by Sever Bronny
“I have no idea whatsoever.”
She turned to him, arms folded now because she was cold and not because of anger. But she still refused to look at him and instead stared at her feet. “I … I shouldn’t have reacted like that. It was immature. Really immature. Like, I know we’re only teenagers, but I know better than that, especially as a so-called hero. I even … I even forgot Maxine wants to sacrifice herself for us. I’m a selfish thoughtless dimwit who’s totally wrapped up in herself.”
“And I shouldn’t have snapped at you in the first place. I let my tiredness and irritation get the best of me instead of talking it out like we usually do. I lashed out at you and I feel awful. I apologize. I apologize for my thoughtlessness and my—” He shook his head at himself. “—sheer spitefulness.” He dawdled too. “I’m also …” Ugh, this was so hard to admit. “I’m also jealous. Of Arthur, obviously. But really any boy who pays too much attention to you. It’s a weakness of mine, I know, and I’m ashamed of it. I’m embarrassed to be so jealous.” He twirled a finger beside his temple. “Makes me stupid. Heck, I feel stupid.”
Leera looked up, her dark and sleep-ringed eyes softening behind her spectacles. For a time, they only stared at each other, small smiles creeping onto their lips.
“You keep staring at me like that, Dragoon Jones, and I might have to kiss you.”
She smirked. “Then you better do it now, Dragoon Stone, before, before …”
“Before what?”
She snorted. “I have no idea, I got nothing.”
He drew her to him and she wrapped her arms around his neck and they kissed deeply, softly, lovingly.
“Our first big fight,” she whispered, nuzzling into his neck as they hugged.
“Do we get a prize?”
She chortled and drew back while playing with his hair. “Ooh, we should have a little sash that we sew patches onto like they do in the military.”
“What would the First Couple Fight patch look like?”
“A woman and man throwing books at each other?”
The pair of them laughed in each other’s arms. When they settled down, Augum shook his head.
She crinkled her nose. “What is it now, Dragoon Stone?”
“Just admiring how beautiful you are, Dragoon Jones.”
“Shut up.” She nuzzled up to him again. “I don’t think of other boys in that way. Ever. I love you, and always will.”
Hearing her say that filled his heart with peace and joy. He squeezed her midriff, whispering, “And I love you.”
“To be perfectly fair, I, uh, was seething with jealousy too,” she admitted.
“Naoki?”
She nodded. “Um … and, uh …”
“Not Maxine too.”
“Er, maybe a teeny little bit.”
“That’s …” He raised an eyebrow at her, incredulous. “… kind of hilarious.”
“Yeah, I know. Sorry about that.”
“You are the only woman for me, Dragoon Jones. And always will be.”
“Mmm,” she cooed, nuzzling even closer.
He lovingly ran a hand through her raven hair then drew her hood for her as she was starting to shiver. “Can you do me a favor when we get our castle back?”
Her eyes narrowed with playful suspicion. “Depends …”
“Can you put that pirate outfit on again … just for me though?”
She recoiled to stare at him. “Oh, you naughty, naughty Arcaner you!” She kissed him, winked, and said, “We can maybe work something out,” and led him by the hand back to his now-completed tent, where Olaf was talking in low voices with Bridget. The pair of them looked up and, seeing Augum and Leera holding hands, smiled knowingly at each other. And they weren’t the only ones. Many of the others, finding reasons to stick about, smiled before finally retiring to their tents.
“We, uh, might have been a bit hangry,” Leera admitted sheepishly.
“I knew you two could work it out together,” Bridget said. “I had total faith in you.”
“And we love you right back.” Leera plopped down in the snow beside them and crossed her legs, still holding Augum’s hand. She nodded at Olaf. “So you going to surprise him by crawling into his tent tonight?”
Bridget reddened. “Leera—” while Olaf looked like he’d been caught picking his nose.
Leera leaned forward, whispering, “Live dangerously, Bridge. Live dangerously.”
“There will be no sneaking about,” Bridget whispered back in a scandalized fashion, “as we all desperately need sleep.”
“Oh, there will always be sneaking about. And if you don’t do some sneaking of your own, Bridget Abigail Burns, I will be mightily disappointed in you this time.”
“Can you please just stop?” Bridget said, though she was trying hard not to smile.
Leera pointed at that smile. “See that, Ollie? You have a hope. There will, one day, Fates willing, be some sneaking about in your favor.”
“Can we hire her as our advocate?” Olaf jested.
“We have a long day ahead and are going straight to bed, Olaf Hroljassen,” Bridget said, standing up and reaching out to him. “Come on, boyfriend.”
He smiled at her. “Yes, girlfriend.”
“Night, you two,” Bridget said over her shoulder, leading Olaf away.
“Night,” Augum and Leera chorused.
“Look at those two walking hand in hand,” Leera noted, leaning up against Augum. “Gods I hope we make it through this. I really want to be her bridesmaid.”
Augum had to snort again.
“What? We need stuff to look forward to.”
“We should focus on our wedding first.” Then he froze, realizing what he had implied.
“Uh, doesn’t that mean that one of us has to ask the other to marry them first?”
Augum once more searched for a rock to crawl under. “Um … I’m not always the sharpest sword in the armory.”
“Not always, but you’re the bravest.”
They smiled at each other, teenagers in love and longing for a future that they hoped would come to pass.
“Your birthday is tomorrow,” she whispered conspiratorially. “Want to know what I got you?”
“Of course not. Surprise me.”
“That’s the right answer, boyfriend.”
They worked together to finish setting up Leera’s tent, then wished each other a good sleep, acknowledging that they did in fact need the rest, and there indeed would be no sneaking about on this cold evening—or rather early morn.
Later, however, as Augum lay snug in his tent rolled up in his blanket and fur coat, instead of checking on the Orb of Hearing as he had promised himself he would do, he began to concoct a bold and long-term plan to ask Leera to marry him. But first he had to free the kingdom, for only then could he ask for her hand without worrying about their future.
And it was a future he very much looked forward to.
A Faceful of Mirth
The next day started late and slow. By the time Maxine and Bridget began corralling people to prepare food, it was around noon, and Klines still hadn’t shown up. Despite getting a good sleep, there were many disgruntled groans and mutters from the tents. Nonetheless, the group began their day, a gray and windy and bitterly cold one.
“Fates help me I miss the sun,” Jengo muttered, breath steaming in the frigid morning air as he examined Augum’s calf. “How’s it feel?”
“All right. I’ll be able to walk.”
“And the foot?”
“Fine.”
“Head?”
“Fine.”
“Because you came way too close to arcane fever, Augum.” Jengo gave him that I’m the physician to the castle and you should be honest with me look. Never mind that they weren’t in the castle, or that the castle wasn’t even Castle Arinthian anymore. Gods how he missed it.
“It’s fine, Jengo. But thank you.” As Jengo got up to attend to the others, Augum grabbed his arm. “And hey … exce
llent work. And I’m not just talking about in the library. Northspear too.”
“Thanks, Aug. That … that actually means a lot,” and he went to check on everyone else.
The group chatted idly around the fire as they spooned from wooden bowls of stew consisting of formerly dried carrots, potatoes, beef, and spices. The concoction had been stewed by a resourceful Arthur, Mary and Brandon, who had worked together as a team and were getting along rather amiably. It tasted divine, especially in this foul weather. They were all hopeful Klines would return with the entire ritual ingredient list, making their jobs easier.
Everyone kept checking the cloudy skies as if expecting to see Orion circling overhead, particularly Maxine, who spent more time sky-watching than anything else. Augum, while absently floating a big rock to train his Telekinesis, spent most of his time reviewing his duel with Gavinius, disappointed in his performance, despite Leera’s reminder that the man was a full five degrees higher. And never mind that he should be concerning himself with more pressing things, like why the Canterrans were using necromancy, or how to acquire the rest of the ritual ingredients—he wanted to improve his dueling skills, and the only way to do that was to review what had transpired.
With his spoon held above his bowl, he stared into the fire recalling Gavinius’s every move and countermove, and debating with himself what he could have done instead. Could he have squeezed the man’s throat first, preventing him from casting in the first place? Except in the academies they teach you how to counteract that by spinning and shoving and using counter-Telekinesis. And then there were his spell combinations, which he felt had been subpar. His general battle decision-making needed work.
Jengo had his nose in a healing book, one hand perusing the pages, the other writing on a sheaf of parchment. Now and then he’d glance at his stew and telekinetically spoon a mouthful so as not to lose his place in his studies.
A droopy-eyed Cry, when not gawking at Haylee, sat with his journal open underneath his bowl of stew, pestering Herzog on how to better chronicle events. Beside them, Esha sat studying whatever she could get her hands on, her appetite for information seemingly boundless. Whenever people came to ask her questions, she would respond simply, and then begin pestering them about their own history, this kingdom, this age and the people who lived in it. Herzog always interrupted his conversation with Cry to note anything she said, with Cry practicing alongside.
Leera, sitting between Augum and Bridget by the fire, scooped up the last of her stew with a chunk of stale journey bread, then elbowed Bridget, causing her to spill some of her own stew, drawing a lip-smack of annoyance from her. “Hey, let’s check the, uh—” She munched down on her bread and continued with her mouth full. “—the whatchamacallit, the parchment thingy. The ingredient list or whatever. Stupid brain, ugh, you know what I mean—”
“The ritual scroll?” Bridget said, frowning as she carefully dabbed at her soup-stained robe with a cloth.
Leera finished chewing. “Yeah, that’s it. Anyway, in case Klines doesn’t make it back and we have to do it all ourselves.”
Bridget drew away from Leera a bit and continued dabbing at the stain. “Augum has it, I believe.”
“It’s in my satchel,” he said, not making an effort to get up.
“You mean rucksack,” Leera corrected. She kissed her hand and smacked her own forehead with it. “Good brain.”
Augum only grunted.
“Maybe we should start learning how to perform the ritual,” Leera added, “or at least run through spell cycles while we wait.” She licked her spoon clean and, after eyeing her empty bowl, glanced about to see if anyone was watching.
“Still have a couple of hours,” Bridget replied. “And cycles would not be prudent as the noise could attract attention. But—”
“We’re in the middle of nowhere!” Leera countered. “Prudent indeed. Pfft. Should be your middle name or something—Bridget Prudence Burns.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Nothing,” Leera squeaked.
“I was about to compliment you by saying that learning the ritual would be wise and you go on and—”
Leera threw up her hands. “I’m sorry, already! I surrender! Mercy, Bridge, mercy,” and she threw her hands around Bridget and hugged her.
Bridget pressed her eyes shut. “Can I please just finish eating?”
Leera let go. “Love you too, Bridgey,” and brought her attention back to her empty bowl, her tongue scouring her lips.
Augum, as ravenous as his girl, elbowed her, thinking along the same lines. “Dare you to just go for it,” he whispered, nodding at the bowl.
She shrugged, tipped the bowl up to her face, and began licking the inside. Augum, in a show of support, followed suit. Bridget’s brows furrowed at the display, but she refrained from opining.
Olaf, who was sitting beside Bridget and had already finished his bowl, pointed skyward. “That what I think it is, Bridgey?” Bridget looked up and he immediately began frantically licking his own bowl.
After cluing in that nothing was there, Bridget whapped him with the back of her hand. “Really, Ollie?”
Olaf spoke in between licks, now making a show of it. “I … guess … it’s … worth … degrading … myself … for … every … morsel.”
“Now you’re just being egregious.” She got up to clean her bowl in the snow, shaking her head in disgust. But the others’ lack of decorum seemed to have broken the dam, and soon everyone was licking their spoons and bowls and eyeing up the central pot sitting in the snow by the fire.
Bridget finished washing her bowl, turned in place and, upon seeing that they were all partaking in the depravity, placed her hands on her hips and tilted her head. “You poor things are starving—heck, I’m starving—and here I am castigating you all for a lack of civility. I’m the prude, aren’t I?” She looked about, nodding to herself. “I’m the prude. Great. Just great.”
When no one disputed this, she marched over to the pot, lifted it up and, with everyone looking on, lifted it to her lips, only to scrunch her face in disgust. Instead she compromised and stuck a finger in, scraped the side of the pot and licked her finger. “Mmm, good,” she said loudly, nodding in satisfaction. “Good.”
Leera flung a clump of snow at her. “Gross, Bridge, why didn’t you use a spoon? It’s a communal pot! Some basic civility, yeesh.”
As Bridget went beet-red, the irony of the jest made everyone howl out in laughter, a laughter that was desperately needed after all they had gone through. And Bridget just stood there, gaping, caught in a hypocritical trap of her own making.
And then she began clawing the pot like a monkey, slapping what she dug out onto her tongue—even licking her fingers in an exaggerated and grotesque fashion. As the laughter swelled, she boldly continued, her sleeve getting dirtier with each scrape and her mouth appearing as soiled as a pig’s snout.
She then looked at them, one eyebrow raised as if to say, Oh yeah? What are you going to do about it? This, of course, had the desired reaction. First Olaf reached for the pot, only for Bridget to swoop it out of arm’s reach. When he tried again, she smeared a goopy hand across his cheek, making him gape in disbelief. And then Brandon attempted to grab the pot, only to receive a kick on the shin.
A chortling Arthur, wearing the haughty look of someone who thought he could take advantage of a girl, actually tried to Paralyze her— an act considered illegal outside of battle—only to telekinetically receive a log to the midsection before he had even finished drawing her outline. He fell to the snow with a squeal, causing renewed howls of laughter.
Haylee hobbled over and tried to grab it, but Bridget kicked her bad leg out from under her and sent her crashing to the snow.
“Well, I never!” Haylee said in mock anger, and started gathering snow.
And thus began the snowball war.
Bridget strolled about like a queen, chin jutting out imperiously, easily handling her opponents while making a show of c
lawing out what remained of the stew. “Come get it, fiends,” she snarked. “You ain’t gettin’ a single scrap of this here meal,” she drawled in a terribly executed country twang that sounded like a rich girl pretending to be poor.
“Too slow, Stone,” she snapped when Augum made his own half-hearted attempt to telekinetically snatch the pot. “Try again, face-sucker,” she sang at Leera when she cunningly tried sneaking up from behind, only for Bridget to whirl about and shove her face into a nearby snowbank.
Leera spit out some snow, spectacles stuck with ice. “You little witch,” she said, albeit with a smile.
By then, snowballs were flying, yet Bridget was causing total mayhem by bending their arcs, something Augum thought only he could do. And she was good at it too, probably because her summonable weapon was a bow. That archer instinct certainly came in handy as face after face received splats of snow. She even had a snowball chase poor Mary down as she tried to get away, only to receive a vicious smack to the back of her head. All anyone saw was her blonde hair flapping as she ate snowbank.
Only a few people did not partake, namely Cry, who sat penning what he observed, and Maxine, arms folded as she kept one eye on the forest and one on the sky, as if mirth were a thing to be avoided at all costs. Herzog grinned while he chronicled and Esha asked him if this display of Solian behavior symbolized anything in particular.
“Joy, my dear Ancient One,” Herzog replied, head bouncing. “Youthful joy and exuberance, the kind that only comes with true friendship.”
Volleys of snowballs shot back and forth, causing some friendly fire, which in turn caused further chaos. In the end, the only two standing were Bridget and Brandon.
“What have you got, Summers?” Bridget taunted as the pair circled each other. “Your stupid bandana ain’t going to save you now.”
Everyone was in stitches because it was so very unlike Bridget, and yet she was merciless. “Come on, Summers, I know you got all that pent-up aggression. What are you going to do?” She licked her finger like a taunting barbarian. “What are you going to do, huh?”
“She’s asking for it,” Olaf said, watching from the sidelines and wiping snow from his clothes.
