Page 48 of Death Will Follow

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.