Page 73 of Knight from the Ashes (Crown and Crest 1)

“Oh.” He looks down as if they will magically appear. “I left them down below.”

I give him a pointed look, waiting. When he doesn’t answer, I squelch my impatience and say, “Fetch them so we can make camp.”

“Right!” He then jogs off, going down the trail that looks as if it was cut into the rock long before humans came to the continent.

At least it’s too narrow for an aynauth to use.

“And gather wood,” I holler down to him.

“He’s a nice lad,” Pranmore says, smiling after Bartholomew. “You must consider yourself fortunate to have such a cheerful squire.”

Instead of answering, I turn my back on the elf and walk the area, looking for a good spot to set up for the night.

* * *

Clover puts on a brave face,but I watch her from the corner of my eye in the light of the flickering campfire, and it’s clear she’s not impressed with her lack of tent—or me, since I’m the reason she doesn’t have it. Perhaps I should have told Bartholomew to lug it up here, but it seemed like too much of a nuisance to pitch upon the hard rock for one night.

For now, it’s on the ground below, where it will be safe until morning.

After he tended the horses for the night, Bartholomew strung the other packs from a tree, so hopefully, we won’t wake to a family of bears dining on our rations. If an aynauth finds us in the middle of the night, at least the scent of the food won’t lure him up the outcrop.

“It feels like a real adventure now, doesn’t it?” Bartholomew says with his usual enthusiasm. He extends his hands toward the dark heavens. “Sleeping under the stars, enjoying a meal of dried meat and a fire with companions—what could be better than this?”

Clover flicks him a disgusted look, but she keeps her mouth shut.

Idly, I wonder how long it will be before she starts to complain, betting it will be before morning. The rock we’re camped upon is far from soft, and the autumn wind has an icy bite to it.

I smile to myself, lying back on my bedroll, pillowing my head with my clasped hands. Even if I’m secretly glad Clover is here, it’s satisfying to be right—she would have been far more comfortable in Cabaranth.

Pranmore sits near the fire, his nose buried in his leather-bound journal. Earlier, when I asked him what he was working on, he told me he is a poet of all things. Occasionally, he’ll look up, mumble a few words to himself, and then dive back in.

“Are you going to sleep already, Henrik?” Bartholomew asks. “The evening is still young.”

“We’ll rise early. I’ll scout until I find aynauth tracks, and then we’ll follow them to the beast’s territory.”

“We’ll follow themback?” Bartholomew asks. “But haven’t they already gone?”

I close my eyes. “It doesn’t matter where they’re at now—we need to know where they came from in order to discover why they left.”

Satisfied with the answer, Bartholomew lays out his bedroll, and Pranmore reluctantly sets his journal aside. They shuffle and grunt as they try to get comfortable, but my ears are trained on Clover’s shifting and her muffled sighs of discomfort.

Pranmore rises, says something to her—speaking too quietly for me to make out the conversation—and then he finds his own bedroll once more.

Eventually, the party goes quiet as we wait for sleep to find us, and the only sound is the wind blowing through the autumn leaves and the logs crackling as they burn low.

It’s now frigid atop the great stone outcrop—likely the worst place to make camp unless you’re trying to avoid a fifteen-foot creature on the ground. I’m about to fetch the tent for Clover, worried the chill will be too much for her, when Bartholomew turns in his bedroll and quietly asks, “Lady Clover, it’s quite chilly. Are you warm enough?”

“Mmm,” she answers, sounding sleepy…and oddly content.

Opening one eye, I roll my head to face Clover. The firelight dances off her soft features, and she looks completely at peace. Her eyes are closed, and she rests with her hands tucked beneath her cheek.

“Thank you for the heat charm,” she says to Bartholomew, and then she ducks her head under the canvas top of the bedroll, disappearing into the fleece lining so only her hair is visible. “And Pranmore, you too for giving me the blanket for my head.”

Rolling my eyes, I turn the other way, determined to ignore them all for the rest of the night.

It doesn’t work.

I end up lying awake for hours, listening to the chorus of nighttime noises my traveling companions make. Pranmore occasionally grunts, and Bartholomew constantly shifts.

---