“Who agreed to allow you along?” Galendria interjected, chin aloft. “I failed to hear it.”

“I think the same could be said to you, miss flower,” Syrdin retorted. 

Galendria huffed. “Considering my betrothed organized–”

“Your betrothed asked you to stay behind. You shouldn’t be here.”

“Galend–” Fenn’s soft attempt to cut in was ignored.

“Only out of concern for my safety.”

An old chink in Mell’s neck started to ache again from the rapid swiveling of her neck between the two. 

“If you say so, your majesty.” Syrdin leaned into the words, a smirk in zheir voice. “But you’ve made yourself a burden, whereas I am useful in the world outside your little sheltered kingdom.”

 Galendria’s mouth snapped shut. “At least I have manners,” she mumbled.

“Please,” Fenn waved his hands, finally gathering their attention, “don’t argue. This is a dangerous place, and Syrdin did just save our skins back there. If zhe has business here, we’ll hear zhem out before we decide anything. And Galendria, after some rest, you really should go home to your father.” 

Mell squinted. Go home? Doesn’t he realize–?

Galendria flinched. “I have business here as well.”

“What? Galendria!” Fenn protested. “You do not!”

“I do,” she stood, walked up to him, and pointed a finger straight at his chest, “it’s you.” She must have burned the words into him with her eyes, because the moment hung meaningfully in the air before she stomped past his shoulder, marching for the edge of camp.

“Galendria.” Fenn called after her softly.

“What?!” She swirled her head, pausing.

“Don’t go far?”

She clenched her jaw and raised her head, plucking her way over to a knotted root just outside the clearing. Mell could just see the green of her skirt through the rather blue foliage, though the squalling protest of a disturbed insect pinpointed her location anyway.

That was rough. Mell turned toward Fenn, who stood gazing after Galendria, mystery sack forgotten in his hand. She felt pained for them. No kind of relationship was more difficult than a romantic one, and she was beginning to doubt that there was any romance involved here at all–not on Fenn’s side, at least. 

Fenn sighed and ran his hand through his hair. He paused to look at his torn and bloodied sleeve, then back at Galendria. Mell could see the worry written in the creases of his brow. She lifted a hand. She wanted to ask. There seemed to be some kind of complication between them. More than an arranged marriage would merit. 

“So, I guess congratulations are in order for your betrothal.” Krid came over and ruffled the hair Fenn had just fluffed. “I wish you’d said something in one of your letters! I don’t have an appropriate gift!”

Mell cringed. Hopefully, what Krid lacked in social cues he would make up for in a fight.

“Partnerships don’t work that way in Etnfrandia.” Fenn pushed away his friend’s hand. “They’re arranged, and all the man can do is affirm the betrothal, or deny it.” He hushed his voice, glancing toward Gale. “In my case, denial wasn’t an option. A gift would hardly be appropriate.”

Krid grabbed him around the shoulders and forced him to look in the direction of the sulking Galendria, lost to their view. “But why would you say no? She seems like a strong, lovely mate to me!”

Mell closed her eyes. Mate? Seriously? While Fenn did not seem disturbed by the terminology, it still seemed insensitive .

Fenn chewed his lip at the ground. He continued in a soft whisper. “I’m not exactly suitable. And she–well, it’s hard to explain if you don’t know our culture.” 

Mell leaned forward and spoke gently. “Please try. I want to understand, too.” 

He sighed. “It’s as I’ve told Mell before, I am essentially a disgraced noble. A Skill-less One, if you will, Krid. I couldn’t–what would your people say?– grow a family to health, even if I wanted to. But when Galendria initiated our pairing–and not for the common kind of marriage mind you, but a contract for a family–well my father threatened to take away my cabin refuge if I did not comply.”

“Wait, wait, wait,” Mell shook her head. “You’re telling me that a marriage and a familial contract, those are different things?”

“Yes, one for child rearing, and we also have another for permanent union.”

Krid’s throat grumbled thoughtfully. “So, you don’t marry your mates?”

“Sometimes.” Fenn rubbed under the bridge of his glasses.“Galendria’s parents are married. Mine aren’t. My mother is married to a dancer.”

Mell snorted. “Can’t say I blame her there.” That was probably an insensitive thing to say. She of all people ought to be sensitive to this topic. She understood what it was like to be trapped in a relationship that impeded her priorities, one no longer motivated by any mutual love. It had been the same for her after she had sworn fealty to Lorthen. But for Fenn, the problem hadn’t packed up the family and headed for a new town, leaving him behind with a mix of relief and guilt. No, his beautiful little problem chased him into the Faeworld.

Krid removed his arm from around Fenn and he scratched his beard-like spines in consideration of the concept. 

In a culture that esteemed art above all other accomplishments, it did seem strange to eschew love within the family. Mell had believed art was inherently romantic and emotional; that was one reason she’d never taken it seriously as a topic of study. Could it be their longevity? I didn’t stay married for seven years; I can’t imagine 700.

Krid finally shook his head. “Makes no sense at all to me. You should just marry her privately if you love her.”

Mell glared up at Krid. Drakeman skulls must be exceptionally thick. 

Fenn had turned a concerning shade of blue. ‘I–th–no–erm–” he opened and closed his mouth a few more times while the waiting drakeman crossed his arms. “It’s just, we barely know each other. For six-or-so years since my return, I’ve only seen her at festivals and such, and–”

“Six years!” Krid’s frustration was expressed in an exaggerated throwing of his arms. “That’s a long time!”

“Not really, and we’d never spoken on matters of im—”

A shriek tore through the air. Gale sped back through the trees, careening toward them. Krid brandished a long, scarred sword and charged past her as she joined Fenn and Mell. Fenn pulled out a miniature crossbow of his own. “What is it? What’s wrong?” he grabbed her arm, staring past her.

Mell didn’t remember climbing to her feet, but she was on them now. She peered at the treeline where Krid stood at the ready. Syrdin dropped out of a tree right by the drakeman, and he spun on zhem.

“I–i-it just jumped out of the grass! From nowhere!” Galendria’s skin had turned pale under its bronze complexion.

“What did you see? Are we in danger?” Fenn was bent toward her, eyes flashing back and forth between her and the woods.

She opened her mouth, then suddenly turned very red and closed it. For a moment, Mell thought she must have been bitten or stung by something uniquely poisonous with the way her face flushed.

“Probably not. I’m now realizing it was fairly small. And I’ve just frightened you all very much.” She shrank down into herself.

“What did you see, Gale?” Fenn repeated, voice gentle, but his hand was still closed around her arm. “I’ll know if it was dangerous.”

She looked at the ground, very coylike. “It was red-brown, like the dirt, and about the size of a fox or a groundhog, and it sort-of leapt from the ground right by my feet in a big arc.” She turned her eyes up now, taking a pleading look. “I mean, right by my feet. It practically jumped across my lap.”

That would jump-scare me, too, in a place like this.

“Oh, the dirt-divers.” Fenn released his hand and patted her shoulder. “Don’t worry, those won’t hurt you.” 

Mell closed her eyes and breathed out. No danger. When she opened them, Syrdin was saying something to the drakeman, who then sheathed his sword. They all turned back to Fenn. He met their expectant gaze with an absent stare, mind elsewhere.

Mell cleared her throat.

“Oh erm, that’s a creature sort-of like a mole. It’s not dangerous at all. I’ve seen a few of them. They’re almost cute if you manage a good look at one. They seem to swim through dirt the way fish swim in water, and sometimes they jump up for air. There’s nothing to worry about.”

Fenn finally remembered the burgundy sack hanging from his hand. He lifted it up and pulled out a round loaf of dense, brown bread. Barley bread. “Why don’t we all have a bit to eat, and then call it a night?”