Anselm glanced back, a brow arching delicately as he spotted them lagging behind. He slowed his pace slightly. “Something the matter?” he asked over his shoulder.
“Nothing more than usual,” Phelan said, injecting a measure of cheer into his voice that he knew he didn’t really feel. Anselm’s brow arched higher, but he seemed to decide to let the lie pass—at least for now.
The huntsman’s tent and fire was a relatively modest affair, disturbingly modern in their design, given Anselm’s age and stature. The tent itself looked like it had probably come from army surplus within the past few years, sturdy and compact but providing good shelter and enough room to move around in. Piles of books, a cot with a bedroll, and a lantern were easily visible within its confines. Anselm’s fire crackled cheerfully, small enough to be manageable but large enough to throw off a decent amount of heat. Anselm seated himself on a clear patch of ground in front of his tent and gestured for them to seat themselves on a pair of logs forming a V on the other side of the fire.
“Your brother seemed rather perturbed by recent events, Seer,” Anselm said quietly as they settled in. “I imagine there’s more to tell than what he’s already said?”
Marin winced. “That depends on what he’s already told you. Then again, I don’t think he saw you recently enough to tell you about Cariocecus.”
“What’s that minor nuisance gotten himself into now?” Anselm asked curiously, his brows climbing again. The Hunt knew about the godling’s association with the settlement, though their interaction had been limited to a few glimpses here and there, nothing more.
“That’s just it,” Marin said, gnawing at her lower lip. “We’re not sure, and if he doesn’t survive the wounds something left him with, we won’t know until it’s too late.”
