Like any regular of the Gold Cock, Leonine had talked to them plenty of times, flirting casually as he did with everyone. The first night Everard had sat with him for a bit during dinner, he hadn't thought much of it. As he, and Odilia, had done it more often, individually and then together…
He'd scarcely been able to believe his luck. Surely it wasn't what it seemed like? It had been, though, and better than he ever could have imagined. The only thing better than all the sex had been the first time they'd asked him to stay the night, when he'd slept right there between them, warm and sated and so happy he could have burst.
After that, every moment he could spare he'd spent with them, flirting and talking, helping around the inn… always ending the night in their bed. He'd started to think he was part of that their, even as he tried to remind himself that was not what they'd wanted. Even if they treated him differently from all their other lovers.
They'd called him Lee, and fucked him, and made him a regular part of their lives…
Now he was Sir Leonine and had to watch as they had silent conversations about him, like he was a troublesome customer they didn't want to risk offending.
Leonine rose, desperate to be anywhere but there, so close and so far away. He strode off back into the woods, fighting tears the whole way. Pathetic. After a lifetime of reminders that he was never good enough to keep, he should be long past tears. He had Cimar, a good life in the royal palace. He was trusted by the queen herself, for goodness sake. And, he kept forgetting because it all seemed so unreal, he had been granted land. Good land, fertile and prospering, that would keep him in all the funds he could ever need for the rest of his life, so long as he was smart about it.
Yet he would give every last bit of that up, surrender it in a moment with zero regret, if Everard and Odilia said they hadn't meant it, that they loved him, and wanted him back, that he belonged with them.
Pathetic really was the only word for him.
He wiped his eyes with the back of one hand and looked around the woods, as though they might provide some answer to his life, or at least some relief from the wound tearing him apart from the inside out. There was only snow and rustling trees, though, and the distant call of birds.
Would he ever be good enough for someone? He'd liked being one of three, but he wasn't stupid enough to think he'd ever have that again. He was a knight, though, and close to the throne, with land and money now. That was suitable, wasn't it? That would finally make him enough of the right things.
Especially when he returned home having caught the assassins. He hadn't really thought about that before but having that triumph to his name would put him in high standing with the throne, the court. He'd be granted boons and honorable standing—and at only twenty-four, nearly twenty-five. If that wasn't good enough for someone to give him a second look, a chance… what was?
He'd come so far, so young. He was a good knight, a strong mage, and now he was also wealthy. He could dance, he could converse and flirt… Written out, listed so tidily, he sounded promising, right? Like he would be enough for anyone.
Yes, that was the key. He needed to stop moping, stop crying pathetically over people who didn't want him, had clearly never really wanted him past what he could do in bed, and focus on his task. Find the assassins. Return home victorious.
Cimar would tell him to believe in himself, that in the end his opinion of himself was all that mattered, was all that could make him or break him. So he would. He did.
If only believing it was as easy as telling himself to believe it.
Grit his teeth, make sure they all got safely to Tesser, see Odilia and Everard to their destination, and then it was back to work. Good plan.
Stifling a sigh, he paused to relieve himself and then finally headed back to camp.
Everard and Odilia were sitting close together, heads bents as they spoke quietly. Hopefully they weren't going to do something stupid, like leave in the dead of night. They'd just get themselves killed trying that. Every year people died because of poor choices made while traveling.
Leonine returned to his spot and, lacking anything better to do, pulled out his sword to ensure it was thoroughly clean. Being made of lindworm, it was just this side of indestructible, but nothing was immune to poor maintenance.
"That's not your usual sword," Everard said.
"No, it's not," Leonine replied bitingly, not bothering to look up. "It's a gift from Cimar on earning my spurs."
Neither of them replied, though Leonine supposed there wasn't much they could say that wouldn't sound woefully insincere, especially given that his job and the dangers therein were why they'd ended the relationship.
No matter how many times he reminded himself of that, though, it left a bad taste in his mouth. Chafed like badly fitted armor. Something about it didn't ring true.
Which only left that they preferred that excuse to the truth, that it was an easier escape for them. Which, in turn, meant the real reason was something they knew would be far more upsetting. That they'd grown bored, or his ways had shifted from amusing and bearable to unbearably annoying.
He should have known better. Odilia was thirty-one, Everard thirty-five. They'd been married since they were his age. He was seven to eleven years younger than them. What had he thought he could ever offer such an established, happy couple other than a few nights of fun? Even if a few nights had turned into weeks, into months.
All he'd ever had to offer was his body, and a warm, eager body was easy to replace.
Sheathing his sword with a touch more force than necessary, he set it aside and went through his saddlebags for any possible distraction.
All he turned up was the hair charm he'd found earlier. Sitting up again, he turned it over and over in his fingers, brow furrowing as he examined it more closely than he had before, searching for even the tiniest clue.
Unfortunately, there wasn't much to remark. The craftsmanship was excellent, meticulous and highly detailed, but there was no stamp anywhere on it to tell him who that craftsman was. That was highly unusual. Either it was made by some amateur craftsman for a friend or family member, in which case such a thing hadn't even been thought of, the craftsman was so well-known where it was made that a signature stamp wasn't necessary, or it had been removed, by time or intent. Any of the three possibilities was equally viable.
"Curse this fading light," Everard muttered.
Most of his attention still on the charm, Leonine loosely cupped his right hand and called up his magic. It was a warm rush through his blood, sparks along his spine and then down his arm, coalescing into a marble-sized ball of moonglow light. He willed it brighter, bigger, until it was nearly double the size of his fist and a much mellower yellow in color.
Another pulse of magic, of will, and it rose to float above them, adding a much stronger light than that provided by the flickering flames. He wouldn't be able to leave it up long, but hopefully long enough for Everard to do whatever it was he needed.
His best bet would be to start with goldsmiths. He didn't know how many there were in Tesser, but the royal city, Katalar, only boasted seven, so there couldn't be more than that give Tesser was smaller. The craftsmanship would narrow it further. He should also…
The shift in the silence struck him then. Leonine looked up and found Everard and Odilia staring at him. "What?"