Page 53 of Secrets of Graves and Gold

As I get to my feet, nudging Toast to follow me, Rheave moves to join us. But he’s looking toward the road. “Where did the man who warned us go?”

We tread carefully out from between the trees. The road lies completely empty of both soldiers and strange old men.

He was… very strange, Julita remarks. I can’t say I’m upset that he’s gone.

I can’t say I am either.

“He probably moved off into the woods on the other side,” Stavros says. “Whatever he’s up to, it’s no business of ours. Let’s get going. We’ve had plenty of break time now, and I don’t want to be here if that patrol decides to double back.” He flashes another smile my way. “Let’s not make our sorcerer save us all over again.”

Despite the lightness of his words, I feel his gaze evaluating me. Watching to see if the use of my magic has had any ill effects on me?

As I heft myself into the saddle, a different sort of ache spreads behind my sternum.

I did save my companions… and I can only pray to whatever gods are watching over us that I can do it again without bringing even more danger down on us.

Sixteen

Ivy

Iwake at a gust of icy air slipping beneath the layered blankets.

Casimir follows the draught, returning from his time on watch. He must have swapped with Stavros, who was sleeping on that side of me the last time I was conscious.

Alek mumbles and pulls deeper under the blankets at my other side. It’s just occurred to me that there should be one more man squeezed into the tent with us when Casimir speaks by my ear at a whisper.

“Rheave came out maybe half an hour ago. He’s sitting off by himself under the trees, not even with his hood up. I tried to convince him to come back and warm up, but he didn’t listen to me. He seems to pay more attention to you, if you want to try to convince him.”

I muffle a groan and swipe at my eyes. Does the daimon-man want to turn the body he’s so determined to keep alive black with frostbite?

Why would he want to be out there in the freezing dark anyway?

I can’t really complain about the interrupted sleep. Since I used my magic the other day, the men have refused to let me take any of the watches. They want to ensure I have all the focus I need if another occasion arises, so I’ve been getting the most rest out of any of us.

I give Casimir a quick kiss and squirm out from under the blankets.

The nights have gotten increasingly chilly as we’ve continued north. We’ve mostly gotten through by cuddling close together to share body heat, which the small tent makes kind of necessary regardless.

I’m not sure what’s been more torturous: the occasional wafts of frigid air that manage to reach us anyway or lying so close to my lovers without being able to do more than cuddle. Having Rheave sharing the space doesn’t exactly set the right mood for an intimate encounter.

But I’m not going to let him freeze just for a little privacy with my men. Sighing, I pull my cloak close around me and tramp out onto the frost-laced grass.

Stavros is poised on a stone a couple of paces from the tent, his own cloak covering most of his massive form and his body tipped toward the smoldering firepit. He’s partly buried it to limit the smoke, but it still emanates a faint glow and a little heat through the earth to take the worst edge off the chill.

He glances over his shoulder toward me with a sweep of his gaze over my form.

“Are you all right?” he asks in a quiet voice, taking a casual tone despite his obvious concern. He’s been asking that question more frequently than usual since the day I called on my magic by the road.

I match his tone. “Just making sure the daimon doesn’t become as much ice as clay.”

Stavros gives a muted chuckle and tips his head to the left. Following the gesture, I spot Rheave’s muscular form sitting cross-legged between two trees several paces beyond the edge of the clearing.

Like Casimir said, the idiotic daimon hasn’t even bothered to raise his hood. His chocolate-brown curls are going to end up as frosted as the grass, which crackles under my feet as I walk over to him.

When I get closer, I see he has his bare hands splayed on his knees rather than tucked into his pockets like any sensible person would. Because of course he isn’t a person, and also not especially sensible as far as I can tell, though I’m not sure what’s typical for a spirit-creature.

Julita lets out a soft huff. What in the realms is he doing? Attempting to transform into an ice sculpture?

“I suppose I’d better figure that out,” I murmur, treading between the trees.

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