Page 22 of Queen of the Night
I watch as Ikar runs a hand through his hair again, Rhosse attempts to smother another yawn, and Darvy has been much quieter today as we continue our trek through the forest. Ikar continues to keep up a pace so rigorous it’s hard to hide my heavy breathing and the sweat beginning to drip down my face, but I’m not complaining—I want to be out of this forest as much as they do.
The third sun is about to set when Rhosse easily catches the turkeys for dinner—I tried to warn them. He leaves them nearby, and we work to gather materials for a fire while Rupi hops amidst coarse field grass nearby, pecking here and there for insects. After getting a warm fire going that helps ward off the chill of the darkening sky, I overhear Darvy and Rhosse unsheath their swords, and the sound of metal on metalsounding behind me. I’m just relieved it’s not me fighting this time. I haven’t said a word about it, but I’m terrified of training with Rhosse, and I’m hoping they’ll all forget about it.
“You really should leave some women for the rest of us,” Darvy says.
I look over my shoulder, grinning at the way he taunts Rhosse. I can’t tell if Rhosse’s face is red from exertion or embarrassment.
Darvy blocks a hit and twists his sword to redirect Rhosse’s with effort. “Who were those two barmaids again?”
Another blocked hit. From Rhosse’s darkening expression, I’m beginning to grow concerned for Darvy’s safety, but he continues as if unconcerned.
“Melinda and Ashe?” He jumps out of the way and swings toward Rhosse’s exposed side, but Rhosse blocks it just in time. “No, that was the other tavern. Maven and Abigail.”
Rhosse swings harder, and Darvy’s sword flies from his hand. He puts his hands up in defeat, laughing.
With his sword tip at Darvy’s throat, Rhosse growls back. “Maybe if you weren’t so comfortable gambling, you’d catch a few yourself.”
“You sound like my mother,” Darvy says, pushing the blade away as he laughs.
“You should listen to her; she’s a wise woman.” Ikar smirks.
I try not to stare as he begins rolling the sleeves of his shirt up, then picks up the birds and heads toward a small creek burbling several yards away, hidden by trees and gloam. I’ve been waiting for a moment to ask about the journal, and this feels like it might be it. I jump up and jog after him to catch up, careful to make sure to walk on the side opposite the one that holds the swinging, very-dead birds.
“If you wanted to clean them, you could’ve just asked,” he drawls, looking straight ahead.
“And take the opportunity from you?” I joke sweetly. I’m secretly pleased when I see the relaxed smile on his lips.
“You should learn. It’s a skill you need in your line of work. I don’t know how you’ve survived this long.” I don’t like the serious note in his voice, which usually comes before an order.
“No thanks. I’ve done well enough without it.” Not only does the thought of it make me gag, but I’d rather eat gloam leaves than kill my friendly forest animals.
Ikar lifts a brow. “Fine, not today.”
I let out a breath of relief.
“But soon.”
The gag threatens my throat again. I justknowhe’ll do what he says he’ll do. My only hope is we finish this journey before we get time.
He kneels down near the water and begins to prepare the turkeys to be roasted over the fire. I look away, having no desire to watch. Instead, I make myself comfortable on a large rock nearby. I’m sure he’s wondering why I tagged along, so I get straight to the point.
“Ikar?”
“Hm?”
I resist the urge to look his way. “I’m wondering… what flower does the king need? Maybe I can be more helpful if I know what to look for?”
“Inside pocket of my vest.”
The book.I whip my gaze around and find that he hasn’t looked up from what he’s doing. Does he intend for me to grab it myself? I sit there on the rock, unmoving until he looks up at me.
“You’ll have to get it.” He lifts his hands, and I swallowwith difficulty. I’ve never done well with blood, hence why I didn’t assume the title of healer.
I hop off the rock. “Get what?” I act innocent, as if I haven’t been driving myself crazy wondering what’s inside those pages all this time.
“The journal.” He turns to face me, holding his hands wide and chuckling as I give them a wide berth with a disgusted look.
I step closer, telling myself not to make this more than it is. I’m simply snatching the journal and backing off. I’ve seen him tuck it away easily, so I assume it won’t take long to find. I tentatively reach inside the warmth of his armor. Immediately I feel the defined muscles of his chest through his shirt. Not only that, but I feel an assortment of knives, a folded piece of parchment, and what feels like a compass. How many things can he be hiding in there?
