Page 68 of A Song of Ash and Moonlight

“Of course not,” Gareth said. He crouched a little and gently lifted my chin to look me in the eyes. “Darling, we’ve talked about this many times.”

“I know, and I need to hear it again. Please?”

“All right, well, no, our sex wasn’t bad because of you, or because of me, even. It wasn’t evenbad, really, it just wasn’t…it wasn’t right, because we don’t love each other in that way, though we needed to go that far to realize it. And besides all that, we were terribly young, basically children. But even so, I don’t regret it. I only call it disastrous because afterward I was afraid I’d lose you, that we’d ruined the whole thing with two bottles of wine and some truly clumsy, tooth-clacking kisses.”

That made me laugh. I wiped my face again, and absently pettedthe gelding’s shaggy head. He turned to whuff at my sleeve, no doubt wondering what all the fuss was about.

“I’m so sorry, Farrin,” Gareth said gently. “I started this by asking about Ryder. I didn’t mean to upset you. I was only worried. Even so, I should’ve waited, or at least brought you breakfast or something and asked you about it over hotcakes like a civilized person.” He shoved his hands in his pockets and looked away. “I’m really not doing anything right, am I?”

I blew my nose, wadded up the handkerchief, and thrust it back at him. “Not doing anything right on this particular journey, or in life in general?”

He smiled at me, his typical mischievous grin, but I saw the sadness flicker in his glamoured brown eyes before he could hide it, and I sighed and caught his hand.

“Now I’m the one who’s sorry,” I told him. “I was trying to tease you, and it came out all wrong.”

He kissed my hand, chaste and quick. “Well, we’re even, then, or at least closer to it. I’ve still got a ways to go before I can make up for being such an ass last night.”

I raised an eyebrow and smiled at him, relieved to resume the old rhythm of our back-and-forth. “I was going to say as much but am feeling strangely merciful.”

Gareth looked wistfully at our joined hands. “Remember when being friends was easier?”

That surprised me. The truth was, I’d had the same thought in recent years, but I’d never said it aloud, and I certainly didn’t expect Gareth to, especially not hundreds and hundreds of miles away from anything familiar, with the whole cold north spread out before us.

A pang twisted my chest. Suddenly I wanted nothing more than to return to the Torch and Thorn, grab a table, and order hotcakes—just as he’d suggested—and sit with him for hours, and tell himeverything, confide in him utterly, as we’d always used to do. Before the return of the Basks, before Talan, before Kilraith. Before these last strange, frightening few months, when Yvaine was well, and Father was his old self—still bitter and paranoid, still wracked with grief, but without the constant thrill of violence simmering just beneath the surface, without the anger boiling ceaselessly in his eyes. When I still felt like I knew how the world worked.

But this was far too much to express on such a morning. Instead I squeezed Gareth’s hand and gave him a grim smile. “I remember when a lot of things were easier,” I said quietly. “But I still love you all the same.”

Gareth’s distracted, doleful expression softened. He drew me into his typical oafish hug, and I held on to him and closed my eyes. For a precious moment, the strange world I’d found myself in felt comfortingly familiar.

“Come on, let’s go,” Mara called from a few paces away. She had chosen one of the mares and was mounted and ready, watching us curiously. “We’ve a long way to go before nightfall.”

Without further delay, we mounted our horses and followed her down the winding gravel road that would take us away from Vallenvoren into the unknown north.

***

We traveled for two days. Almost immediately after leaving Vallenvoren, we veered off the well-trodden road used by the faithful to reach the Altivar Cloisters and set out into the true wilderness, retracing Talan’s previous route through these lands. He led us through pine forests so tall and ancient that it felt irreverent to speak, as if we were treading upon the bones of godly creatures long-dead. The hard earth was black and cold underfoot, the air chilly enough to make our breath puff in the air.

We camped in a large but simple tent sewn of animal hides that Mara had brought from the priory. I slept wrapped in furs and blankets between my sisters, with Talan on Gemma’s other side, Ryder’s on Mara’s, and Gareth beyond him.

But my sleep was restless, and I spent much of each night lying awake, listening to the sound of Ryder’s deep breathing—so close to me, but not close enough. And yet I was glad for the distance between us, which made very little sense to me. The contradictions of my own desires left me on edge. We’d spoken hardly since the night at the Torch and Thorn, though not for lack of trying. We stayed close to each other as we wove through the forests, and every few minutes, one of us—mostly Ryder—would try to make conversation, usually about the landscape, or the amusing behavior of the horses, or his interpretation of what a bird was trying to say with its song.

Once, on the second day, during a quiet stretch of travel after we’d stopped to eat lunch, Ryder guided his horse closer to mine, cleared his throat, and said, “The northern light suits you, Farrin.”

Immediately a flush of embarrassed delight crept up my body. Gareth, who was just behind me, started whistling cheerily to himself and pushed his horse into a trot, leaving me alone with Ryder. I glared after him, both annoyed by the gesture and glad for the privacy: yet more contradictions, all piling on top of one another. I was beginning to feel as though something was truly wrong with me, that some kernel of madness had burst open the night Ryder had touched me and now nothing would ever make sense again.

“Thank you,” I said quietly, not looking at him, staring instead at my horse’s mane. I wished suddenly for the illusory mask of Gemma’s glamours.“You’re very kind.”

He grunted a little, a small, frustrated sound. “It’s the truth. There’s a quickness to you, a sharpness in your eyes and the lines of your body. The way you move. Always thinking deeply about something, aboutmany things. Too many things, perhaps,” he added, his voice softening a little—with worry, I thought, and something like bashfulness. “Forests are the same way. They teem with life, with secrets. They’re lovely and quick and wild, changing from season to season, from day to day. They’re adaptive. They’re steady. They’re full of fascinating incongruities, yet they are completely themselves. ”

I laughed a little, overcome. “And I’m all these things to you?”

“That and more.” He took a deep breath in, then blew it out. “I’ve never felt as content as I do when I’m with you.”

I glanced at him at the same moment he looked carefully over at me. Our eyes locked for one blazing instant, and my whole body flushed hot. To be looked at in such a way, with such tender fondness, and to see his fierce Bask brow furrowed with concern, as if the most important thing in the world to him was determining whether or not I was happy…I was ill-equipped to handle such a look. Particularly when, with his eyes upon me, the memories of our night together took over my every thought.

I shook myself and returned my attention to my horse.

“You’re unhappy,” he said after a moment. In his gruff voice rang a note of resigned sadness. “I’m sorry. I’ve said too much.”

---