One
“No,” Bedwyr ap Breiddan heard himself scream. His throat-ripping cry didn’t stop Kara or bring her scrambling back over the window’s edge to him from her magical world. Back to the life he offered her as his wife.
The red cloak he’d gifted to her earlier this evening during their formal betrothal slid from her fingers when she couldn’t free it from the briars that kept it anchored in his world. With a quick movement of his sword, Bedwyr sliced through the cloth, deftly flipping the section of wool attached to his cloak pin toward her. Catching the fabric, she looked at him, tears sliding down her face. Light from hundreds of candles behind her lit the fiery nimbus of her hair, each strand crackling and lifting from her scalp almost as if with a life of its own.
Something more than physical hands held him back, kept him from leaping after her.
“Wait for me. Please wait for me.” Her words burned into his heart while, as he watched, her face faded back into her strange, alien world beneath the hollow hills. And he was helpless to stop her.
Her whispered words echoed in his brain as he struggled from the depths of sleep to wide-awake, gasping for air. The pre-dawn cold seeped beneath his blanket, chilling him to his soul. Sounds of his war-band stirring around him filled his ears. Several horses nickered.
By the Goddess, but he’d tried to wait for her. Almost an entire year had passed now. And the waiting had cost him dearly both in prestige and in the respect of his men. Yet the wound to his heart she’d caused him still had not healed. Rarely did two days pass without someone asking about his elven betrothed and if he’d seen or heard from her. Their disrespect to her, referring to that innocent as his lover, irritated him and left him feeling angry. Usually he recognized the questions as good-natured teasing. But some days he wanted nothing more than to strangle those who asked. Then there was the rift between him and his little brother--though that was healing, albeit slowly.
Bedwyr stretched and forced himself to rise from his rough bed of forest leaves and moss. The mist that had chilled him earlier clung thick as a curtain to the ground and trees, giving his men the appearance of ghosts as they moved. He shivered with more than the cold.
Without Artorius’s intervention on the night Kara vanished, Bedwyr knew he would have killed his little brother for the part he played in her disappearance. Dayffed’s treachery still rankled, even now nearly a year later. The boy freely admitted that he had helped the twins escape. And that he had been the one who first held Bedwyr back from following Kara into her strange world.
After the portal faded to Kara’s world, it had taken both the war leader and the combined strength of the assembled Combrogi to keep Bedwyr separate from his traitorous brother. Both Artorius and the members of that elite mounted fighting force had stood by him that night, drunk with him and watched over him as he grieved for his elven bride. How could she have put her grievously injured twin brother’s needs above his offer to take her to wife? While her loyalty to her family was credible, Kara need not have fled back to her world to find one who would protect her as Lord Artorius did his own wife.
The return up the hill from the vanished portal to the fortress of Deganway had been grim and the resulting drinking heavy spirited. The Lady Gwennuvar absented herself after proclaiming total and complete innocence concerning Kara’s intentions. And of course the war leader believed her, or at least gave lip service to her alibi. All these many months later, Bedwyr was not convinced the lady had spoken the truth. Not that it mattered any longer. The deed could not be changed nor Kara brought back.
The sound of a branch snapping alerted Bedwyr to the approach of one of his men. Rowulf, his tall, burly second in command, came to a stop in front of him, holding out a steaming cup of herbal tea. “You are far from this place, my friend. And you have not the look of a man happy to be going to his own betrothal feast.” Rowulf pulled a leather cord from around his wrist and tied his blonde hair back out of his way.
Taking his first sip of the hot beverage, Bedwyr grimaced. Rowulf had no idea how accurate were his words. With the remnants of his dream of Kara still fresh, Bedwyr found it even harder to show the proper degree of enthusiasm for marrying his young cousin later this afternoon.
“Bedwyr?” Rowulf asked. He drew his sword and tested the blade’s sharpness.
“Sorry, Rowulf,” Bedwyr said. “What were you saying?”
The other warrior shook his head. “I was saying that while this match is good for your people, it might not be what is best for you. Perhaps this once neither the High King nor Lord Artorius know your heart.”
Bedwyr shrugged. “My heart is not involved. As a true Celt, I must obey the dictates of the Goddess, and strive for the survival of our land’s bounty.”
“But how can we find harmony with the land when the Saxons overrun our farms and pollute our very air? And how can you achieve any kind of harmony with a wife you do not want?”
“Ah, do not plague me with your worries about harmony and oneness with the land. We all do what we must.” Even though Bedwyr verbally dismissed Rowulf’s comments, his warrior’s opinion poked at his own festering thoughts.
Perhaps he was better off without the fey one as a wife. Artorius certainly seemed to think so. His childhood friend had encouraged Bedwyr to get on with his life and forget Kara’s desertion. Had she not proved herself untrustworthy?
Five months ago, winter had not yet settled its mantle over the land and the Saxons were enjoying a last round of raids before the winter storms closed the roads and bound them to their squalid settlements. Artorius and he still sat at the table after the evening’s meal. They’d dined this night in the hold of a minor lord grateful for the help he’d received in driving the Saxon scourge from his lands. The same hill lord looked to marry off at least one of his brood of daughters to any one of the warriors who made up Lord Artorius’s Combrogi.
“Even if your elf should magically reappear, Bedwyr,” the war leader cautioned, emphasizing his position yet again, “you would be more than a fool to trust her words or to renew your intention to marry her. Bed her if you must but never trust her to bear your sons.”
A winsome lass jiggled her ample bosom at Bedwyr and Artorius as she filled their drinking cups. Both men ignored her invitation. “You see, that is just what I mean,” the war leader said.
“What? You’ve already said I’d be a fool to wed the elf should she come back. Have you changed your mind in the space of a few moments and Kara is suddenly acceptable as my wife?”
Artorius shook his head and rolled his eyes. “Have we not just finished a hearty meal provided by our host?”
“Aye.”
“And is he now not seeing that you are offered a choice of willing partners to warm your bed this night?”
“I hadn’t noticed.” Bedwyr stuffed the dice on the board in front of them back into the leather cup. “I’ve no desire for a wife and less desire to be saddled with one from these lands.”
“You miss her still.” Artorius picked up the dice cup. The two now sat in an island of quiet, the wine server having moved away.
Bedwyr took a healthy drink from his flagon, pointedly ignoring his friend.
“Come on. Admit it,” prodded Artorius.
Slamming his hand on the board of the trestle top table, liquid sloshed over the rim of Bedwyr’s drinking cup. “For the last time, Artorius, I do not miss the elf and I am well rid of her.” For several long beats he stared into the fireplace, ignoring his friend’s concerned looks, then shook his head. “Well rid of her, my friend. Have you not told me so time and again these many months?”
Artorius picked up the dice and let them fall onto the table. “So then you’ve decided to accede to your family’s wishes and marry your cousin come summer? I hear she’s pleasant enough to look at.”
Bedwyr shrugged. “I’ve no feelings for the girl.”
“Feelings for a wife aren’t necessary. In fact, they just get in the way.”
With a grimace Bedwyr took the dice cup from his friend. “She’ll not be getting much of a bargain if she marries me. I doubt I’ll make much of a husband.”
“She is a young woman. What more does she need than the security of your name? If you’re lucky she’ll bear your sons and run your estate, or at least stay to her solar and leave your second in charge to run it for you while you tend to the business of killing the Saxon swine.”
Bedwyr didn’t answer. What was there to say? His friend was entitled to his opinions and Artorius rarely went to his bed alone.
On the other hand, Bedwyr admitted to himself he had lost his taste for the willing companions who offered their attentions and company at the many local lords’ keeps when they stopped for the night. Like those who had gyrated in front of them this evening during the meal’s entertainment, hips swaying and eyes beckoning, the Lord of the Keep’s daughter among them. Granted, he needed to marry and produce an heir but none of the lovelies tempted him, not any more. Not since the elf and her twin had crashed into his life last spring.
Artorius grinned at Bedwyr. “You, my battle companion, are in need of a wife to placate your family and I will rest easier with your uncle tied more closely to our cause. The solution should be evident, even to one such as you who so highly prizes his hard fought freedom.”
Bedwyr thrust aside the images of Kara that continued to haunt him.
He’d settle the matter. Now. Before he changed his mind or the war leader forced an even less acceptable family upon him.
“As you will then, Artorius. Come the Beltane festival, I’ll need leave to return to my uncle’s house for the betrothal feast and signing of the contracts.”
“You’ve leave to go and glad I am that you’re coming to your senses enough to see your duty clearly.” He scratched his beard. “Beltane. Cedric and his Saxon invaders may be starting to prowl about that time. You’d best take a troop of the Combrogi with you when you ride.”
The remembered scene from the start of last winter faded as a gust of spring wind stirred the morning mist, rudely forcing Bedwyr from his memories. And back into the realities of starting a day’s march with his war band. He sighed.
Bits of the scene last fall stayed with him, Artorius’s well wishes, the resigned look on his younger brother’s face, his own feelings of loss and betrayal. His private feeling that he’d somehow betrayed Kara still rankled. He could not help himself even though she was the one who had left him.
How did Kara fare? What did she do in her world where light lit a room without flame? Had she married another after she buried her brother? Who did she spar with now as she practiced her unarmed combat?
He and his men needed to start soon if they were to reach his uncle’s villa before the noon hour. Yet he hesitated to order Rowulf to summon the men. He’d rarely felt so alone. Though he traveled to his betrothal to another, he could not rid his dreams of the elf.
Perhaps he never would. With a frown he sighed, pushing to his feet.
“Dayffed’s back from the scouting foray you ordered,” one of his warriors announced, striding up as Bedwyr dusted dirt and leaves from his cloak.
Bedwyr nodded, grateful for the interruption. The shorter warrior handed him a hunk of bread and some of last night’s cheese before he crossed to where Rowulf sat a few paces away.
Laying his sword across his knees, Rowulf tucked half his own offered portion into his belt pouch. Together they waited for his little brother’s report. Sweetener in the still-warm tea would taste good but they had none with them and hadn’t passed a honey tree in their chase.
The thought of a honey tree and sweets reminded him of Kara. By the Goddess, she so loved her sweets. He pushed aside the errant thought, grateful for the sound of the Dayffed’s approaching.
When he came into view, Bedwyr was surprised at how changed Dayffed seemed from last fall. Why, he’s grown a good hand and a half taller over the winter and added muscle to match his height, Bedwyr thought, taking a really good look at his brother. The boy must have ridden through a fairly heavy mist because his light brown hair look nearly black and his ponytail hung lank and dripping wet.
“You were right, my brother. There’s a Saxon war band, an hour to the east, exactly where you thought they’d be, camped near the old stones of power. Maybe twenty strong with a fair number of pack ponies and what looks like raid spoils. Only ten to fifteen slaves bound and roped together, though.”
Bedwyr nodded. “Cedric is no one’s fool. Why winter more slaves than you need when he can have his men gather more of them in the spring right before time to begin the planting?”
“But why the fascination with the old places of power? What did they hope to find at the groves of the Old Ones and of the elves?” Rowulf asked.
“Idle curiosity?” Bedwyr frowned. “Legends die a slow death. A hint of the old magics is enough to draw most.”
Biting his bottom lip, Dayffed drew his brows together. “Somehow, I had not expected to run into a band this close to our uncle’s holdings.”
“Why should this area be any different than another?” Bedwyr asked, sipping from the cup Rowulf had given him. The heat of the liquid warmed a cold place in his chest.
Dayffed shrugged. “No reason except that before the elves came last year and the villa was attacked, we’d seen no Saxon war bands near here. I thought they stayed further to the south and east.”
As Dayffed made his report to him, Bedwyr watched his other warriors drifting toward them. The Combrogi, too, clearly wanted the news. He shrugged his left shoulder. “Then they’ve obviously changed their pattern. But even so, one thing that is most certain, the foul invaders cannot be trusted to stay in a single area. And whatever the reason, now they’re being drawn to the ancient places of power.”
Dayffed frowned. “Lord Carl and the Lady Kara came from the old magic even though they didn’t seem all that magical when we got to know them. Well, other than they could do some incredible, and truly magical things. And their way of fighting--”
“Different, Dayffed. To be sure, they were but different in their way of fighting. I’m not convinced they were magical in and of themselves,” Bedwyr said with a shrug. “But we’ve no time for a philosophical discussion just this morning. Rowulf, are the Combrogi ready to ride?”
“They are, Lord Bedwyr. And ready to bathe their swords in Saxon blood.” Rowulf’s grin told of his liking for the coming skirmish. Others nodded or slapped a comrade’s shoulder.
Nodding, Bedwyr grinned a tight-lipped smile. “Then let us be on our way quickly. We’ve Saxon heads to separate from their shoulders.”
“And a betrothal to attend,” agreed Dayffed.
“Insolent pup,” Bedwyr growled, cuffing his younger brother on the shoulder.
With laughs and knowing smirks, the warriors finished packing their meager travel packs and were mounted and moving toward the targeted band of Saxons in less than a quarter hour.
~ * ~
Standing in the dining hall with the other guests at his uncle’s, a sense of unreality threatened to overwhelm Bedwyr. The scene in front of him seemed far removed from the night of his first betrothal feast at Degannwy. There, then the mood had been relaxed and friendly, with everyone but the bride’s brother pleased with the coming match. The potential for a new and better way of effectively fighting the Saxons had been a headier brew than any amount of mead or ale his uncle could serve here this afternoon.
The atmosphere at this gathering felt much different, stiff, almost forced. Pin prickles of unease skittered up and down Bedwyr’s back. None of the family members stood near him as he waited slightly apart from the other guests, flanked by only Rowulf and Dayffed. Custom dictated he and his men come unarmed to this meeting but after his skirmish with the Cedric’s Saxons this morning, Bedwyr chose to place practicality over convention and left his sword strapped to his side. If he offended his uncle, so be it. Pardon could be asked for a social blunder. Life could not be put back into a dead body.
Bedwyr sipped warily at his juice. He’d bribed Enos, the villa’s combination surgeon and apothecary, to keep him supplied with fresh pressed fruit that hadn’t yet had time to ferment. The older servant apparently well remembered Bedwyr’s aversion to strong drink and had even offered a jug of the beverage before he’d been asked. Dayffed had mentioned that Enos said he’d supervised the pressing and bottling of the drink and that it was safe for them to consume. Bedwyr didn’t ask where Enos had found fresh pressed fruit at this time of year.
“Our uncle seems most relaxed,” Dayffed said, taking a bite from a sugar-coated roll he’d snagged from the tray of a passing servant who was carrying food to the banquet table.
“Either that or incredibly secure in his protection,” Rowulf agreed.
Bedwyr shrugged as he watched his uncle put back yet another cup of imported wine. “At least he doesn’t seem unduly put off by our lack of manners, coming armed to his table as we have.” Like the others of his troop, Bedwyr hadn’t relaxed his guard. Something about this entire arrangement didn’t feel right to him, even though nothing appeared out of the ordinary.
His uncle was about the only person present set on this union. If the tales young Dayffed told held any truth, then his aunt was encouraging the bride to be less than willing to accept him. Though the two women’s very reticence and seeming disinterest in his suitability as a mate puzzled Bedwyr.
He could easily understand the girl’s reluctance, but that his status-minded aunt opposed the marriage struck him as more than unusual. In his experience, the mothers of marriageable daughters all but threw them at him. With no sisters of his own, he stood to inherit a sizeable estate so this twice-removed cousin would not want for material things. And a husband’s reputation and rank in the community, combined with the depth of his pocket, were usually all women worried about for their daughters.
That he even considered the young woman’s feelings in the matter of the marriage he must credit to Kara’s meddlesome elven ideas. His men would scoff at the idea of actually taking a female’s concerns into account when families arranged a marriage such as this one.
His seconds, Rowulf and Dayffed, relaxed alongside him, awaiting the token appearance of his betrothed, the young Alanna ap Caerford. On the table lay the papers ready to be signed by his uncle, the local priest, and himself. The scent of incense tickled his nose. Costly beeswax candles adorned the table near the papers, their steady flames glinting off his uncle’s large seal. The very signet seal Father Donnigan would use to make the betrothal official for those who believed in the Christo’s God and for the High King. Lighting the expensive candles at this time of day was little more than an obscene demonstration of his uncle’s wealth.
Bedwyr knew his fate was already sealed, and the wedding all but a consecrated fact. All those in attendance waited for was the formality of his acceptance of the unseen girl before they put their signatures to the parchment. Once they all signed, the sealed document would be legally binding. Those present also waited to see that he’d pronounce the girl physically fit to bear him sons. As if he’d reject her on her appearance, although he had heard of such things happening.
“Your charming bride seems a bit reluctant to make her appearance,” Rowulf said, bringing Bedwyr back to the present moment.
Dayffed grinned. “Perhaps your Alanna’s heard tales of how your first betrothed disappeared into thin air, and is not overly anxious to meet the same fate. Or perhaps she’s heard how fierce you can be and has run back to her mother’s sister’s home in the north. I’ve heard she was quite distraught that we battled Saxons not three leagues from the villa this morning.”
A strange premonition skittered down Bedwyr’s back. A feeling of being watched from behind him. A similar sensitivity to danger had stood him in good stead more than once on different battlefields. As unobtrusively as possible, he partially turned as if to more directly face Dayffed and scanned the wall and hangings behind them. The cloth hung still, nothing moved near the floor nor up in the rafters and all seemed to be as it should, yet the odd feeling of danger persisted.
“Aye,” agreed Rowulf with a nod, seemingly unmindful of whatever spooked Bedwyr. “Perhaps she is so refined that the mere thought of a decapitated Saxon has left her in a swoon. Maybe you should go offer to chafe her wrists or fan her with wet towels to revive her.”
“Be still, the both of you,” Bedwyr growled through a tense smile he managed to throw in his uncle’s direction. “Dayffed, go see what keeps her from us. I’m hungry and would sit to the feast Uncle has provided.”
“No need, Dayffed,” Rowulf interrupted. “The Lady Alanna is coming now, or I miss my guess.”
Following the line of Rowulf’s gaze, Bedwyr saw his bride entering the room from the door to his left. Alanna’s chalky face was either painted with lead or she was naturally incredibly pale. The costly sheer veil partially covering her hair that should have accented her beauty only brought out how wan she appeared. Of average height, she would stand only to his mid-chest were her hair not piled high upon her head in a mountain of dark coils. He much preferred the loose easy hairstyle that Kara had worn. And she’d not needed to mound up her hair to appear taller. With a pang of guilt, Bedwyr realized he wasn’t being fair. None could compare with the fey one, and the girl across the room in the flowing, red Roman-style dress was to be his wife, even though he didn’t want her.
He inclined his head toward his young bride but received no answering nod. Was she so frightened that her manners had deserted her? With a heavy heart, Bedwyr strode to his betrothed’s side where she stood by their uncle.
“Is she not all I promised?” asked Uncle with a smile that set Bedwyr’s teeth on edge.
“The Lady Alanna is indeed lovely,” Bedwyr agreed.
“And she’ll bear you many healthy sons. Her family is known for their fertility so you need have no worries of that. No barren mares in her line.” Uncle smacked the girl on the behind, knocking her forward a step.
Automatically reaching to steady her, Bedwyr frowned. The man need not be so crude when the girl was obviously terrified.
“Good. Then you accept her?”
Bedwyr nodded.
“Fine. All is settled.” Uncle turned to the priest. “Father Donnigan, you will witness the signatures and seals. We want to be sure there is no reason for the High King to be thinking anything is amiss with this union.” He reached for the pen, dipped it into the well of ink and signed both copies of the betrothal papers with a flourish.
Bedwyr signed next, followed by the girl’s shaky rendition of her name. The two men then pressed their signet rings into the pools of hot wax that the priest dripped onto the papers.
It is done, Bedwyr thought. The betrothal a fact. Though the marriage would be some months away, he and the girl were as good as married now. And if he followed the old laws, most would expect him to get the girl with child before the wedding ceremony to prove her fruitfulness.
Bedwyr offered the girl his hand and led her to the couch they were to share for the feast. His uncle still preferred the older Roman custom of reclining for meals, though Bedwyr thought it less than a relaxing way to eat.
Almost before they were settled, servants began serving the meal that celebrated the joining of the two related houses. Though all seemed normal enough, Bedwyr couldn’t shake his feeling that he and his men were in grave danger and that something here at the villa was terribly wrong.
Perhaps Dayffed felt it too, for he kept glancing around the room. Though Rowulf seemed oblivious to anything besides a fair-haired, buxom serving girl Bedwyr had never seen around the villa before today.
“You are packed and ready to come with us to Cadanbyrig? The Lady Gwennuvar is looking forward to another lady to keep her company when the Combrogi leave her to go fight the Saxons,” Bedwyr said.
Alanna shook her head.
Had she forgotten how to talk? What did she mean? No, she wasn’t packed? Or no, she didn’t want to travel with him to Cadanbyrig? Or no, that perhaps Gwennuvar wasn’t looking forward to meeting her? He frowned.
She tightened her lips, but her voice stayed soft enough only for his ears. “You can force me to come with you but I will never become your wife. I will die first.”
Bedwyr looked at her, a line of sweat above her lip beaded through the layer of chalky lead that covered her face. Her eyes looked wild and her nostrils flared. Had she truly been the mare her uncle called her, he’d have known she was terrified and ready to bolt. He doubted the girl was much different, for he felt nearly the same way himself.
“Lady, I can say little to convince you of my desire to see you safe but believe me when I say that I think I can understand your feelings of fear. But the deed is done and, for better or worse, we are united now till one of us dies.”
The girl shook her head. “Is that not what I have just said, Lord Bedwyr? Our uncle is mistaken in this, and my body will not patch over his relationships with either you, the war leader, or the Saxons.”
The Saxons? Bedwyr felt as if someone had sliced him in two. He could hardly breathe. Had the girl any idea of what she’d just said? That she had accused their uncle of duplicity, of making a pact with the enemy he and Artorius fought on a daily basis? Or were her words just a childish stab, aimed with a woman’s ability to wound?
He could not chance that her comment held anything but the truth. By all that was holy, her accusation went far to explain his sense of unease. Were there Saxons here within the villa even now waiting for any hint of trouble before springing a trap? Could they be the servants he’d seen but not recognized?
What game did his uncle attempt? Did Cedric’s men hope he and his would leave the villa still unaware of the double game being played by his own kin? He had been a blind fool. Likely even now the Saxons hid in the woods, waiting for him and his men to relax their vigil before the slaughter started.
Bedwyr had to get his men away. Now. Before his uncle had a chance to spring whatever trap he had planned. With a calm he barely felt, Bedwyr dragged the girl up, holding her tight to his side, and whispered in her ear. “If you wish to leave this room alive, you’ll come with me now. Quietly and meekly. Very, very meekly.”
His betrothed nodded, her earlier false bravado apparently evaporated by his nearness.
Ever his true and faithful guards, Dayffed and Rowulf clambered from their couches on either side of his. Rowulf patted his dinner companion’s ample posterior and heaved a loud sigh. With two turkey legs in hand, Dayffed took his position to Bedwyr’s right with his second in command on his left.
“Where do you go in such a rush?” Uncle asked, gesturing his disapproval with his over-full cup of wine. Sunlight from the open courtyard windows gave the liquid the color of fresh blood. “We’ve served but two courses.”
Bedwyr laughed, a suggestive grin leaving little doubt of his unvoiced intentions. He managed to catch the eye of the villa’s surgeon and apothecary, who was almost the only servant he recognized. “Enos, I’ll have another bottle of that wine I’ve been drinking,” he ordered. “No. Make it two bottles, and bring them to my rooms. The lady wishes to become better acquainted with her future husband, in private.”
Enos bowed toward him and hurried from the chamber.
“Ah then, you should not keep the lady waiting. School her well, though, if you’re squeamish, I’ve others as can do the job for you.” Uncle belched and leered at his niece.
Bracketed between his warriors, Bedwyr led his reluctant bride from the room.
Uncle’s continued lewd suggestions concerning how he should proceed to break in the girl at his side almost gave Bedwyr pause. Surely he was mistaken about the man’s divided loyalties? As they left the dining hall, the villa sounded quiet, but that was normal during a meal, for work halted. He could hear the rest of his men laughing and talking in the outer courtyard, eating the meal provided by his uncle and jesting with some of the servants who lived in the villa. Another man Bedwyr had never seen walked away from them down the corridor toward the sleeping rooms.
“Dayffed, is it my imagination, or do there seem to be a number of new servants at the villa this season?”
“I hadn’t really noticed,” his brother said around another mouthful of turkey. Their footsteps sounded suddenly loud on the stone floors.
The girl at Bedwyr’s side wriggled in his tight grasp on her arm.
“Quiet, woman, if you want to see the sun set on this day.”
She snapped her mouth shut on whatever she’d been about to say.
“Rowulf, gather the men and set a guard on our horses but try to make your actions appear normal, that you suspect nothing is out of the ordinary or that anything’s afoot. Be careful not to trust my uncle’s servants and don’t let anyone leave the main walled enclosure. I don’t expect an attack until they think us well in our cups.
“Did they poison the food? Or just the wine?” he asked Alanna.
“I-I’ve n-no idea what you are t-talking about,” she stammered.
Dayffed snorted. “She’s most likely telling the truth, as her uncle probably didn’t tell her anything, only fed her fears. And after you were dead, planned to offer her to another to strengthen the ties.”
“Lord Artorius’s plan, exactly,” agreed Bedwyr, “only with a twist. Maybe Enos will have an antidote among his medicines to whatever they fed our men.”
“If he can still be trusted,” Rowulf added.
