Chapter 19 Rumors and Revelry
RUMORS AND REVELRY
ELYRIA
Of course.
Of fucking course.
Cedric Thorne’s chestnut hair was flat against his head, the typically tousled waves deflated, as though, just like Elyria, his hair had been pressed into place by the hood of his cloak.
That hood wasn’t up now though. No, his cowl was pooled around the back of his head, his token peeking out from beneath the gray fabric fastened over his clavicle.
Elbows on the table, the knight was hunched over a tankard, mouth in a tight line as he circled the rim with the pad of his finger. Across from him, Tristan was spread out on the other side of the booth, feet kicked up on the corner of the wooden table, golden hair flopping over one eye.
Elyria was frozen in place, the platter of cinder cakes still balanced on one hand, a thousand thoughts overlapping in her mind. It took entirely too long for them to coalesce into anything even remotely resembling words, and by then, it was too late.
“Oho!” Thraigg boomed, charging at the booth. “Now, this is a happy coincidence if ever there was one!”
Cedric looked up at the sound, having just raised his tankard to his lips. His gaze immediately snapped to Elyria—and he promptly choked on his drink.
Guffawing, Thraigg clapped the knight on the back several times until Cedric waved him off, words of thanks spluttering from his tongue.
Tristan spoke first, eyes gleaming with amusement as he raised his mug in greeting. “If it isn’t the kingdom’s most honored guests,” he drawled. “Whatever are you doing all the way out here? You’re quite a ways from the palace.”
Elyria blinked. “I could ask you the same thing.”
Tristan shrugged. “I’m always exactly where I need to be. Aren’t I, Ric?”
Cedric blinked slowly, his golden-brown gaze going from Elyria to Tristan to Thraigg and back again. Elyria couldn’t quite tell if the look on his face was borne of confusion or disbelief or wonder. Maybe it was all three.
“Ha!” Thraigg’s expression was ecstatic as he set his mug down with a thunk, then slapped Tristan’s boots from the corner of the table, forcing the knight over and scooting into the booth next to him. “I like your attitude, boyo.”
“And I, yours, dwarf,” said Tristan, knocking his tankard against Thraigg’s mug. “Welcome to The Keg.” His blue eyes drifted up to where Elyria still stood several feet away, shifting awkwardly. “Going to stand there all night, my lady? Or would you like to join us?”
Elyria grimaced but she took a couple of steps closer, placing the platter on the table. “I thought we moved past ‘my lady’ during the welcome ball, did we not?”
Tristan laughed. “Of course. Noctis damn me for my manners.” He flashed a crooked grin before snagging a cake from the platter and taking a large bite. “Stars above, Ric,” he garbled, mouth full, “make some room, won’t you?”
A soft thump sounded from under the table and Cedric winced, the effect of Tristan’s well-placed kick pulling him from his seemingly stunned reverie. “Of—of course. My apologies,” he said, shifting over until he was nearly pressed into the wall.
“I don’t need that much room, Sir Knight,” said Elyria, taking her seat next to him.
Even with the ridiculously wide berth he was giving her, she could feel heat radiating from him, filling the space between them.
It warmed her insides, and a burgeoning smile threatened to break free despite her best efforts to subdue it.
“Look at us,” Thraigg said, delight evident in his face as he slapped the table. “Stars-damned fate, this is. Of all the taverns in this whole damn city, what are the odds you’d be in this very one?”
“Yes,” said Elyria, voice low, “what are the odds indeed?”
“Oh, let’s not go giving fate all the credit.” Ollie approached with an overflowing mug in each hand. He set them on the table before dragging a nearby chair over and perching it at the end of the booth.
Elyria narrowed her gaze on her friend. “Who should I blame for this happy coincidence then?”
Ollie said nothing, just sat down with a wink, sliding both mugs across the table to her. Elyria would have been perfectly content to stay annoyed, but as she lifted one cup to her lips and tangy, crisp cider washed over her tongue, she found her irritation abating with rapidity.
Damn it, he was right. This place did have great cider.
Not good enough to knock Artie and The Sweltering Pig out of the top spot on her list, but it was damn close.
A few more sips, and Elyria found herself relaxing into the booth, Thraigg, Tristan, and Ollie’s playful conversation filling her ears.
At some point, the dwarf popped back off to the bar, returning with a full pitcher in each hand, which he quickly used to refill everyone’s tankards.
By the third round, Elyria knew without a doubt that she had been right too. She had really needed to get out of the palace. Really needed this break.
Even if it came with a particularly moody—even for him—knight, one who had been staring at the side of her head all evening, as if he might be able to work out what was going on inside it.
She wanted to laugh. She was the one who should be trying to work out what he was thinking.
He was acting so different than he had early this morning in the training yard, having barely said more than five words in total since she sidled into the booth next to him.
He seemed more than content nursing his ale, a silent observer to Tristan, Ollie, and Thraigg’s antics—in between bouts of staring at Elyria as though she couldn’t feel his eyes burning into her.
To her credit, she tried—she really did try—not to meet his gaze. Tried not to look at him at all.
She failed.
Her hand tightened around the handle of her mug when she glanced over to find him looking down at her through a curtain of brown lashes, his cheeks flushed.
He had one hand wrapped around his own mostly empty tankard, while the other toyed with the fabric of his cloak, now draped loosely over his lap.
She hadn’t noticed when he’d taken it off.
Elyria’s stomach flipped as their gazes finally met.
“You’re here,” he said softly.
“He speaks,” she replied. “And your observation skills are sharp as ever, I see.”
“Just the three of you?” Cedric glanced around as if expecting Kit or Nox to emerge from the ether. She supposed that wasn’t a totally outlandish idea for the latter.
“Just us,” she said with a shrug. “Kit remains at the palace in anticipation of the rest of the Arcanian delegation finally showing up.”
“Ah.” He shifted in his seat, angling so he faced her. “Right, forgot about that.”
She huffed a breath from her nose. “If only I could. I can think of few things that have been more irritating in my life than all this unknown waiting we’ve been doing for the past two weeks.”
“Surely these past weeks haven’t been all bad.”
She smirked at him. “Maybe there have been a few moments here and there.”
His answering smile was warm, though brief, as though he hadn’t meant for it to slip out.
He busied his hands with his cloak once more, folding it and then sliding it between his body and the wall behind him.
His leg brushed against hers when he repositioned himself, then gestured to Elyria’s hood.
“You plan on keeping yours up all night?”
“We may be tucked away in the corner here, Sir Knight, but even this dim tavern lighting can’t hide purple hair and fae ears. I’d very much like to avoid making a scene.”
“Can’t you just . . .” He waved a hand in the air, wiggling his fingers. “You know.”
Elyria snorted. “No, I can assure you I don’t know. What is this”—she mimicked his hand movement—“supposed to be?”
“You know,” he repeated. “Magic. Glamouring? Isn’t that what you call it?”
“You’re thinking of our shapeshifting fr—” She averted her eyes, taking a long drag from her mug. “Sylvans can glamour themselves, should they choose. Change their skin tone, their hair, eye color. Some can do much more than that, as you well know.”
Cedric frowned. “One of your guards is sylvan.”
“Right.”
“But I’ve never seen . . . What was his name again?”
“Young Shep.”
“Right, Shep.”
“Young Shep,” corrected Elyria.
Cedric arched a brow. “How young is he, exactly?”
“Oh, six hundred and fifty, give or take a few decades,” she said with a grin.
The knight’s eyebrows jumped halfway up his forehead. “And that’s young?”
“Well, it’s certainly not old, not by sylvan standards. But that’s kind of the point? It’s just a joke. Shep is older than even Dentarius, by the order of a solid century or so.”
“You get to call him Shep, but I have to call him Young Shep?”
Elyria shrugged and took a quick sip of cider. “When you’ve earned it, you can drop the ‘Young.’ ”
Cedric cleared his throat. “At any rate, I’ve never seen Young Shep appear as anything other than himself. If sylvans can glamour themselves, why wouldn’t he—”
“Why should he have to?” she snapped. The brusqueness in her tone made Cedric rear back, his head colliding lightly with the wall behind him.
Tristan, Ollie, and Thraigg all looked up from the drinking game they’d been playing.
“Why should he have to be anything but who he is?” she continued, crossing her arms over her chest.
Cedric raked a hand through his hair, as if doing so might cover the fact that he was clearly rubbing at the spot where he just hit his head.
“I’m not saying he should,” he said tiredly, his words starting to slur together.
“I only meant that it might be easier, might make people more comfortable if—”
“Your comfort is not his responsibility.”
“I don’t mean my comf—”
“Now, now, children,” chided Tristan, “let’s not fight.”
“Unless they’re looking for an excuse to make up,” said Ollie, eliciting a series of choked laughs from Thraigg.