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‘Nothing I’d share with you.’
‘You don’t need to. It’s written all over your face.’
‘Have I told you that I prefer you in writing? You’re more bearable in your letters than in person.’
The winged ranger put a hand to his cheek in mock offence. ‘You wound me.’
‘I wish someone would.’
Dratos puffed away on his pipe. ‘That’s right. Get it all out, you moody bastard.’
Wilder shook his head in disbelief and sank against the wall, holding out his hand for the pipe.
Dratos handed it over with a look of delight.
‘You’re a fucking pain in the arse, you know that?’ Wilder said, taking a drag before coughing hard and thrusting the pipe back at his friend, eyes watering. ‘Fuck’s sake, Dratos. That’s not tobacco.’
Dratos frowned. ‘Why would I smoke tobacco? Tastes like shit.’ He took a hearty pull on the pipe, embers glowing in the bowl. ‘This here is the finest Naarvian grass a smile like mine can buy.’
Wilder spat the bitter taste on the ground. ‘You’re getting high? Now?’
‘Takes the edge off your vicious insults.’
‘It’ll take the edge off your fighting if we’re attacked.’
‘Nothing takes the edge off my fighting,’ he replied, with a pointed look at the shadows coiling at his back.
Wilder surveyed them warily. It was something he still hadn’t grown used to after all this time – that the darkness could wage warforthem as well as against them.
‘You saw what they’re doing in that torture camp, then?’ Dratos prompted, studying his face. ‘You showed your feisty apprentice?’
Wilder nodded. ‘I saw, and I did.’
‘Good. She needs to know. Anya and Adrienne both say we need her and her magic onside for the war to come.’
‘That’s up to Thea.’
‘No shit. But I imagine you’ve got something to do with that.’
‘Maybe once… Not anymore.’ Wilder sighed heavily. There had not been a whisper of Thea’s magic, not in anger, notin desire. Nothing. It was as though it had been snuffed out, erased from the world itself. ‘I think we need to adjust our plans accordingly.’
Dratos blew out a long stream of smoke. ‘You think one storm wielder will be enough?’
‘It’ll have to be.’
‘What of the other sister, the alchemist?’
Wilder raised a brow. ‘You realise I’m not the official spokesperson for the Embervale family?’
Dratos shrugged. ‘Coulda fooled me.’ He kicked a satchel at his feet. ‘Anya said to give you this.’
Wilder didn’t recognise the bag, but rather the clothes and armour spilling out of it. It was what he’d been wearing before he’d been stripped and thrown in the ice cell. He couldn’t say he’d missed the shoddy breastplate and pauldrons, but he was always in need of more shirts, and he’d be glad if his belt was there. It had been Malik’s, once upon a time.
As he picked up the satchel, Kipp’s yellow kerchief fell to the ground by his boot. Scooping it up and stuffing it in his breast pocket, he almost laughed. The Guardian had been right; he’d certainly needed it again, though he’d not had the chance to use it. He’d bled a lot since that encounter.
‘That armour’s a pile of shit,’ Dratos declared, with a nod to the boiled leather peeking out of the bag.
‘I’ve noticed.’ Wilder rolled his eyes. ‘Where are we at with the rest of the forces?’
