Romeria
Jarek curses and shifts in his seat to face the wall, stretching his arm across the table in front of me. To anyone else, he looks like he’s getting closer, but I know he’s trying to hide his presence. Given his size, it’s almost laughable.
“Who did you piss off? I’m guessing the one in the front?” The male is dressed in finer leather and a fur capelet that is too heavy for these temperatures, even in this damp weather. Elven, definitely, and he must be important in this rabble. He’s earning plenty of looks as he strolls toward the bar to share quiet words with the barkeep. Even Fearghal and his revolting companion seem apprehensive as they quietly watch the newcomers weave through the crowd.
“That is Lord Isembert. Norcaster and all its surrounding villages, aside from Woodswich, answer to him. He thinks his balls are the biggest in all of Venhorn. Maybe they are, but they hang far too low for his own good.”
I cringe at the crude visual. “So you’ve met him before?”
“I’ve met him.” Jarek uses his proximity to me to steal a glance over his shoulder, the tip of his nose skating across my cheek. “The last time I was here, his men picked a fight and didn’t like losing. He swore he'd have me executed if I ever came back.”
“And yet here you are.”
“Thanks to you.”
“And you’re not afraid?”
“Of what, dying? No. If it is my time, then so be it. But I will not do so for an unworthy cause.”
I’m close enough to pick out blue-silver flecks within Jarek’s otherwise steel-gray eyes. I see his conviction in them. Is he saying I’m unworthy?
Or that I am worthy?
It is impossible to read him.
Jarek shifts away after a beat to face the wall again. “What are they doing now?”
I take a long sip of my beer while surveying the twelve men. “Three have sat at the table next to Zander’s. The others are fanning out around him.”
“They’ve marked him.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means they have questions, and they are going to demand answers.” He seeks out Elisaf, who gives a subtle nod. He sees what’s happening too.
Instead of sitting on the bench, Isembert settles on a table, giving me a profile view of the prominent bump in his nose and broad forehead.
“Maybe he won’t remember you.” Though something to distract this lord from his keen focus on Zander would be ideal.
“I killed four of his men. He’ll remember me.” Jarek’s gaze is razor sharp as he watches from within the cover of an amorous partner. Frankly, he could sit on my lap and I wouldn’t care right now. All I care about is the situation Zander has found himself in.
A hush falls over the room as people’s curiosity—or trepidation—swells.
Zander isn’t blind to what’s happening. He sits with his hands folded in front of him, waiting, as the fire in the hearth rages. Kindling for his affinity should he need it, I remind myself. Though, in a tavern made of wood, we’re basically in a tinderbox.
“Here you go, sweetheart.” The waitress sets a fresh mug of ale in front of Zander to replace the one I dumped in his lap.
“Thank you.” His attention is locked on Isembert.
She glances at the lord.
The next moment happens in a blink, my eyes barely catching the glint of silver on her thumb before she’s dragging something across Zander’s neck.
He reacts instantly and with incredible speed, seizing her wrist and pulling it away.
But it’s too late.
My stomach drops as I recognize the merth luster, as the trickle of blood appears, and realize what she’s done—immobilized Zander’s affinity.