“What is it?” Leth’s eyes dart to the horizon, then back to Evain. For some reason, he doesn’t want to look away.
“You’re smiling.”
Leth tugs his scarf closer around his neck. The red wool is soft under his chin. “It’s not like I never smile.”
“Not like this,” Evain says, so softly Leth would miss it if he were listening any less intently. “Also, that scarf looks good on you.”
Leth shakes his head and turns back to the snow-swept forest. Underneath the soft warmth of the scarf, another heat tingles against his throat. The memory of Evain’s fingers placing the silver pendant around his neck. The heat rises through his face, and Leth hopes he isn’t flushing.
That’s another thing that doesn’t change from one side of the border to the next. Evain still has a way of getting under his skin.
?
CHAPTER TWELVE
EVAIN
There’s nothing magical about the sight of Leth wearing the clothes Evain bought for him. Evain’s possessiveness is pure animal instinct, something even more primal than his transmutation of desire into magic. He has one intense regret: that in his two and a half centuries among mortals, he never learned the tailor’s trade, to make the clothes himself.
There might be something magical in Leth’s flush. Evain’s blood rushes downward so quickly a lesser man might pass out. Even he feels somewhat weak in the saddle.
All right, some of his weakness is due to the effort of crossing the Northern Barrier unscathed and unnoticed. He expended a significant amount of his gathered power to shield himself and Daziroth for the crossing. Apparently it worked; neither Haldis nor Marta drew their holy swords against the unmasked demonic threat, and the barrier itself didn’t repel them. Evain felt only an unpleasant tingle crawling along his skin.
At least replenishing his power is easy, even if Leth’s still in denial about his own desires.
Darren rides up on his sturdy pony. “We’ll meet Tally an hour from here. I’ll point out the trail when we get to it—it’s a little hard to see from this direction.”
“Thank you… Darren.” Evain chooses his own names because they sound nice, so he has little room to judge. But Darkblade really is a bit much.
Darren is tall, handsome, and attracted to Evain in a passing sort of way. Evain would appreciate that more if the young mercenary wasn’t also clearly attracted to Leth. That’s fine as long as Darren keeps that attraction to himself and doesn’t keep proposing lascivious activities like sparring. Or shaking hands for too long.
Humans might call Evain hypocritical; Evain doesn’t fucking care. He just appreciates Darren’s ability to take a hint and back away from Evain’s… whatever Leth is.
Pale gray blankets the sky above, and dark forest lines the road they travel. A tall, dark mountain range rises to the east. Evain has never traveled this region of Lyrisenia before. From his perspective in Aliso, the Riseniasha mountains rose to the west. The old empire sprawled over mountains and forests, river valleys and vast plains, sharing borders with Etenia, Charain, and Praia to the south.
It should have been large enough and old enough to withstand the incursions of wild magic. But for some reason, it didn’t. Evain has heard many stories why but doesn’t know which are true. Two centuries ago, he was far too caught up in the thrill of human lives, the prospect of an entire vital world waiting for him, to pay attention to politics and unnatural disasters.
Evain is about to ask Leth something—anything, he just wants to make him blush again—when a faint chill tugs on his awareness. Evain’s fingers tighten on the reins, and Daziroth lifts his head too.
A new rift has opened. None of the humans sense it, so Evain keeps quiet.
After Darren points out the new trail, they arrive at a thatched cottage tucked away in a clearing. A row of wooden sheds blends with the tree line, flanked by flower beds. Red mahr always blooms in winter, but the pale shaflowers are out of season.
Darren dismounts and makes for the cottage, but the door swings open before he can knock. The man who emerges is neither short nor tall, with dark brown hair instead of black like most Lyrisenians. His cloak is patched, and he pulls his hood over his head just as Evain catches a glimpse of dark green eyes.
“How’ve you been, Tally?” Darren says. “Long time no see.”
“Spare the introductions. There’s a rift brewing five miles from here,” Tally says to the group, then pauses next to Darren. “Also, it’s been three days.”
“A long time, right,” Darren says, while Tasha strides towards the string of ponies. Bricks is already unloading one of them. “Well, everyone, this is Talirasell Ivha. Tally, this is Evain Marha, and that’s—”
“Where should I put these?” Bricks asks Tally, indicating the unloaded packs.
Tally takes the reins and leads the pony towards a tree stump to mount up. “The door’s unlocked.”
Darren’s the one who ends up carrying the packs into the cottage and locking up before the party sets off again. He continues the introductions as he works, and Evain is honestly impressed he got everyone’s names right. Tally himself seems distracted, head cocked as if listening to something nobody else can hear.
“Yes, it’s this way,” he says. “Follow me.”
