Page 43 of Homeward for a Spell

She squirms impatiently against the needy thrum of her sex; a taste of her own medicine. “What is it, then?”

“When you left the capital…did you find happiness? Did you find what you were looking for?”

Sage could dissemble. She should. Now is not the time to speak of whatever satisfaction she has managed to scrounge up in the world. Or rather, the lack thereof. There must be an easy line to keep the night on track. But Araphi, for all of her dangerous beauty—the flush across her cheekbones, her mussed and unraveling braids, and her wide pupils that seem to defy the lamplight—is looking down at her with such vulnerability. Some emotion perched between fear and hunger and hope.

And how can Sage lie in the face of that?

“Not yet,” she admits, clearing her throat. Then, equally true: “But I haven’t given up.”

The answer seems to satisfy, as Araphi leans down for a lingering kiss before she reaches for her laces once more.

Long trained to wake at dawn, Sage opens her eyes when faint golden light begins to seep through the walls of the tent. The first thing she feels is a satisfying ache in every joint, as she would the morning after a successful but strenuous hunt. The next is the less satisfying twinge in her right knee, the bad knee—the consequence of sleeping on hard ground on her right side.

The third thing she feels is Araphi’s arm draped heavily over her waist, and the soft heat of her against Sage’s back, pressed so close together that their legs are intertwined at the knees. They’ve slept together on Araphi’s blanket all night, with Sage’s pulled over them for warmth. And they’re still entirely naked.

Sage never meant for them to sleep together.

But the night had unspooled from the first climax into the next, and countless whispered promises of pleasure were soon fulfilled. (Oh, the things we could do with one more day in Briarwall, Araphi had said with a sigh, nipping at the curve of Sage’s breast just hard enough to feel the unyielding press of the bard’s teeth test her skin, while unbearable pressure built down in the depths of her yet again. Perhaps I’d keep you here just like this all night, and listen to you beg until morning. I think that would be my new favorite song.)

From Sage’s pack there comes a soft chime, like very distant temple bells. It’s the sound of her best friend, Margot Greenwillow, and at any other time, she’d welcome it. Now she stifles a groan as last night’s delicious memories recede, then extricates herself as quickly as she can; it should be impossible, tangled together as they are. But Sage has always been very good at moving stealthily. She’s freed herself, dressed, and grabbed her pack almost before Araphi rolls over to occupy the space Sage has left behind, murmuring happily in her sleep.

Hardly daring to breathe, she unties the door flaps to slip out into the frozen morning, where she stands in ankle-deep snow. (It’ll be calf-deep north of here in the mountains, she’s sure.) Dropping her pack onto the ground, Sage stoops to dig frantically through its precariously arranged contents until she comes up with the prize she seeks: a heavy silver compact, scuffed through rough use and tarnished by exposure. But when she undoes the clasp, the mirror inside is unblemished. Except it doesn’t reflect Sage. Instead, there’s a message scrawled across the glowing surface of the glass as though ink has somehow bled through from behind.

Greetings, friend! I find myself missing you fiercely. Are you still in Kingfisher? We’re preparing for the First Frost Festival next week, and I’ll hide a bottle of Clementine’s blackberry mead for you if you can make it.

Little as she wanted to spend the rest of the season in Kingfisher, the thought of her best friend in Bloomfield sends an arrow of regret into her heart. She wishes she had another spellscroll to turn the compact’s clever but simple sending capabilities into a temporary, pocket-sized portal through which she could see Margot’s face, her kind smile much less guarded these days. But since she burned that up on her last adventure, and hasn’t gotten her hands on another, Sage digs into her pack to find a good-sized scrap of parchment and a slender stick of charcoal in a small pouch. She scrawls: Greetings from the Northlands! Or nearly. We’re setting out soon, but I miss you just as fiercely. I’ll try my best to make your whimsical village affair, I promise. She thinks for a moment about telling Margot about the current Clauneck heir, still slumbering and naked in the tent, though she wouldn’t tell that part. Surely her best friend and Yael would guard the secret of Araphi’s location with their lives. But maybe that would only worry them both. Better that it’s the bard’s tale to tell once they return. So she folds the parchment up and tucks it into the compact, shutting it tight. Then she waits for Margot to receive the message through her own compact, which is the twin of Sage’s.

A moment later, it chimes again: So late in the season? I’d ask you to be careful—though if anybody is equipped to take care of themself, it’s you. Stay safe all the same, Sage. Also Yael says hello, and they hope you’re well, and please come back to bed because they’d like to…Oh wait, that part was for me.

She can imagine the brazen smile stamped across her friend’s face, and can’t help but grin in response. Margot is blissfully happy, and so Sage is happy for her, if bewildered by the bravery it must have taken for Margot to love the former Clauneck heir—whom Sage has grown unexpectedly fond of—and to let herself be loved by them, despite all that stood between them.

Sage never could have done it.

The message fades and the glass dims until it’s just a mirror again. The flush of cold across her high cheekbones, which her honey-blond hair has grown slightly past, and the wild look in her amber eyes are reflected perfectly, yet she barely recognizes herself. With a sigh, she snaps the compact shut.

The outpost is just beginning to stir around her as a weak winter sun crests the tree line, glittering off the frosted gate of Briarwall, through which she’ll soon lead her very first party, including Araphi—an untested adventurer, a barely tested bard, and the woman whose scent clings to her skin even now—into the wild lands where all of the laws and safeguards of Harrow cannot protect them.

Gods, what has she just done?

A soldier emerging from the nearby watchtower blows into his cupped hands as he trudges through the shallow drifts, headed to the barracks to catch some sleep now that his comrade’s replacing him. But halfway there he spots her, stops, and turns toward the tent. “Oy there!” he hails, loud enough to wake Araphi and half the campground in the snow-covered quiet of the morning. Noticing Sage’s grimace—her displeasure isn’t subtle, she expects—he speaks more quietly when he asks, “You’re the leader, aren’t you? Got a message for you.” From his pocket, he pulls a crumpled slip of parchment no larger than the one Sage used for her compact, along with a scroll tied with a familiar-looking leather thong. The note on the scrap is written in impeccably inked penmanship.

Sage,

Please don’t worry about me. I’ll stick to the Queens’ Road. Don’t know if I’ll ever leave it again. The world isn’t like in the books, is it? It’s just too big. I’m sorry.

—Tea

Oh no.

Sage looks to the gate—not the looming entrance to the Northlands, but the much simpler gateway out of the encampment, where the Queens’ Road leads due south. It’s only just daybreak; Tea couldn’t have much of a start on her. If Sage rides out now, perhaps she can overtake her and bring her back before the rest of the party has risen. And Remy will never have to know…

But as she pivots toward the stables, the soldier shakes his head. “You won’t catch her now, sir’ram. Never fear, though. She left early enough to reach the inn at Emberville before the snow really started at midnight—she couldn’t miss it, even in the dark. Not on the Queens’ Road.”

Sage whips back to face him. “What do you mean, she left before midnight? You’ve had this note all night?” She can hear her own voice rising, pitched toward panic now. “Why didn’t you deliver it at once?”

“Well, the miss said to wait till she’d left Briarwall. And I tried to bring it last night before I started my watch. You were occupied, weren’t you?”

Sage hopes the pink of the cold will hide her glowing cheeks. “That’s none of your concern,” she snaps back.