Page 50 of Death Will Follow

“Begging your pardon,” Riven cut in, “but it’s not settled yet. I’m coming with you.”

“I don’t think that’s wise,” Callan began, his mind whirring with the potential risks of allowing her to join them. If they were found out, not only would Lord Arthur know they’d stolen the map, he’d probably charge them with abducting his sister as well. They’d be lucky if they ever left the Spring Court again.

“I’m not concerned with what is wise. The burial mounds are sacred. A part of history. And I intend to see them,” Riven said. Her jaw set, she looked more like the stoic second-in-command who had accompanied Lord Arthur to the Council meeting.

Callan recognized the glint in her eye. The thirst for adventure.

“Very well,” Nova said, meeting Riven’s determined stare with one of her own. “You may come with us. So long as you understand the dangers we face are not limited to the sprites that call the Wylds home. We believe we’re being tracked by my father, somehow. Is it possible your brother is in communication with the Shadowbringer? In league with him to foil our plans?”

“The Council meeting was all bluster,” Riven scoffed. “Artie would piss his breeches if he ever came in contact with the Shadowbringer. In Maedwen, Omen is the monster in nearly every bedtime story. The shadow lurking beneath every youngling’s bed. No. Artie would not seek him out.”

Nova fished for Callan’s hand beneath the table, and he twined his fingers with hers. She knew what it was to fear Omen; he’d haunted her dreams since Callan first brought her across the Boundary into Aemoria.

“Well, well, well.” A voice, rough and mocking, came from Callan’s right.

He turned to find a barrel-chested male with a head of mussed blond hair standing a couple paces from the table. The front of his rumpled green tunic was darkened with sweat around the neck and under the arms, a drunk’s crooked smile plastered on his ruddy face as he swayed on his feet.

“If it isn’t Aemoria’s Blade.” The male’s shout drew the attention of several patrons standing nearby.

“You’re drunk, friend,” Riven said dismissively. “Walk on.”

“Nah.” The male waved his hand, drawing out the word. “This bastard’s famous.” He clapped a hand over the black cuff inked on Callan’s wrist and tightened his grip.

Wrenching his arm free, Callan rose to his feet. He towered over the other male, but the fellow was so stupid with ale, he didn’t back down. Dispatching with the fool would barely take any effort, but the last thing Callan wanted was a scene.

“Return to your evening and leave me to mine,” Callan said, words steeped in warning.

The drunk took a step back, but didn’t leave. He pointed a finger at Callan and addressed the crowd. “This Nivalian—this brute—stole into Spring territory uninvited and slaughtered nine of our own. And then he gets to walk away jus’ ’cause he was doing the Council’s bidding.”

More patrons turned toward the commotion, whispering to one another and casting wary glances at Callan. He tugged his sleeves down, hiding the markings identifying him as Nivalian nobility. Clenching his jaw, he scanned the room over the male’s shoulder. The confrontation had become the main attraction inside the tavern. Even the band had ceased playing, the musicians situated on the low platform in the corner standing and craning their necks to see what all the fuss was about.

“Which of us are you here to kill this time?” the blond demanded, bringing his face so close to Callan’s that he could smell the sour mix of warm ale and stale sweat wafting off of him.

It took all of Callan’s restraint keep his magic at bay. To halt the sharp bite of frost in his fingertips and the blue mist threatening to cloud his vision.

Something struck him in the chest, breaking his concentration. Callan stumbled back a step, nearly colliding with the table. The drunk had shoved him. Callan’s hand flew to the dagger strapped at his thigh without conscious thought. He’d barely gripped the hilt when a head of raven hair entered his line of vision. Nova had placed herself between him and the angry male.

“You’ve had a great deal to drink,” Nova said, holding her palms out toward the stranger in a placating gesture. “There is a surplus of Nivalian warriors with all manner of markings, I can assure you.”

The blond glanced from Nova to Callan and back again, his brow furrowed. The crowd’s attention waned with the prospect of a brawl fading. The fiddler toyed with the first few notes of a song, coaxing the patrons back to the stage.

“Go back to your friends. Have another mug of ale,” Nova urged. “In the morning, you may have forgotten this encounter all together.”

The male’s forehead relaxed as Nova spoke to him. After a beat, he shrugged and lumbered off, shoving his way through the crowd until he was out of sight, lost in the sea of bodies and the haze of wyldleaf smoke hanging in the air.

The room returned to full volume around Callan as Nova spun to face him. He tore his hand away from his dagger, flexing his trembling fingers and trying to convince himself he never would have drawn the weapon even if Nova had not stepped in to ease the confrontation. He felt as if he were standing a few paces behind his own body, still watching the scene from the outside looking in. Nova cupped his face and tilted his head to meet her eye.

“All is well,” she murmured. “He is gone.”

Callan nodded rapidly, his right hand clenched in a tight fist at his side.

“What an ass,” Riven scoffed, coming to stand beside Nova. “The fool should have left when I told him to.”

Callan scanned the room once more, still not fully convinced the threat was gone. Behind Riven, Bryn stood doing the same, seemingly ready for a fight if it came to it.

“Bryn,” Callan said, his voice like gravel. Clearing his throat, he continued, “It’s time to go.”

Bryn came to stand close beside Riven, her gaze snagging on the strawberry blond female.