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Conversation floats across the other end of the table between Sigurd, Moria, and Hawke, despite the sharp daggers I stare their way. Mostly, they discuss all the people Sigurd seems to have pissed off lately. Apparently, it’s not just me. Moria is the hotheaded one, railing him up and down about how he’s endangered their whole court—their kingdom? Hawke is more levelheaded, saying little, though every sentence is as crafted and refined as his table manners. Sigurd mostly just grumbles through it all. I can almost picture a little dark cloud hovering over his too-sexy-to-be-such-a-pain self. It would be fitting.
“We’ll have to postpone the games,” Hawke says. He’s finished his meal and sits with his fingers steepled over the table edge. His voice is grave, as if he’s just announced there will be no football this season or something.
“It might be too soon for that,” Moria says before depositing another forkful of something in her mouth.
He leans back in his chair. “You’d rather them be halted if things worsen?”
“We’re not canceling the games.” Sigurd folds his napkin and sets it on the table. “They’re too important to our people.”
Sounds a lot like my people. We had an outage during a playoff game last year, and I thought a fight was going to break out in the bar. I force down another bite of food, my foot tapping with impatience as it has been the whole meal. The nerve of them to carry on as if everything is normal.
“I know their importance,” Hawke bites out. “My husband reminded me of it just this morning.”
“And where is he today? I thought he would join us,” Moria asks, probably in an attempt to break the building tension.
“He should be.” He half glances over his shoulder. “Soon, I’d expect.”
Sigurd ignores them. “The cauldron is almost ready. It will keep the court focused on happier things. It better.”
“Cauldron?” I blurt.
Three fae heads turn my way. Whoops. I hadn’t meant for the question to slip out, but there it went.
Sigurd leans over his edge of the table and stares down at me near the other end. He had taken the head of the table. Of course. “You might as well know.” He gives a little half shrug. “Games are held twice a year. It’s something the residents of my court look forward to. Anyone may enter in an attempt to vie for the grand prize and the honor of becoming champion.”
Now that is interesting. “What kind of games?”
“It varies, and it’s different every time. To keep it interesting. And fair, of course.”
“There are multiple rounds,” Moria says, jumping into the conversation. Her eyes glitter with anticipation as she speaks. “Some are tests of strength or intelligence, others specific skills, and some are just luck.” She flips her palms toward the sky. “I’ve found quite a few talented warriors for my squadrons through past games.”
At my questioning look, she leans in and gives a little wink. “I’m Captain of the Guard.”
“Oh.” Well, that’s…fitting.
Sigurd had picked up his fork at some point, and now he twirls it around his fingers. His gaze is locked on me when suddenly his mouth quirks up in a grin. “It might be well received if you accompanied me to the ceremonies.”
I paste on a fake grin in return. “Your people would like to see the little human you’ve trapped here?”
The fork tumbles to the floor with a clatter. His countenance darkens like a storm cloud. Moria turns away from him, barely hiding the laughter threatening to break across her face.
“It is rather a complicated matter,” Hawke begins. “Simply, humans can aid our magic, and having you near our king in this troubling time would be seen advantageously.”
“So that’s why you did this?” I raise my arm, showing off the offending tattoo. Suddenly, his actions make nauseating sense.
“No,” Sigurd says. “I told you it was to keep you safe.”
“Uh huh. Right.” I nod, not really looking at him as I push food around on my plate. “I’m sure the magic had nothing to do with it.”
“I told you, fae can’t lie,” he grumbles.
Right. Whatever. Even if it was an accident, the fact that it benefits him makes it all too clear why he’s not interested in helping me remove the blasted thing and get home.
I need a different topic. Anything to keep me from sinking into the misery of worrying about Gran and being stuck here for God knows how long. “Okay.” I let out a deep breath. “What does the champion get, anyway?”
Sigurd rolls his shoulders before responding, “The champion gets to drink from the cauldron.”
“That’s it?” What a lame reward.
