“How close are we to the border?” I ask, drawing a whiff of the sodden soil, digging my fingers deeper.
“Two days if we pick up our pace.”
I groan into the grass.
Not happening until I sleep this headache off.
I lift my head, peeking at him from beneath my lashes. “Can we sleep here tonight?”
“There’s still an hour before the sun goes down, and we haven’t covered a lot of ground today. “ He sweeps his gaze around the clearing, then looks at me over his shoulder, mouth a thin line as he slides his sword into his sheath and nods.
Thank the Gods.
My attention drifts past him to a huge, ancient-looking trumpet tree just beyond the ring of stones. It’s in full bloom—little blue bell-shaped flowers littering the knobbly branches that stretch far and wide. A flush of tall, pale mushrooms sprout from one of the gnarled limbs about twelve feet off the ground.
Mushrooms I’mboastfullyfamiliar with.
Dogwarth usually grows on shit, but it must thrive in this humid environment, and right now, it’s the answer to all my brain-pecking, temple-aching problems.
I clamber up and sprint past Rhordyn, weaving between the stones as I unbuckle my sword and lean it against the base of the thick, wet trunk. I grip hold of a knot, set one foot against the sturdy surface, and haul myself up, moving from branch to branch.
Reaching a spot that’s webbed in a shock of glassy veins, I frown, dragging my finger up the smooth lines, tracing them until they taper off …
Interesting.
“One minute you want to stop for the night and the next you’re climbing a tree?”
Rhordyn’s baritone almost shocks me out of my skin.
“There’s a patch of dogwarth up there,” I say, stealing a peek of him at the tree’s base. “Don’t stand there, I might land on you.”
He holds firm, folding his arms across his chest.
Don’t know why I bother sometimes.
“If I fall—”
“We’ve spoken about this,” he rumbles, and I pause, cutting him another glance.
I won’t determine your steps, Milaje. I’ll even let you trip. But I refuse to let you fall.
My cheeks heat, and I spear my attention back to the tree. Reaching a split in the trunk, I haul myself topside of the branch sprouting the patch of dogwarth. I push to a stand, and the branch wobbles beneath me, shaking some of the blue flowers loose and littering them upon Rhordyn’s head.
I smile.
The line between his brow smooths.
I ease farther along the branch, past tufts of flowers, dropping onto my belly as I draw nearer to the mushrooms—a bigger, thicker branch arched over top of me like a doorframe.
I stretch my arm out and pluck one of the lofty stalks, pinch its root ball free, and give it a sniff, brows almost jumping off my face. I flick it away and hold the fleshy cup beneath a dribble of rain. “Well, that makes more sense,” I murmur, stuffing the mushroom top in my mouth and chewing, moaning at the instant wash of relief. Like I just reached inside my skull and set a cool, numbing blanket over the bulge of pain.
Sweet, sweet mercy.
I narrow my attention on the remaining flush. On the smear of gooey black stuff that appears to have dripped down from above, saddling the branch like a streak of tar.
“What makes sense?”
I pluck another cap, rinse it off, and stuff it in my mouth, chewing through the dense, earthy flesh. “This stuff usually grows on crap,” I say, swallowing. “I thought it was spawning up here due to the humidity, but no. It is, in fact, sprouting from a smear of shit.”
