20. Twenty
Twenty
The mood inside The Wilted Bloom was jovial and inviting, the air thick with laughter and a haze of sweet wyldleaf smoke.
Even so, cold bloomed at the base of Callan’s neck, setting the tiny hairs on his arms standing on end despite the warmth of the room.
He’d removed his cloak out of necessity, draping it over the back of the bench where he’d stowed Nova and Bryn, tucked away in the corner and, hopefully, out of sight.
A barmaid with velvet antlers protruding from a head of mousy brown hair hastily filled three steins with ale.
She slid them across the bar top, pale froth sloshing over the rims and dripping down the sides.
Callan slapped down a handful of coins with a nod.
The maid scooped the coins into her palm, narrowing her eyes on him as she dropped them into the till.
Callan carried all three mugs together, holding them high as he navigated the crowd on his way back to the table, dodging rowdy patrons and stepping carefully over the uneven floorboards.
Like most buildings in Maedwen, the inn appeared to have been built by a drunkard, hardly a right angle or flush surface to be found.
At last reaching their spot without a collision or a fall, Callan set the drinks upon the table.
Calling on his magic, he frosted the metal steins, chilling the ale before delivering it into Bryn’s and Nova’s ready hands.
He’d ordered two meat pies and a tray of cheese and fresh bread when they’d arrived.
Nova, it seemed, had eaten a third of a pie in the short time he’d been gone.
She tipped her mug and gulped down a mouthful of ale as Callan settled himself onto the curved bench beside her.
With Bryn seated on the opposite end, Nova was essentially blocked from view, hidden from prying eyes.
Being back in the Spring Court set Callan’s intuition flickering, reminding him of how easily he had lost control when he’d last visited the rain-drenched lands.
He tightened his grip around his mug. He’d been alone in life then.
No one to care for—not even himself. Now, his entire world was seated on the bench beside him, humming contentedly as she swallowed forkfuls of mince pie.
“I’m not usually one for mutton,” Nova said between bites, “but this is divine.”
She sliced through the pie with the edge of her fork and held it out to him, cupping her opposite hand under his chin.
Callan happily accepted the offer of food from his mate, smiling faintly as he chewed.
Something about the act of care eased his apprehension a bit, a glowing warmth kindling in his chest and spreading lower.
Bryn slammed her empty cup down on the table, and Callan reluctantly pulled his gaze away from Nova.
“The Estate’s locked up tighter than a temple coffer.
” Bryn shook her head and swiped the back of her hand across her lips.
She wore a new green tunic and brown breeches, purchased with coin she said she’d won off Evander in a friendly archery competition.
“Couldn’t even get past the gate. I’d have flown if I had any idea which window belonged to the sister. ”
“Riven,” Nova corrected, pointing her empty fork at Bryn.
“Yes—Riven.” Bryn shifted in her seat and glanced at the entrance for, by Callan’s count, the tenth time.
“Are you expecting someone?” he asked before taking a small sip of ale. Part of him longed to down the mug in one go. Ease his weary nerves. But, though the drink would calm him, it would dull him, and he needed to remain sharp.
Bryn turned away from the door and leaned back in her seat, lazily tracing a finger around a ring of ale on the tabletop. “For a bit of coin, one of the guards agreed to deliver a message asking her to meet us here this evening if she’s able.”
Callan observed the raucous folk packed into the tavern like too many sheep in a pen, each one earning the name of Wyldling.
Loud and red-cheeked, the patrons spilled as much ale on the floor as down their throats.
Somehow, he couldn’t imagine Lord Arthur would stoop to drink alongside the commoners of his Court. Would his sister?
Callan didn’t have to wait long for an answer. With a shriek of rusty hinges, the door swung open and slammed into the wall. A hush fell over the crowd, the fiddle and drums dying out, as all eyes fell upon the strawberry blond female who stood in the entryway.
“Never have I seen such an unruly bunch of bastards.” The female pitched her voice and shook her head as her gaze roamed over the crowd, her nose wrinkled.
“Now, which of you bastards is buying my first drink?” A bright smile spread across her face as a chorus of cheers erupted in the cramped, stifling space.
“Ri-ven! Ri-ven!” The chant continued and the music picked up again as a husky male approached the Noble Lord’s sister and shoved a mug into her hand.
His entire shirtfront was drenched, and Callan wondered how much drink even remained in the cup.
Riven clapped the male on the shoulder and threw back her head, guzzling down the dregs.
Returning the empty cup to its owner, she swiped her wrist across her mouth, scanning the room until she spotted their hideout in the back corner.
Riven approached their booth, stopping briefly to clasp forearms with patrons and accepting every mug offered to her along the way. By the time she reached them, her grin was wide and her face pinked under a splash of freckles.
“Pleasure seeing you all again.” Riven raised her voice over the booming drums and cheerful fiddle. She made to bow in Callan and Nova’s direction, but caught her toe on one of the uneven planks, tripping forward.
Bryn was out of her seat in a flash, catching Riven with an arm wrapped around her waist and setting her to rights before bending forward in a bow of her own for the Noble of Maedwen.
“Quick, aren’t you?” Riven quipped, a pleasant laugh rippling out of her as she smoothed her hands over the bodice of her simple green dress. “Mind if I join?”
Bryn motioned for Riven to take the spot she’d been occupying on the bench and stole a wobbly wooden stool from a nearby table. Riven chuckled as she shimmied into the booth, fanning her neck and chest with both hands.
“I may have overdone it trying to catch up.” Riven half stood, throwing a hand in the air to signal the barmaid. “Lore! A pitcher for the table. And bring some of those little fried sweets. The ones dipped in honey.”
Riven fell into the seat again, eyes flicking from Callan to Nova, Nova to Bryn, and back to Callan.
“Is something the matter?” she asked.
“Apologies,” Nova said, shooting a confused glance at Callan. “I almost didn’t recognize you at first. At the Council meeting, you were so . . . well, so different.”
Riven chuckled and slapped a hand down on the table. “Yes, well, Artie is rather particular about appearances. Especially abroad.”
The barmaid, Lore, arrived with the food Riven had ordered, a fresh pitcher, and a clean mug.
Squeezing her ample hips into the scant space between Riven and Bryn, Lore set everything on the table.
She eyed them all in turn, an eyebrow raised in obvious appraisal, before asking Riven, “Who’s this lot? ”
“New friends from my recent travels,” Riven replied cheerfully.
Lore’s gaze settled on Callan once again, the mistrust there striking him like an unexpected punch to the gut.
Except, he should have been expecting it.
Looking down at the mug gripped in his hands, he schooled his expression and steeled himself.
Taken in by the lively music and revelry, he’d been lulled into a false sense of security. He couldn’t allow it to happen again.
Nova laid her hand on his thigh beneath the table, squeezing reassuringly. She must have sensed the unease taking root behind his ribs. He rolled his shoulders, attempting to release some of the tension he held there.
When Callan looked up again, Bryn was wrestling the cup intended for Riven from Lore’s hands, both females vying for the opportunity to serve her drink.
Riven called the competition after a brief moment, a gentle hand on the barmaid’s arm dismissing her.
Lore rushed away, plowing a path through the crowd back to the bar.
“You may pour my drink now,” Riven said.
Bryn lifted the pitcher, her eyes never leaving Riven’s, as she poured the ale. Slowly, Riven raised the mug to her lips and drank.
Callan and Nova exchanged a knowing glance; suddenly, the booth seemed a bit small for the four of them.
Callan cleared his throat. “Does Artie know you’re here?” he asked.
Riven turned her attention to Callan.
“Artie doesn’t care about anyone but himself. He can’t be bothered about where I am.” Her caramel-colored gaze roamed back to Bryn. “Or who I’m with.”
Callan averted his eyes, surveying the crowd for a moment. He hadn’t expected he’d be an audience to a courtship.
“The two of you aren’t close, then,” Nova surmised.
Callan looked back in time to catch his mate sneaking one of the honey-covered sweets off the plate.
“About as close as two can be, actually.” Riven followed Nova’s lead, pinching one of the pastries between her thumb and forefinger and taking a bite.
“We shared a womb, after all. A fact my dear brother seemingly forgot as soon as he exited it a handful of minutes before I did. Can you imagine my poor luck? Denied the throne by five measly minutes.” She laughed gleefully at her own misfortune and licked the honey from her fingers.
“I think you’d make an exquisite Noble Lady.” Bryn delivered her declaration just as the song ended, her voice boldly filling the quiet the drums and fiddle left behind.
“It’s not so bad,” Riven insisted, helping herself to another sweet as the band started on the next tune.
“Does your brother hear your counsel?” Nova asked before swallowing another mouthful of ale, her cheeks flushed the shade of a pale pink rose.