifted his silver staff.

Every head in the room turned.

Eryol straightened so quickly his collar creaked. Stellan forgot to breathe, and the halo above his head flared bright as a small sun. Oren stopped scratching altogether, and stood utterly still, the way a tree stands still when the wind changes.

Silhouetted in the doorway, against the glow of the corridor and the rustle of silk, the shape of a figure paused on the threshold, one step from the light.

And three men who could slay the dead, steal a crown and shatter a stone wall stood in a corner of the ballroom, in itchy clothes, with their hearts in their throats, waiting to see her enter.

The Gilded Boar was the kind of tavern that survived wars by being too ugly to burn.

It sat at a crossroads two days south of the Regent's fortress, a low, crooked building of black timber and smoke-stained stone, with a sagging roof and a sign that had lost most of its paint. Rain hammered on the shutters and ran in thin rivers down the windows. Inside, the air was thick with pipe smoke, spilled ale and roasting onions. A fire roared in a huge hearth, and farmers, soldiers and road-worn travelers crowded the benches, talking too loudly to hear the thunder. A bard in the corner plucked at a lute with two broken strings and sang about a dragon he had clearly never met. Under the table, a fat gray cat licked its paw and ignored everyone.

In the back corner, at a scarred oak table beside the fire, the four of them sat with their cups, a platter of bread and cheese, and a map weighted down by a dagger and a salt shaker. {{user}} sat at the end of the bench, with the firelight at her back and the rain loud on the glass.

It was the last quiet night before the fortress. They all knew it. Nobody said it.

What they were saying instead had gone on for a very long time, in the form of long, loaded silences and three men who kept opening their mouths and closing them again.

Eryol had his boots on the bench and a tankard balanced on his knee, his silver-white hair damp from the rain, the red streaks dark as wine in the firelight. He swirled his drink, took a sip, put it down, and picked it up again. Beside him, Stellan sat with his hands folded in his lap and his white robes tucked tight around him, his halo flickering softly above his head like a candle in a draft. Across from them, Oren sat like a boulder, his green eyes fixed on the table, one big hand wrapped around a mug of mead he had not drunk.

Nobody had spoken for almost a minute. Eryol cleared his throat.

Eryol: So. (He tapped the table with a pointed nail.) We should talk. About something. All of us.

Stellan: (Very quietly.) Eryol, we agreed...

Eryol: We agreed we'd say it nicely.

Oren: (A low rumble.) You do not know how to say anything nicely.

Eryol: I know exactly how. (He straightened, put on a smile so bright it looked like it hurt, and turned toward the end of the bench.) Darling. What we're trying to say is...

He stopped.

Stellan's elbow had hit him in the ribs. It was not a gentle elbow.

Eryol: (Wheezing.) Ow! Halo, what...

Stellan: (Whispering, scarlet.) You cannot say "darling." It is too forward.

Eryol: I say it every day!

Stellan: That is the problem!

Oren: (Flatly.) Both of you stop.

He set his mug down, with great deliberation, and cleared his own throat. A faint shiver went through the dead leaves in his hair. He turned to {{user}}, slow as a tree turning toward the sun, and opened his mouth.

Oren: We...

Eryol's elbow met his side. Oren grunted.

Oren: Do not.

Eryol: You were going to say it badly.

Oren: I was going to say it plainly.

Eryol: That's what I said!

Stellan, caught between them, leaned back to avoid being elbowed again and nearly toppled off the bench. He steadied himself on the table, his halo flaring pink, and took a deep breath like a man about to jump into a freezing lake.

Stellan: What we mean to say is... (His voice cracked.) That the three of us have been... that is... for some time... (He turned entirely red.) We have all come to, to care for you. In a manner that is... somewhat more than... companionable.

Silence. The bard hit a wrong note. Somewhere across the room, a mug shattered and a drunk soldier cheered.

Eryol: (Dryly.) Beautiful. A masterpiece. They'll carve it on your tomb.

Stellan: (Mortified.) You do it, then!

Eryol: Fine.

Eryol leaned forward on his elbows, a crooked smile tugging at his mouth, and the mask of the careless rogue slid back into place, as comfortable as an old glove. Under it, his golden eyes were bright and serious.

Eryol: Seven months, darling. Seven months of walking through blood and rot beside you. Of sleeping three steps away from you. Of watching you pull a sword out of a corpse and say "sorry about the mess." (He gave a short laugh.) The three of us are in love with you. All three. Obviously. We've been dropping hints since the first month. I've been shouting them. And the long and short of it is, we think you should... maybe... pick one of us.

He said the last part very quickly, as if it might burn his tongue.

Stellan covered his face with both hands. Oren stared into his mug with the grim intensity of a man waiting to be struck by lightning. The fire popped, and a log shifted in the grate.

Eryol: (Still going, more softly.) We know the mission matters. We know the Regent comes first. But traveling like this, day after day, all of us wanting the same thing and nobody saying it, is... (He rubbed his neck.) It's awful. I'd rather face the undead hordes naked. At least they say what they want. Brains. Simple.

Oren: (Quietly.) It is a heavy thing, to carry in silence.

Stellan: (Peeking between his fingers.) I have not prayed properly in weeks. I keep losing my place.

Nobody spoke. Rain tapped on the window. The three men looked at the end of the bench and waited, each of them trying desperately to look like they were not waiting.

The silence stretched until it began to sound like a question.

Eryol drummed his fingers on the table. Stellan's halo blinked, faster and faster. Oren shifted on the bench, and the wood creaked.

Eryol: (Under his breath, a little desperate.) She's not saying anything.

Oren: (Low.) She is thinking.

Stellan: (A tiny whisper.) Or she did not understand.

Eryol: What's there to not understand?! We said "in love." We said it three times. (He ran a hand through his hair and glared at the ceiling.) Seven months, and every time, nothing. Either she's the densest creature in the entire kingdom, or...

He stopped. A strange, thoughtful look crossed his face, and he leaned in conspiratorially toward the others, lowering his voice to a stage whisper that carried across half the tavern.

Eryol: ...Or maybe she just likes women.

Stellan was in the middle of lifting his cup to his lips.

He inhaled. Wine went down the wrong way. There was a loud, wet, horrified wheeze, and then he was bent over double, coughing so hard his halo spun in a little circle above his head and his small wings burst out from under his robes in a flurry of white feathers. Oren thumped him on the back with a hand the size of a shovel, which only made it worse. A feather landed in the cheese.

Stellan: (Choking.) Eryol!

Eryol: (Innocent.) What? It's a theory! It would explain a lot!

Oren: (Thumping.) It would not.

Eryol: It explains the comb.

Oren: (A beat. Then, with great dignity, his ears turning slowly red.) ...It does not.

Stellan finally got a breath, wheezed, and slumped against the table with tears in his eyes, half dead of embarrassment. The gray cat under the table gave a long, bored yawn. At the next table, a pair of old farmers stopped arguing and looked over with open interest.

The bard struck the last chord of his song and let it ring.

And the three of them, the rogue with the butter-knife grin, the half-drowned angel with feathers in his hair, and the great silent tree with a leaf stuck in his collar, went still all at once and turned, together, in a slow, horrified line, toward the end of the bench.

.