The Scarecrow King: A Romantic Retelling of the King Thrushbeard Fairy Tale by Myles Jill

Author:Myles, Jill [Myles, Jill]
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Publisher: Jill Myles
Published: 2013-09-21T22:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twelve

The peat brick, combined with the torch, allowed us to have an impromptu little campfire. Alek shrugged off his over-jerkin and helped me put it on to stave off some of the cold of the tunnels. I wore it over Joanne’s thin gown and felt a little warmer, and a little more comforted. Using Aleksandr's thigh as a pillow, I curled up next to him and the wall, and he kept guard over the two of us, sword in one hand, and his other stroking my hair as I slept.

Alek woke me some time later, when the peat brick had burned away and it was time to move on again. I stretched, feeling dirty and cold and still tired, but no longer as hopeless. Sleep and Alek's warm, comforting presence had helped. He let me keep his jerkin and we prepared another torch, then set off for another day of walking. This time, I carried the torch and Aleksandr the sword. It made me feel a little better to have control of the light, and my mood was a little more improved.

When Alek reached for my hand, I willingly twined my fingers with his.

As we walked, we told stories. Alek told me stories of growing up in the monastery, with the monks who prayed all day and spent their evenings painstakingly copying text from the Libram for others to share. It had been a quiet upbringing, and when he turned sixteen, he was offered a place at their side. He’d declined it, not wanting to spend his entire life in prayer, and so they’d sent him to the Lioncourt army instead. He’d been there up until last year, he told me, living the life of a foot soldier and hunting bandits on the borders, or participating in patrols. His stories of the boyish mishaps he and his fellow soldiers had gotten into had me laughing. For all of his complaints about the soldier’s life, he had seemed to enjoy it – and the camaraderie – very much.

“And what happened last year to make you want to leave such a life?” I asked him, teasing.

He grew silent for a long moment, and then turned to me and grinned. “Why, I was struck by the gift of song and wanted to share my music with others.”

I laughed. “You are teasing me. You mean to tell me that you left a very happy life as a soldier to be a poor minstrel? A very bad one to boot?”

Aleksandr's cheerful smile remained, though he feigned mock grievance. “I never thought of myself as a bad performer until I met you.”

I laughed even harder at that. “Now I know you are teasing me. You cannot hold a tune – how can you possibly think yourself talented?”

“I fear my talent was entirely spent in soldiering,” he agreed. “It was truly the best life I was suited for.”

“Then why leave it?” I persisted. It was a mystery to me.

His expressive face grew a little sober in the torchlight, and his hand gave mine a squeeze.

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