Garin couldn't have felt more the opposite. He barely noticed the cold, and it wasn't from his clothes being any better-tailored than theirs. For one, Wren had warmed his bedroll the past several nights, finally having grown certain enough of her father's health to leave his side. Falcon Sunstring was still no beauty, his skin mending back where bugs and decay had had their way with it, and at the end of his right wrist lay a conspicuous vacancy. But despite it all, he was again smiling, and like spring to flowers, with the reemergence of the minstrel's good humor, his daughter's passion for Garin had rekindled.
His grin felt as if it stretched from ear to ear just thinking about it.
But nights with Wren weren't the only thing warming him. Soon, he would see his family again. He would be the lost son returned, the son who had gone and seen more places than he could count on both hands and would be able to lord it over his brothers. He would feel his sister's arms tight around him, see his mother and her surprised, joyous smile. They would clamor to ask where he'd been, what he'd done, and he would tell them tales they wouldn't believe.
An adventure, he thought. Just like in the fireside stories.
His smile faltered a little at the thought. No — his journey hadn't quite been like the tales. The Nightsong and the Singer had been quiet ever since that day atop the Coral Castle's roof, but he knew he wasn't free of them. Like something he'd forgotten, the fell magic niggled at the back of his mind, always there, always waiting. Still, most times, he could forget he'd ever heard them. Most times.
But though he anticipated the reunion, he couldn't help but imagine the farewells. I can't stay. I have to go on. To see the elves and their sage elders. To…
He didn't know what reason he'd give. Not the truth; never that. But could he lie? He'd lied many times to get out of trouble as a boy, but that was before he'd become a man. Now, the thought gave him an uneasy disquiet. What would Father have done? he thought. What should a man do? Lie to protect his family? Or tell them the truth?
It wasn't an argument — he knew better than that. Not even Wren knew the complete truth, and she'd been with him through it all. Aelyn and Tal, he suspected, knew more than they'd let on, and the fewer who knew what he'd become, the better.
I'll come, he'd said, and the Singer and the Song had exalted. I'll come — though he didn't have the faintest idea where he was supposed to go.
"I didn't know you slept with your eyes open."
Garin blinked and looked over. Wren, who sat next to him on the cart, was watching him, a small smile on her lips. Gods and devils, but I love that smile, he thought.
But his own smile came out strained. "Just thinking."
"Thinking? Don't overextend yourself."
He nudged her, more for the chance to touch her than to silence her, and her smile grew coy. His mouth went dry imagining what that smile dared him to do.
"So when will you introduce me to your family?"
Once again, she'd caught him wrong-footed, and he fumbled for an answer. "Uh, as soon as we get there, I suppose."
Wren raised an eyebrow, the edge of the smile disappearing. "I suppose? Are you ashamed of me?"
"Ashamed? Of course I'm not!"
A laugh burst from her. "You're too soft, Garin! You'd think you'd have grown a spine by now."
He wasn't sure whether to smile or scowl and found his expression caught somewhere between. "Caught me off-guard is all," he muttered.
She patted him on the back. "Don't worry. We'll work on it."
A few hours later, the short-lived daylight was fast dissipating, and though they were close to Hunt's Hollow, a halt was called at the Winegulch Bridge. To Garin's protests, Tal only held up his hands.
"It was Falcon's call," his mentor said, "but it's the right one. No use in getting there early if it costs us a wheel. I know you're eager, lad, but we'll get there tomorrow, never fear."
Garin turned away, trying to hide his disappointment and failing. When Wren asked him what was wrong, he only shrugged and muttered, "Going for a leak," leaving her to frown at his back.
The forest closed around him, the familiar scents and sounds helping to slow his beating heart. Stillness — he'd nearly forgotten what it sounded like, traveling amidst a troupe of actors and musicians. Someone always seemed to be laughing or singing — or both, if the casks of dwarven honeywine they'd carted from Halenhol were involved.
He untied his britches and winced at the cold, then began to relieve himself. For a moment, the trickling on the dead leaves was all he heard.
Then crunching sounded from the forest behind him.
He glanced back as he quickly began tying up his britches. Most likely, it was just someone from the troupe who'd come to do their business. But he couldn't help a prickling of unease at the back of his mind. Breath coming quick, he stared into the gloom where he'd heard the sound.
More crunching, both left and right. Garin whipped his head each way, a hand falling to his belt knife. Did he glimpse a shadow moving among the closest trees? Were those footsteps, or just forest creatures walking carelessly? He drew his knife, watching, waiting, straining to listen over his thumping heart.
A burst of sound came from behind him, and Garin whirled, then fell back as someone clapped a gloved hand over his mouth. Without hesitation, Garin swung the knife at the assailant's arm, heard him roar in pain, and fought to work free of his grip.
Cold steel pressed against his throat and bit shallowly into his skin. He felt blood trickle down his neck.
"Drop it," the man rasped in his ear, his breath was hot on his skin. When Garin hesitated, the knife pressed deeper, and his hand opened of its own accord.
"Good lad." Someone, large and heavy-footed, emerged from the shadows. In his fear-clouded state, it took Garin a moment to recognize him, and as he did, his stomach gave a painful wrench. The big bandit in charge of the band of deserters, who had waylaid them on their way to Halenhol, was the last man he wanted to see.
The highwayman didn't look pleased to see him either, scrunching up his eyes as he stared at him. "You. I know you. You're that boy who traveled with the man who burned my hammer." The large man stared at him like Garin were a brace of cooked hares rather than a young man with slightly soiled pants. "Burned my hammer," he repeated with a grim smile.
"And he cut my arm," the bandit holding Garin growled.
"Quit your bloody yapping! I don't give a shit if he cut your arm or your prick or your balls — don't whine about it to me." The big man had closed the distance between them and loomed over Garin, half a head taller, even with Garin having grown an inch since the last time they'd met. "Know what I do give a shit about, you little… shit?" He screwed up his eyes tighter, as if debating whether or not to take out his ineloquence on Garin, then continued. "That man who burned my hammer. I've got a score to settle, and you're going to help me. Got that?"
Garin met his eyes and didn't look away. His mind pulsed with a subtle rhythm, sounds that had no cadence drowning out everything else in his mind as they suddenly wove into an urgent chorus. The whining of a fox. The whisk of a reaper through tall grass. The scream of a slaughtered hog. Even with a man holding a knife to his throat, the big outlaw staring hate down at him, and the rest of the band around him, his fear was quickly draining away. Behind the bandit's glove, he started to smile.