11

The sun had risen well over the Backbone by the time Una awoke the next day. Noon, or close to it. She'd fallen asleep sometime in the early hours of the morning, camped on a shoulder above the runoff of Redbeard's Throat. The midland woods were turned golden, offset somewhat bleakly by the westbound rainclouds that had plagued her during the night.

Her first thoughts had been of him. Ethos, so called. Strange name. She wondered if she'd missed him in her carelessness. The unadorned shell was inactive, but she knew beyond a shadow of doubt that the benefactor was waiting for her at the other end of it. 

A breeze carried voices with it, distinctly male. Una climbed forward and searched for signs of movement in the bracken, but only the forest stared back. With a quiet curse at her own incompetence, she gathered up her strewn belongings and descended from the ledge.

Birdsong followed her into the trees. The land was lush despite the season, here and there marshy and soft underfoot. She shivered in the woodland shade, ducking branches, and clambered up a slippery slope, employing the saplings and rocks within reach. A creek from the runoff was over the rise. High-banked. Mossy. Bits of sunlight dappled the ground and flickered whenever a draft breathed through.

Two men had made camp there. She instantly recognized the first as Ethos; lightly dressed, he'd seated himself cross-legged by a pile of brushwood, eyes closed, hands in his lap. The gleam on his skin hinted at a recent bathing. He wasn't sleeping, not if the crease in his brow was any indication.

The taller of the two had stripped to the waist and was handsome in a traditional sort of way, all flaxen hair and bluefire glare. Parts of his belly bunched nicely together as he waded through the creek in search of something. "Curse all," he muttered. "I don't see it anywhere."

Without looking, Ethos replied, "You had it before we entered the pass."

"I had a lot of things back then. Self-respect, dignity— "

"Is the water helping your ankle?"

"Some." The blond, exhausted, gave up his hunt and scaled the embankment, gripping roots. Soil clung to his feet. "There are beaver cuttings all over the place," he said. "We may find dinner yet."

Ethos glanced sidelong. "You eat beavers?"

"I'd eat you if I was hungry enough." He joined the perch and gladly yielded his back to the dirt, one arm over his eyes. After a moment, he asked, "How's the head?"

"It'd be better if you hadn't made me bang it going down the runoff."

He grinned, looking blind. "I was defending my honor."

Ethos was quiet. His gaze drifted southward. "Did you see the fort?"

"Aye, and we'll give it a wide berth." No reply came, so he peered out at Ethos from beneath his arm, chin tucked. "Got it?"

"I guess."

"Say 'I get it, Peter.'"

Ethos sighed. His eyes returned. "I get it."

Peter went to an elbow and gave him a long, significant look. But he didn't say anything. Instead, he scratched his head and rummaged through the woodpile between them. Seemingly unsatisfied by its contents, he held up a stick and asked, "Do you know what this is?"

Ethos scoffed at him. "Seriously?"

"Just answer the question."

"It's cedarwood."

"It's softwood. We use this for kindling." Again, Peter rummaged, discarding anything damp. "We hold the fire with hardwood," he said. "Is the tinderbox still with us?"

"It busted open in the fall."

"Then refill it. Pine needles, grass— whatever you can find that wasn't hit by the rain. Come over here and cut this blister off my foot." 

A small knife with a deer-tine grip was driven into the dirt like someone had recently used it. Ethos retrieved it with the carefulness of one nursing a hidden injury. He wiped it clean on the leg of his pants, turned, and asked, "How do you want it?"

"Hold on." Peter waved him closer and reached. "Relax your grip," he said. "Like this, see. You'll make fewer mistakes if you expect the edge to slip untrue."

A rock shifted beneath Una's weight. She shrank back, a moment too late, and watched in horror as it tumbled down the grassy drop. It hit the water with a sloppy thunk of mutiny.

Their reaction to her was unforgettable. Peter actually elbowed Ethos, and Ethos, glaring, followed his gaze to her position in the thickets above. Those eyes were just as she remembered, but when they rounded, locked on her face, they let in the light and became something more.

She ducked out of sight, breathing fast, without thinking. The silence was made worse somehow by the bubbling creek. A frozen moment passed before one of them called out to her. Peter, the blond, voice brushed with a fine northern burr. He sounded close, closer than before, and a glimpse found him boldly surmounting the rise, cursing his footing. She'd been wrong, as it happened— with the distance between them gone, she was pleased to see that his face, while markedly battered and filled with fatigue, was more than just traditionally handsome.

He stopped when he saw her, expressioned by honest concern. "You alright?"

Una met him out in the open, shoulders thrown back lest the slanted earth pull her forward. Ethos was still beneath the beech trees, risen with the deer-tine knife. She caught his eyes and saw in them a desperate need for her to overlook him, so she did. 

She addressed Peter, purely business. "I should ask the same of you," she said. "This is Whitestar land, you realize. Only the troubled come here."

"No trouble, just regrouping. We've come through the pass."

"You're welcome to spend the night in our sanctuary," she suggested. "Any items you've lost can be replaced. My family's well and has to spare."

"Are all midland women this trusting?"

"Only the ones with nothing to fear."

Peter smirked at that. "What do I call you?"

She descended the drop, taking his hand when he offered it. His calloused palms were those of a workhorse. "Una," she greeted. "And you?"

"Peter." He gestured across the creek. "This is Ethos."

Ethos glanced between them, half-turned as if expecting to defend himself. It made Una stifle a laugh. "Hello," she said, inviting his eyes. "Nice to meet you."

Ethos didn't smile with her. "Likewise."

She allowed Peter to lead her across the creek. The banks were high enough and close enough that she scarcely had to hop from one side to the other. "Where are you boys coming from?" she asked. "I assume somewhere along the coast."

Peter checked on his strung-up shirt. "We crossed paths around Nahga and decided to stick it out for a while," he said. "Strength in numbers like."

Una removed her gear and watched from afar as he dressed by the tree line. He was certainly a tall one— taller even than Wallace, who towered most. Seeing his hair run amok, she tried to imagine what he'd do if she reached up to fix it for him, if he'd stoop to be obliging or be taken aback. 

Her gaze slid of its own accord. Ethos was standing by, still visibly uncertain about her. She sent him a thin, private smile. "There's no need to be skittish," she whispered. "I'm here to help."

Ethos guardedly searched her eyes, overbroad in the shoulders like someone with a little more growing to do. He'd let up, she knew, if she could just touch him, but a subtle attempt for his arm went evaded. Intentional or not, he distanced himself and said, "I'm going to get more firewood."

Peter approached. He flung the battered tinderbox. "Don't wander."

Ethos almost didn't catch it. "Why do you always say that?"

"Because it's you." His simple reply must have meant something more, because Ethos didn't argue the point. Peter watched him disappear, and then, with a sigh, saw to building an open fire. "Don't mind him," he said, to Una. "Come sit."

She hunkered down, hugging her knees. "How old is he?"

"Beats me," he grunted. "Somewhere between hay and grass."

"Did you two have a difficult time in the pass?"

"You could say that." He dug at the soil with his hands, dislodging rocks, and Una couldn't help but notice that some of his nails were oddly mottled, as if he'd nearly lost them somehow. "We saw your sanctuary from the runoff," he said, interrupting her thoughts. "When was it built?"

"The Second Era."

"I'm amazed it's still standing."

"I sometimes wish it wasn't, if I'm honest."

He laughed. It made him look a few years younger. "I get that," he said. "Homes can become obligations sometimes, keeping us tame."

"Speaking from experience?"

"Aye, maybe. There are some things I miss."

"Oh?"

"My sister, mostly."

Lightly, she stopped his injured hands. She reminded herself to be gentle as his eyes leapt from the ground. "Return to her, Peter," she instructed. "You're safer there. Happier."

Her persuasion mired his cobalt gaze. "Safer, sure."

"You don't want to die out here, do you?"

He smiled a little. "You have a pretty freckle under your eye."

Peter's response came as a mild shock. It took a certain sort of man to be anything other than vile when compelled, so, ears burning, clutching her chest, Una conceded a rare loss for words. But when his open fondness began to evaporate, she quickly cupped his cheek to bring it back, scraping stubble across her palm. "You don't belong here," she insisted, unsure. "You're tired. You want to go home."

He became very serious, almost annoyed— but not at her. "He asked for help."

Una couldn't think of anything to say. Peter was waiting for her to explain the betrayal she'd have him commit, but it wasn't right. She knew that. "A good man," she decided. "It'd be a waste to get rid of you on the whim of a nameless benefactor."

"You think I'm a good man?"

Una withdrew, leaving in him sweet residues of trust. "What's our next move?"

Peter returned to the fire, brow furrowed, like nothing had happened. "We didn't get any sleep last night, so we'll rest up here and leave at first light," he said. "I've snares out."

"I meant going forward."

"Oh." Peter rubbed at his face. "Farwell's closest, barring your sanctuary," he said. "We'll stop there next, I imagine."

"What's in Farwell?"

"Not a whole lot, sounds like," he chuckled. "I just want to sleep in a bed. Ethos said he'd tolerate it to make up for picking a fight with the spirits."

Una frowned, torn by questions. "Where did he come from?"

"Ethos? I'm not sure, really. I found him in a tree."

She scoffed in disbelief. "You didn't."

"I thought he was a spriggan."

"Is he?"

"Ballsch if I know."

"You must know something."

"I know plenty. You're looking at the leading expert."

She rolled her eyes at him. "You don't even know what he is or where he came from."

"Aye, and nobody else does, either. But I know what to feed him." It must have been his idea of a joke, because he smiled sidelong and asked, "Why so curious?"

She could have told him. He'd trust her with anything. It was the greatest upside of what she could do. But instead she touched his cheek again. She smiled with him.

"Shouldn't you check the snares?"

Peter nodded and reached for his boots.

Ethos chose then to emerge from the brush, bearing the spoils of his scavenging. He'd been doing more than collecting branches, she quickly realized; he'd been collecting himself, and, perhaps, deciding how to deal with her. He'd shed his guarded expression and donned a more appropriate one.

To Peter, he stopped and asked, "What are you doing?"

"Putting my boots on," Peter replied, a knee to the dirt. "I'll have you take care of my blister when I get back from checking the snares."

"I thought you already checked them."

"I was going to, but then you started meditating or whatever the hell it is you do. I wasn't about to leave you to the dogs while your melon was miles away somewhere."

Una repositioned a few of the rocks, still crouched, and was glad that Peter, while startlingly noble beneath his aggression, at least shared the aesthetics of ordinary men; the ring around the fire pit was shoddy, impractical. The clumsy nature of it humanized him.

But the gods weren't without a sense of humor. With Peter conveniently off to check traps, a set of tawny feet drew near. The riverside was quiet. "I caught the end of that," Ethos said. "I don't know how you got him to talk, but you'd better never do it again."

"You didn't tell him about me."

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because he doesn't see the world like I do."

Una's gaze moved higher. "I know what you're planning to do in Oldden."

He raised an eyebrow. "I doubt that."

"You're after the king."

Hands in his pockets, Ethos studied her. It was difficult to read his expression. After a deliberate moment, he asked, "Do you know why?"

"No," she said, honestly. "Just that you are."

He nodded, more to himself than to her. He subtly scanned the trees. "It's not safe to be around me right now," he said. "Please say what you need to say and then leave." 

Una steeled herself. "I demand that you take me with you."

His smile was a flash of white. "A demand," he grieved. "My weakness."

She went to her feet, sworn against his pleasant distractions. "I have too much to contribute to the world to allow myself the indignity of wasting away here year after year." She circled the pit. His eyes followed her. "Be my reason to escape," she pressed. "Let me help."

"What good are you to me?"

His standoffishness was unexpected. She slowed. "So cold," she said, in confusion. "You weren't like this the last time we spoke. You were engaging."

"I didn't expect to see you again."

"What difference would that have made?"

"I would have behaved." Ethos closed his eyes, just for a moment. Was it resignation? It read like exhaustion. Sure enough, he sat on his heels and began to sort through the wood, and while Una couldn't see his face, she didn't mind the view. It was the easy way that he moved, how his hands would go about separate ventures. He didn't see her as a threat; that much was obvious. He had more openings than an empty warren. 

Or not. "I can feel you looking at me," he said, without so much as a glance. "Sit down if you're going to stay. I dislike being stood over."

Una crouched with him. "I can protect you."

"Protect me?" Ethos paused to impart a small smile. He didn't seem to mean it insultingly. He just searched her face. "I have bigger worries than prophets and benefactors," he explained. "I can't involve anyone until I know what I'm up against."

"Does Peter not count?"

"No." Ethos resumed his sorting. "No, he's ruined it."

"I want what he has." His glance of open bewilderment was more like she remembered, but, as if embarrassed by it, he quickly apologized and turned his face away. Una touched his hair, and her hand, when it slid to the back of his neck, released upon him a battle won. "I'm deeply moved by you," she said, in earnest. "Stand with me and I'll give you everything."

Ethos had gone still. He was resisting, she knew. She could feel it. He'd recognized an attack and was doing his utmost to counter it. He said, "No one should have everything."

"They call this a package deal, darling." Una watched his profile as he echoed her. He was losing touch, trying to make sense of the words. "It's my father you want," she revealed. "But I don't just want you to kill him. I want you to overthrow him. We'll usurp rule, you and I, same as my grandfather did in his time. Be my champion. Misbehave. Spare me the disgust and humiliation of being married off to whichever Battlefrost oaf is most qualified to have me."

He looked at her. He couldn't have been a day over twenty, but something in his eyes was clearly older, much older. There were suddenly crows in the trees. Dozens of them, silent. "I'd almost forgotten you were beautiful once," he said. "You were so proud of your hair."

Disorientation was a common side effect, but his was enough to make Una forget her restraint. He cringed when the power crashed into him. "Focus on the sound of my voice," she said. "There exists no distance between us. The night we met, you knew it was fate."

Amusement flickered. "That flimsy robe."

"And your wandering eyes."

"You got all huffy at me even though you obviously liked it." Something lucid emerged from the milky fog of his thoughts. "You'd been sent."

"No." Una touched his face. His skin was feverish. "No one sent me."

A frown wrinkled his brow. Very slowly, he reached for his neck and asked, "Am I bleeding?"

It certainly must have felt that way. His mind was an old wrought iron strongbox, latched by deadbolts, gummed by dirt, left somewhere to rust in the rain, and no matter how hard she struck at the lock, it simply wouldn't come open. 

"Relax," she invited. "It's just me. It's okay."

But a crunch underfoot arose from the tree line, and Una was forced to abandon her struggle. The fire unseen to served as a convenient diversion, so she brought it alight with a pass of her hand, eyes low, while Peter maneuvered out of the forest. Ethos was silent. The creek bubbled.

And the crows… they'd gone. She hadn't even heard a beating of wings.

Peter sat fireside, upwind of the smoke. Two dead rabbits thudded to the dirt beside him. "There are blazes north of here," he said. "Where do they lead?"

Una replied, "The Whitestar outposts."

"Are they active?"

"No." She warmed her palms. "We knew it was only a matter of time before Oldden would need to rally its men, but they've left us nothing," she grumbled. "Seems foolish, leaving so many settlements undefended."

"Nahga has a town guard. Most places do."

"Town guard," she scoffed. "Bakers and farmers, I imagine, aiming to protect what's theirs. A single unit of Bonesteels would devour their pointless stand at a gulp."

Peter smiled. "I'm a farmer."

"Are you?"

"I wouldn't lie about it." A glance at Ethos so effectively stole his smile that Una reluctantly dared a glimpse. Apprehensively, Peter asked, "What's going on?"

Ethos hadn't moved since she'd broken away. The only notable difference was his hands; they'd risen at some point, half-curled, and were hovering uncertainly by his eyes, which, to Una's horror, were far too wide to pass as normal, fixed on the fire, reflecting its light, housing gears of soft confusion. He looked like he couldn't remember what he'd been doing.

But Peter actually seemed a bit used to it. He snapped his fingers to make noise. "Oi," he grunted, snapping once or twice more. "Oi, get a grip. Ethos. Ethos. Brother. Head cheese."

It worked. Ethos gradually met his eyes, annoyed. "What?"

"You were spacing out." Peter held up the nearest rabbit by the fleshy scruff of its back. Its head rolled at the shoulders. "I made dinner," he said. "You're eating with us."

"Stop trying to force your foul cooking on me."

"You can't have it raw," Peter grumbled, retrieving his fallen knife from the soil. "You're trying to assimilate, not come off as feral."

Ethos crinkled his nose. "Just don't burn it."

White knuckled, Peter knifed through the animal's scruff and dug in deep with his fingers, flaying it almost effortlessly. Without pause, without falter, he snapped and disjointed all four of its feet. "How long have you lived here, Una?" he asked, glancing. "Any family in Oldden?"

She didn't want to see him remove the head. She looked away. "I've been here off and on since the Bonesteels first seceded from the alliance," she said. "Years ago. My father didn't want me in the capital while we were under a threat of invasion. I visit sparingly."

"So you were raised in Oldden."

"That's right. I'm heading there now."

Ethos was watching Peter, neither thrilled nor disgusted by what he saw. "Then there's tension," he guessed. "Good. It'll be easier to move around if Gladius and the council are busy dealing with their neighbor to the north."

Peter said, "They'll be on high alert."

"For northmen." Ethos split into a grin. His gaze rose from the rabbit. "Think we ought to shave your head?" he teased. "We'll be stopped at every milestone otherwise."

"Aye, because no one ever notices you."

"I can't help how attractive I am."

"That's hardly the problem." 

"It could be. Una's been staring at me for a while." Ethos was suddenly seeing her square, crooked at the lips. "Just kidding," he said. "You must think it's ugly."

It took her a moment to understand what he meant. "Is that so bad?"

Bones cracked. Something wet slopped to the ground. Ethos used his eyes to persuade her back to the gruesome scene. "Watch Peter's hands," he said. "You can understand a lot about a person by seeing the way they work with their hands."

Peter spared him an uneasy grin. "Don't use me as a teaching aid."

The first rabbit was already done with, spread on a dry swatch of leather alongside its own heart and liver. The rest was discarded like so many grubs, slick and piled atop wrinkled fur and dismembered parts. The blood had doubled. Una yearned for the apple in her bag, but she was too uncertain of Ethos, of what he knew, of what he didn't, to risk backing out of his lesson. Peter took it all rather well, merely continued as he'd been hitherto, quick, firm, silent for all but a grunt of effort as he undressed his second kill of its coat. It was only in the evisceration that his hands became careful. After coaxing apart the slit in its belly, he felt around, lost at the wrist, and, with precision, hollowed it out.

Peter was gentle where it mattered, ruthless when he needed to be. Useful. Pragmatic. That's what Ethos was trying to teach her. However deep his knowledge of the situation, whether he knew what she'd tried to do, she could only assume that he was taking precautions, giving her a reason not to break up their partnership. Una traded a private moment with him, took in the wonder of his great, green gaze, and gave him a tight-lipped smile of reassurance. She wouldn't.

"Oi." Peter glowered somewhat. "Can we be done?"

Ethos glanced. "How do you feel about Una throwing in with us?"

Peter's expression hardly changed, hardly suggested much of anything. "I'd be fine with it if the circumstances were different," he said. "This thing we're in goes way up the chain."

"And here I thought we were just regrouping."

His brow deepened. "What?"

Una cleared her throat to get their attention. "I know Oldden well," she pointed out. "I know the streets, the faces, the markers. You said yourself there's strength in numbers, so I see no harm in going the distance together. We'd all benefit from it."

The boys were silent for a while, not quite smiling, not quite frowning. Peter sighed. A rabbit to each hand, he rose from the reddened earth and headed for the embankment. Partway there, however, he turned back to Ethos and indicated the mess. "Make yourself useful and clean this up," he said. "Don't bother saving the hide."

Ethos only crinkled his nose as Peter stalked off to rinse the meat. He was eyeing the scraps when he caught Una looking. "What?"

She asked, "Does he even like you?"

Her question made him grin. "He wishes he didn't."

They'd been taking the day off, she'd learn sometime later. Peter would often forgo discretion, as if he'd known her well from the start and thus needed no preface to explain the quarrel he'd had with his mother, or why a witch might be so inclined as to turn them to soup. Ethos was the same, in part. He'd grow quiet sometimes after spells of friendliness, having forgotten, perhaps, that she had an agenda. 

The sky darkened early, betraying the season. The boys bickered and flung their food. She excused herself while they saw to their wounds. The fire dimmed. Peter taught her an old sea chanty, and they sniggered together when the verses fell short. Ethos watched on, smiling, and she wondered why he wouldn't join in. She wondered at his motives, and what he thought of hers.

I'd almost forgotten you were beautiful once.