Lyara jumped down from the back of the wagon, adjusting the strap of her satchel on her shoulder. There were horses to spare, but she didn’t know how to ride, so after she fell from the saddle three times moving from a trot to a canter, she’d spent the rest of the day bouncing around in the back of that rickety old cart, rattling her bruises.
It was absolutely thrilling.
Her mother, lecturing the entire time—still smarting from the wedding party she’d flawlessly planned and executed in less than three days—had bought her new riding dresses, with the center sewn up the middle to resemble trousers, and then two trunks full of sundry other items. Only one of them she’d taken on this trip, as boots and sketching materials seemed the most useful, and—really—what kind of adventurer left home with more than she could carry herself?
Spoiled, foolish ones, that’s who. And she wanted to keep pretending that wasn’t what she was.
Here, the trees were short and leafy, the branches filled with a soft rustling that grew to a whisper in the gentle wind. The air was warm for the beginning of autumn, and the leaves hadn’t started changing colors like she heard they did. She would have liked to see that.
The group of soldiers spread out in the clearing beside the forest, but Lyara lingered at the forest’s edge, digging a sketch pad out of her satchel. She’d tried to draw as she rode, but the bouncing left her attempts at capturing the plains or the mountains as impressionist at best. She sat down, cross-legged, in the grass beside the wagon’s wheel and hurriedly outlined the tree line in thin charcoal.
“Lyara?” Dradge dismounted from his black stallion and led the massive animal by the reins as he stepped towards her with a grin. “What are you doing?”
She offered him a smile, then pointed to the forest. “We don’t have these back in Edras.”
“Trees?” He shook his head, then sank to a seat beside her. “I’m pretty sure we have trees.”
He didn’t have much time to spare her during the day—he was general, after all, and she tried not to hold it against him—but he always came and found her when they stopped to make camp.
Lyara grinned, then sketched an approximation of him sitting, arms folded, beneath those charcoal branches, frowning because a large leaf had fallen on his head. “There.” She tore the page from her sketchpad and plopped the drawing in his lap. “Something for you to remember the trip by. If you’ll notice, these are deciduous branches, not coniferous.”
He picked up the paper and laughed. That smile didn’t fade as he folded it and shoved it in his inner pocket. “Come on.” He offered her his hand. “I’ll show you how to pitch a tent.”
She smirked. “Pitch a tent? Is that proper for a Lady? Next you’ll be trying to teach me how to swing a sword.”
He perked up at that. “Do you want to learn? I could show you some of the basic stances. I think we have training weapons—”
She laughed, heart fluttering with intrigue—she’d cave, as long as he asked a few more times. “One step at a time, dear.”