Thread of Frost

Ch. 9: You Know Me Better Than Most

The woods were dense.

Tristan squinted through the darkness. The summer air was warm and damp, settling on his shoulders like a blanket. His horse's ears twitched, and he patted the creature's back absently. He ought to give her a name, Tristan thought. Perhaps Lucky. Or Bandit. Both seemed appropriate, given that he'd stolen her from the castle stables.

Next to him, Isaac drew up short.

His grey eyes were sunken, and his tunic was torn and dusty from several days on the road. He'd lost muscle during his time in prison; his face was gaunter than Tristan remembered. Sharp enough to slice butter.

"I don't like him," Isaac muttered.

His eyes were fixed on Owain. The other boy was riding several strides ahead, his copper hair gleaming in the dying sunlight. The tendons in his forearms flexed as he snapped the reins. He'd positioned Tarquin in front of him; the former guard was unconscious, his head lolling against the horse's neck.

"You don't like most people," Tristan pointed out.

Isaac's knuckles tightened on the reins. "He pretended to be a cat."

"He didn't pretend," Tristan said. "He was a cat."

"Same difference," Isaac muttered. "That thing used to sleep in your bed."

"That thing," Owain said dryly, "has superhuman hearing." He squeezed his leg, circling the horse. "We need to make camp for the night."

Isaac shook his head. "We're not far enough from the castle. We'll push on for a few more miles."

"Your friend needs rest," Owain said.

Tristan glanced at Tarquin. The former guard was drooling on the saddle. He'd regained consciousness only twice over the last few days, muttering incoherent phrases like sputterfly wings and toadstool rot before passing out again.

Isaac's mouth tightened. "He's not my friend."

"No." Owain's voice was mild. "You Dayweavers don't have many friends, do you? I've always thought you a sensitive bunch."

The other boy slid from his horse. He pulled Tarquin from the creature's back, carefully positioning him against a tree. Owain was stronger than he looked, Tristan noted in surprise; even after his time in prison, Tarquin had to weigh at least thirteen stone.

Owain knelt down, uncorking a bottle. Isaac's grey eyes narrowed.

"What are you doing?"

Owain didn't bother looking up. "Sterilizing his wounds." He poured liquid on Tarquin's open sores, which were oozing yellow pus. "Unless you'd like him to die of infection."

Isaac pressed his lips together, as if he was considering it.

Exasperation filled him. "We need him," Tristan said, voice low. "Remember?"

Isaac blew out a breath. "Fine. Whatever." He slid from his horse, pulling a flask from his saddlebag. "I'm going to find water."

Tristan nodded. "There's a stream back—"

But Isaac was already gone. Tristan lowered his hand. When he turned, Owain was kneeling by a pile of logs. Fire licked at the wood, and Tristan stared. Good gods. How in the seven burning hells had he done that already?

A sense of foreboding slithered down his spine.

"Why are you helping us?" Tristan asked.

Owain didn't look up. "Have you been to Tarhalla before?"