“Are you finished yet? Should I clap now or wait?” Zander says, bored.
Isembert spins, turning his attention back to him. “Where is your darling queen now?”
Zander stares at the lord, his expression blank.
“Do you not have anything to say for your misdeeds? Will you not defend yourself at all?”
The corners of Zander’s mouth curl. His signature arrogant smile. “I am a king. I do not explain myself to anyone, especially not petty, self-declared lords who have been permitted to play in the sandbox for far too long.”
A mixture of shock and satisfaction flourishes across countless faces. I imagine they’ve never heard anyone speak to their lord like that, self-declared or not.
Rage morphs Isembert’s features. This can’t end well.
I want to scream at Zander to stop antagonizing him. He has no weapons and can’t tap into his affinity. He’s going to get himself killed.
I focus on my breathing as my panic stirs again.
But Jarek has weapons, as does Elisaf.
Ihave weapons. A sharp merth dagger that cuts through flesh and affinities that have saved us from dire situations more than once. But it’s not my elven affinity that will help us here.
I toy with my ring and the idea of slipping it off, hoping for the best.
But if they harm Zander, I’m liable to bring down this entire tavern over our heads, and how will that help us?
Two hairy-knuckled fists drop onto the table in front of us. One of the men who came in with Isembert, a beast with broad shoulders and a spiked mace dangling from his shoulder, glares at Jarek. “My lord? This one is with the Legion.”
It’s a few seconds before Isembert peels his focus from Zander. “Ah, the great and terrible Jarek. I should have known this skulking king didn’t enter Norcaster alone. Can I assume that female warrior wandering the streets is also with the Legion? She must be looking for the two others who were here last night, asking questions.”
“Where are they?” Jarek demands to know.
“Rethinking their allegiances by now, I would imagine.” His claim suggests something wicked.
Jarek’s teeth grind in my ear.
Isembert edges closer toward us. “I thought I was clear about what would happen the next time you stepped foot within my walls.”
“You were.” Jarek remains calm as he sets his mug down. “Will it be this imbecile delivering your judgment? Because it didn’t work out well for him last time either.”
The man snaps his meaty fingers. Three others close in, drawing blades that glint in the firelight.
Jarek raises a finger. “Hold that thought. You.” Turning to me, he offers a flat smile. “This was fun, but time to find another lap to warm.” Giving me a gentle but firm shove off the bench—away from the battle about to erupt—Jarek stands and draws a sword and dagger. The ring of steel shivers through the alehouse.
Elisaf follows suit.
Oh my God. They’re going to start swinging blades in the middle of a tavern full of people. The bar fights I witnessed in my old life seem like a nursery school spat.
Andthere is still a sword pressed against Zander’s throat.
The waitresses scramble to hide behind the bar. They’ve likely had to clean up more than one pool of blood from this floor in the past. Several patrons quietly filter out the door while others brandish their weapons—for protection, or an excuse to use them.
I do the only thing I can think of: edge toward the wall and draw my dagger.
A palpable tension pulses as time stands still, muscles corded and senses riveted, everyone waiting for the first twitch, the first command, the first reason to swing. Anyone watching must be able to see each beat of my heart pulsing in my throat.
And then a bloodcurdling scream peals through the paralyzed room.
It’s coming from above us, in one of the inn’s rooms, and there is no mistaking what it means. I’ve heard it far too many times now.