“We had four more months on our mountain rotation before we were due back here. If we hadn’t run into you and Pendefyre on the range, we’d still be up there.”
“Or worse,” Jac adds, sipping his wine.
We fall quiet. None of us has forgotten the massacre we witnessed on the mountainside. Yet I had not contemplated until this very moment that it wastheirunit the Reavers killed. Men who’d fought side by side with Uther and Mabon and Jac for nearly a year. They had lost more than fellow soldiers that day. Undoubtedly, they had lost friends.
I suck in a breath. “I never got to tell you how sorry I am about what happened to your unit.”
Jac grunts and takes another swallow of wine.
“It’s not your fault, nor is it Pendefyre’s—though he’s apt to blame himself.” Uther cuts a sliver of roast and forks it into his mouth. Still chewing, he murmurs, “Like Jac said, meeting you may be the only thing that spared us the same fate.”
I set down my own fork. I have lost my appetite. Not that I had much of one to begin with. My stomach has been aflutter with nerves all night. I’ve not risked a glance at Penn since I took my seat. But I can sense his eyes on me more and more often as the night wanes, the fiery heat of his stare making all the fine, feathery hairs at the back of my neck stand on end.
“I don’t think I’ll survive another hour of this torture,” Jac declares. “I have things to do, people to see…”
“Brothels to visit?” Uther guesses. “I’m surprised that wasn’t your first stop this afternoon.”
“Who’s to say it wasn’t?” Jac’s dark blond brows waggle suggestively. “It was a long, lonely winter on the range. Buxom Brenda and her ample charms are worth a second visit.”
“Don’t you worry your fist will get jealous?”
I snort into my wineglass at Uther’s sly remark.
“Careful, old man, or I’ll use my fist for a less self-satisfying endeavor—one which involves your nose.”
The dour-faced woman seated directly across from me makes an affronted noise, looking down her nose at Jac like he’s crawled out from a swamp. She plainly does not approve of our chosen conversation topic. Still, she will not express as much to us. Since the queen’s efforts to humiliate me, I have been summarily ignored by her posse for the duration of the meal. If they think I’m insulted by this, they do not know me very well. I am all too happy to fade into the woodwork.
A sudden strum of strings resounds from the main floor of the hall, drawing everyone’s attention. A minstrel dressed in a voluminous striped tunic begins to pluck out a song.
“Dear gods, not the bloody lute.” Jac groans. “We’ll be here until the summer solstice…”
But Jac’s heavenly pleas go unheeded. We are subjected to three jaunty tunes as the servants sweep away our dirty plates and trade dinner platters—most still heaped with food—for a myriad of desserts. Pies, tarts, cakes. Fruits dipped in chocolate. I stare at the strawberries for a long moment before plucking one from the top. Soren’s voice whispers in my mind as I lift it to my lips.
Mmm. Delicious.
Shivering, I drop it back to my plate untouched.
“Thank you for your patronage, Your Majesty.” The minstrel’s voice booms out during a break between songs. He turns from Vanora to Penn. “And Your Royal Highness. Welcome home. It is my great honor to play for you tonight—and your esteemed guest.”
When his eyes move to me, fixing upon my face with intensity, my mouth parches. He is older than I’d thought at first glance—the years are etched plainly into the wrinkles around histemples and mouth—though he carries it well; his voice is still strong and clear, his fingers still quick on his instrument.
“I wondered if I might play ‘The Song of the Prophecy,’ in tribute to the Remnant of Air being found at long last.” His focus never shifts from me as he speaks. “Her presence brings us all hope. Hope long thought lost in these parts, in the decades since the lady Enid’s soul departed.”
Vanora huffs. “That is not necessary—”
“By all means,” Penn cuts in smoothly. “Play on, sir.”
A hush falls over the hall, all chatter quieting. The minstrel lifts his lute, and this time, when his fingers find the strings, they do not dance merrily over the chords as they had before. The tune he weaves is slower, softer—a melancholy rhythm that spins through the air in such a way, it seems to cast a spell over everyone.
I find myself utterly transfixed as I watch him perform. I am not familiar with the song, yet when he begins to sing, I feel I somehow know the words even before they leave his mouth.
“At the end of times,
The Remnants shall rise.
That which floods,
That which burns.