Phelan’s boots crunched against the gravel of the path, his arms crossed tightly against his chest, one hand still locked around his staff’s midpoint. A thousand scenarios ran through his head, leaving his skull aching and his stomach sour. The wait, he was more than half certain, was going to kill him outright.
“Settle down, Wanderer,” Sif growled, standing next to Anselm with one hand resting on the hilt of the sword at her hip. “Your fretting isn’t going to make them get here any faster.”
“I’m not fretting,” Phelan said, fighting to keep his voice even. “I’m—”
“Pacing,” Anselm supplied helpfully, watching Phelan stop dead in his tracks and glare at both of them. Anselm shook his head slightly. “She’s right, of course. They’ll be here soon enough.”
“Already taking too bloody long,” Phelan muttered, turning away, eyes scanning the treeline. He didn’t like the idea of them coming up through the ravines, but if they’d been found on the river, then there really wasn’t a better choice. The Wild Hunt had spent the past few weeks scouting those trails, even before the weather had broken, and started setting patrols. The patrols had probably been a good idea, even if the idea of someone wandering those ravines left Phelan uncomfortable.
His eyes slid closed for a moment. He could feel the lines out there, feel the nexuses, light and dark and every shade of gray in between. They were still there, right where they’d been the last time he’d tried to sense their location.
That was a relief, at least.
“Phelan?”
Blinking, he turned toward Sif, frowning slightly. “What is it?”
“You were just—”
“Just what?”
“Never mind,” she said softly. “Anselm said they’re close.”
“Good,” Phelan murmured, turning back to the trees. “Good.”
I hope it’s her. Gods and monsters, I want it to be her.
It would be good to see his sister again, even if she was probably going to punch him on arrival. He probably deserved it.
After all, he usually did.
He’s getting perceptive in his old age…. 🙂