and rested an elbow in a patch of purple-flowered thyme. A gentle, earthy smell wafted up.
“I used to hate the forest,” Bleda said, looking around. “It could not be more different from my home, the sea of grass. Once this felt suffocating to me.” He looked from the trees to Riv. “Now, I am starting to like it.”
“You are so different here,” Riv said. “Different to when you were at Drassil.”
“My cold-face, you mean?” Bleda asked.
“Aye. And other things.”
Bleda looked at her in silence a long moment, then drew a deep breath.
“My Clan are trained to mask our emotions from before we can speak,” he said, “but that is not all that we are. The face of stone is for our enemies. No, that is not quite right; it is for anyone who is not kin, anyone who cannot be wholly trusted. We are taught to keep this guarded—” he placed a hand over his heart—“taught to appear strong, to show no weakness. But there is more to the Sirak than the cold-face.”
“I see that now,” Riv said.
“We are a passionate people,” he continued, “and amongst my kin I laughed much, until…” He fell silent, eyes distant. Riv knew what he was thinking about, that dread day when his brother and sister had been slaughtered, and he taken from his Clan by the Ben-Elim, to be a ward as surety against his Clan’s rebelliousness.
Bleda took in a long, shuddering breath and shook his head, looked back at Riv.
“I have been at Drassil for so long, a stranger in a strange land. But look at me now; I cannot seem to stop smiling,” Bleda said. “Even after all that has happened.” He looked at Riv with sympathy in his eyes. “Amongst those we trust, my Clan will smile and laugh, cry and fight.” Bleda paused, thoughtful. “But it is not a gift for all to see. It is a privilege, earned by trust.”
“You used to annoy me,” Riv confessed, smiling sheepishly. “How nothing would bother or excite you. It’s not normal.”
“You used to annoy me.” Bleda grinned back. “How everything seemed to bother and excite you. That’s not normal, either.”
They both laughed then, warm and genuine.
“Thank you,” Riv said and impulsively plucked a flower of purple thyme, thrusting it at Bleda.
“What for?” he asked.
“For saving my life. In Drassil.”
Bleda’s expression turned serious. “You’re my friend,” he said, gazing solemnly at her. “And…” They sat like that a long moment, the silence lengthening, Riv feeling that Bleda was about to say something else. The world about Riv faded, shrinking down to Bleda’s face, the gleam in his dark eyes, the curve of his lips. For one timeless moment she felt the urge to lean forwards and kiss him. A jolt of shock at that thought, a tingle of excitement mingled with fear.
Crows squawked, a raucous explosion as a handful burst from branches looming over Riv and Bleda.
Bleda looked over his shoulder, at the road.
“They will be here soon,” Riv said and Bleda nodded.
“And?” Riv prompted. She wanted to know what he had been about to say.
“And…” His expression shifted, a softening around the mouth and a crease at the eyes. “This world would be a darker place without you, Riven ap Lorin,” he said, using her full name for the first time. “And definitely more boring.” He took the flower of thyme and inspected it between thumb and forefinger, twirling it. “Ouch,” he said. Then smiled. “It’s like you. Prickly.”
The sound of hooves grew loud, and then riders came into view, a dozen others coming up to them and reining in. Two young men were at the front, their short-cropped hair and black cuirasses with white wings embossed upon them marking them out as White-Wings—and Riv’s friends. The tall and skinny Jost bumped along in his saddle, with the bull-like Vald beside him, his broad and muscled bulk as dissimilar to his friend as a mastiff to a lurcher.
From the corner of her eye, Riv saw Bleda carefully put the flower she’d given him into a pocket in his cloak.
Ten of the twelve riders were Bleda’s warrior-guard from the Sirak Clan of far-off Arcona, oath-bound to protect their young prince with their lives. They were of a similar appearance to Bleda, all dark-skinned with fur-lined deel tunics and baggy breeches bound with strips of cloth from ankle to knee. Curved bows like Bleda’s hung from their saddles, and short curved swords were strapped across their backs. Where Bleda’s black hair was long