Page 50 of Destiny of a King

“As you say, sir,” Skellie said and looked to Adira standing beside Dravic. “And what hot brew do you favor, mistress?”

Adira looked at him for a moment before turning questioning eyes to Dravic.

“She will have hot cider,” Dravic said, his hand taking hold of Adira’s and heading for a table tucked in a corner.

He intended to keep an eye on who came and went. If luck was with him, some of his men might show up.

Dravic guided Adira to the bench tucked safely in the corner, taking the seat beside her where he could watch the room.

She looked from one unfamiliar face to another before settling her gaze on him.

He knew the inn had to feel foreign to her. She could hear none of the voices around her and, by now, she had surely realized he had chosen not to reveal himself as king.

As he settled against the bench, his leg brushed hers.

Instead of moving away, she edged closer until their legs remained lightly touching. Then as if realizing what she had done, touching without permission, Adira eased her leg away.

Dravic immediately pressed his leg against hers, briefly rested his hand on her knee, and gave a quick nod.

He had given her permission to touch him.

Relief softened her features as she relaxed against him once again. The unfamiliar place unsettled her, and the thought of somehow becoming separated from him troubled her even more.

A serving girl hurried over carrying two steaming bowls of venison stew, thick slices of warm bread, and mugs of hot cider.

She set the cider before Adira with a smile. “Careful, mistress. It’s hot.”

Adira looked to the king.

He blew softly at the mug of cider.

She smiled, understanding and wrapped both hands around the mug, welcoming the warmth before taking a cautious sip.

Dravic tore a piece of bread in half and set one beside her bowl. Only after seeing her begin to eat, did he turn his attention to his own meal.

The rich venison stew chased away the lingering chill from the day’s ride and tasted far better than he thought it would. Around them, the murmur of conversation rose and fell with the crackle of the fire, the clink of mugs, and an occasional burst of laughter.

Dravic continued to watch the room as he ate, measuring each person who entered through the door. He recognized none of them.

By the time they had nearly finished, the conversations around them had faded into little more than background noise.

“…the Great War…”

The words, spoken by an elderly man seated at the next table, caught Dravic’s attention.

“You’ve remembered it wrong all these years,” another old fellow argued.

“Have I now?” the first challenged. “Then tell me who started the war.”

The other man didn’t hesitate. “Greed started the war.”

Dravic lifted his gaze from his mug and listened.

“Greed?” the other old man scoffed. “Kings started the war.”

“Only because greed ruled them.”

Dravic looked toward the two men. “You believe no kingdom was innocent?”