I had been justifiably wary of them until I accidentally became one of them.
In fact, most of the men in Arrick’s army had military experience. They’d either retired from their own country’s service or defected, making quite a few of them men with prices on their heads.
I had expected a cruel, barbaric group of men that wanted to kill anything that looked at them strangely and stayed warm by using the severed limbs of fallen enemies to kindle their fires.
Instead, I found men that respected life and respected each other. They helped stranded wagons by repairing wheels or rescuing them from the mud. They assisted with needed repairs as we passed through villages. They spent time every morning and evening practicing their fighting skills and sharpening blades. And they’d abandoned their countries because they believed this was a better solution… a better campaign for peace than anything else.
I shifted on my saddle, wincing at the pain shooting through my thighs and back. Shiksa resettled herself in the folds of my cloak, digging her tiny claws into the fabric so she didn’t bounce off. A week on horseback had made me appreciate the simplicity of walking.
A quick glance at Oliver proved that he was in the same shape, if not a bit worse off. He looked visibly pained as he bounced around atop his mare. She was as gentle as any horse I had ever seen, but Oliver’s body seemed to be at war with the movements beneath him.
He gave me a sour look. “One shall not complain about one’s circumstances. They can always get worse.” He wiggled in his saddle. “One of the first wisdoms of the Temple.”
I watched him for a minute as he steered his mare crookedly on the road. He couldn’t seem to walk in a straight line to save his life. With my sweetest voice, I told him, “By listening to you, one would never know you struggled not to complain.”
He wrinkled his nose. “It could be worse. I do believe that.”
I laughed. “How?”
“We could still be trapped in that tree with a gigantic wildebeest relentlessly ramming our haven.” His gaze lifted to meet mine. “Or worse yet, it could have already dragged us back to its cave to mash our brains and feast on our insides.”
“You are wise, Oliver the Silent. It could be worse.”
A horse, whose name I learned was Thief, rode up alongside me, pulling my attention to the other side. The steed was magnificent. The bronze coat shone in the late morning sun and the dark mane shimmered as it trotted along with perfect obedience. “Good morning, Commander,” I murmured to the rider.
Arrick smiled at me. “Good morn, Stranger. And how is your ride today?”
I swallowed down a fair amount of misery to reply, “Fine. Just like yesterday. And the day before.”
This was part of our daily routine. While Arrick spent the majority of his time with his men, commanding and dictating and doing whatever else it was that he did, he consistently stopped by to inquire after my wellbeing. His questions remained the same. As did my answers.
He chuckled. “Are you used to riding, then?”
I thought back to Oliver’s recitation of the Temple’s wisdom. “I am used to not complaining, Commander.” His eyebrow quirked curiously. “I was raised at the Temple of Eternal Light,” I explained. “The brothers that brought me up did not have much need for horses outside of working their fields. I am afraid I haven’t been on the back of a horse in a very long time.”
“You were raised among monks?” His expression was comical. “For all this time?”
“All this time?”
“For how long?” he clarified. “How much of your life did you spend with them?”
“Since I was a child,” I answered honestly. “Since I was nine-years-old.”
“And how old are you now?”
I tilted my chin. There was a tone to his voice that I did not like. There was an implication there that I was still a child. “Old enough to know that a man should never ask a woman that question.”
“Younger than twenty, I would imagine,” he went on as if I hadn’t spoken.
I turned to him and raised one eyebrow, mimicking his almost constant expression. “And you already know I’m older than nine. What is your best guess?”
“Seventeen.”
I swallowed back frustration at his perfect answer. “Your guess is close enough, I suppose,” I told him.
His answering smile told me he believed he’d won. Which I suppose he had. “And how old are you?”
“No, you must guess. That’s our game.”
My gaze moved over him, taking in the way he squinted and the manner in which his smile stretched across his face. I accounted for his time in the sun, the tan to his smooth skin. He had a full head of hair and all his teeth, the rough scrape of beard over his jaw. There was an air about him that showed world weariness, but also youth and vibrancy and a playfulness I had been trying to ignore.
He reminded me of someone, and the similarity made my throat ache for things that could never be. They weren’t the same person. They couldn’t be. The boy I pictured would be ruling a kingdom by now. And Arrick was an outlaw. But those blue eyes were a perfect replica of the ghost of my past, the ghost that should have been the foundation of my future.
At last I looked at his hands. They were wrapped around leather reigns and stretched long and true. Young hands. They had neither the wrinkles of time nor the scars from many battles, though they were weathered and calloused and proof of a hard life.
“Twenty-three,” I guessed.
He nodded. “Close. Twenty.”
“Twenty!”
He laughed. “Do I look older?”
“Much,” I assured him. His age… Three years had separated the boy prince and me. The same distance between Arrick and me now. It was impossible though. Mere coincidence. Magic from the Blood Wood. I swallowed down my suspicion, hiding my reaction behind
