Page 83 of Knight from the Ashes (Crown and Crest 1)

Clover’s eyes briefly meet mine, and she hides a smirk. “Do you always need this much reassurance? It feels good, Henrik.Very good.”

I swallow, knowing I should leave it at that. Instead, I tilt my head back to meet her eyes. “I was referring to the bandage.”

Delighted surprise lights Clover’s eyes, and she bites back a grin. “So was I.”

She then slides her foot into the boot and stands. After taking several steps, she turns back to me. “It fits better now.”

“Good,” I say gruffly. “Then we will continue.”

24

Clover

The backof my ankle no longer hurts, but I’m so exhausted my eyes ache. I try to remember the last time I stayed up most of the night, and I think I must have been ill at the time.

My nerves are on edge as well—it seems I’m not the type of person who can function with less than a full night of sleep, and I’m going on two. Thankfully, the day is growing late, and we’ll have to stop soon. But eventually, Henrik and I will have to rest, and who will keep watch? I’m not sure I’m ready to put my life in Pranmore and Bartholomew’s less-than-competent hands.

“And that is why the red songstress, ruby jewel of the sky, nests in—”

Pranmore pauses so abruptly, I reach for my bow on instinct. I look around the pine woods that surround us, worried something is poised to attack. Granite boulders dot the forest as if some great giant grew bored one day and hurled hundreds of them into the landscape—creating a whole slew of places for creatures to hide. Is there something out there now, watching us, waiting for the perfect opportunity to attack? Is that what Pranmore sensed?

But the woods are alive with squirrel chatter and the songs of birds who have yet to migrate lower for the winter. There is no apparent reason for this uneasy feeling that’s been plaguing me for the last few hours.

“What is it?” Henrik asks Pranmore.

The elf says nothing. Instead, he holds a hand to his stomach. His already fair face is as pale as milk, and he stands very still. After a moment, he shakes his head, and his antlers nearly catch the branch of a nearby tree. “It’s nothing.”

“Are you feeling all right?” Bartholomew asks, taking a subtle step away from the elf.

“I’m fine.”

“If your stomach is feeling off, maybe it was the imposter berries you ate after all.”

“No.” Pranmore shakes his head violently, mussing his hair and again nearly tangling his antlers in the tree.

“But…what else could it be?” Bartholomew asks.

“It’s not—” Pranmore’s stomach rumbles loudly, and he clears his throat. “It’s just a bit of indigestion, that’s all.”

Henrik stands nearby, looking impervious to the long trek and lack of sleep, but his eyes are tired, and he’s been a touch tetchier than usual. “We need to keep moving. This isn’t a good spot to make camp for the night.”

“I’m all right,” Pranmore insists quickly. “Let’s continue.”

I roll my neck and follow Henrik, leaving Bartholomew to tend to Pranmore.

Neither of us is up to carrying on a conversation, but the silence isn’t as awkward as it could be considering what happened last night.

My mind insists on dwelling upon the memory, and I sigh. I suppose my waking hours have decided to mimic my dreams—cutting off before the good parts.

Not paying enough attention, I step in a soggy patch in the trail. The ground is soft and spongy here, nutrient-rich humus littered with hundreds of years of pine needles. The deer trails we follow have a habit of ending abruptly, and this one proves to be no different.

Wondering if the trail stains will scrub out of my suede boots, I almost bump into Henrik’s back when he stops in front of a large boulder that appears to have wandered smack into the middle of our trail.

“Where do we go now?” I ask.

Henrik pushes the brush aside to go around the rock. “That’s strange.”

“What is?” I ask, though I’m not certain I want to know.

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