Mabon and Uther both pivot on their stools to get a look at me. Inga puts more pressure on my spine, forcing my feet into motion, and I smile wanly as I yield, walking toward the unoccupied stool beside Uther. I tell myself it is because his gray eyes are kind. Not at all because it is the farthest possible position from the shadowy corner where His Highness himself is holding court.
“Bloody hell, you look almost…female.”
“Almost?” I roll my eyes. “What an overwhelming compliment. Thanks so much, Jac.”
Mabon snorts into his ale.
I hop up on the stool, slippers swinging in the air, and give Inga a goodbye wave as she disappears back to her duties. Jac watches her go, his eyes fixed on her buxom behind with blatant interest.
“She’s married,” I tell him, relaying information I learned while she brushed out my hair. “Five years now. Her husband is a whale oil trader in the Frostlands. Happy as can be. They’re expecting their first child by midsummer.”
Uther chuckles and elbows Jac, who is scowling at me.
My smile widens as Mabon pushes an untouched pint of ale in front of me. My hands shake slightly as I lift it to my lips and take a deep pull, foam coating my upper lip. “Thank you, Mabon.”
“Least I can do, lass.” He scratches at his bald head, looking sheepish. “After your help in the cave, I mean.”
“I didn’t do much.”
“You could’ve done far less,” Uther notes, his gray eyes steady as ever as they hold mine. “Most hardened soldiers would’ve fainted on the spot or run screaming for their mothers.”
“I never had a mother,” I say unthinkingly. “And I have no one left alive to run to, screaming or otherwise.”
Quiet descends on our table, an island of solemnity in a sea of laughter and music.
“How is Farley?” I ask after a long sip, thinking a swift change of subject is in order.
“Putting up an awful fuss, per usual.” Jac drains his own ale. “The display of melodrama is astounding. When he gets back to Caeldera, he should audition for a troupe of traveling players. Try out his act onstage.”
“His leg is broken,” I feel compelled to point out. “He’s got to be in considerable pain.”
Mabon grunts in soft acknowledgment.
“Did the healer give him something to dull his senses?” I ask, looking from one man to the other. “Or put him to sleep while the bone was set?”
“Small hiccup with the healer.” Jac sighs. “Turns out, he’s not here.”
“What?”
“He was called away to another outpost on the other side of the range. Blacksmith found himself on the wrong end of a hot forge yesterday. Grisly scene, by all accounts.”
My eyes widen—not at the imagery, but at the realization that there is no healer here. Which means Farley…
I’m off my stool and around the table before any of the men have time to react. I make it three paces past the fireplace when a hand shoots out from the shadows, hooks me by the braided belt at my hips, and hauls me backward. Anoofof air escapes my lungs as I stumble on my slippers and collide with something granite hard. A chest, I realize, when a low voice rumbles from it, directly into my ear.
“And where do you think you’re going?”
“To set Farley’s leg,” I say instantly, ignoring the shiver that moves down my spine. “Even if the healer isn’t here, I’m sure there’s a stockroom of herbs and supplies. I’ll—”
“Eat.”
Shaking off his hold, I spin around to fix him with a glare. In the shadows, Penn’s eyes are two glowing embers. “Excuse me?”
“You’ll eat.”
My spine stiffens. “I told you—”
“You can tell me whatever you wish. But before you do, you’re going to sit and you’re going to get a warm meal in your stomach.”