“Well, we can always use more hunters, and your husband would—”
“Reeve isn’t my husband,” she said with a bite.
“Oh, well, isn’t that interesting?” Fitz chuckled under his breath. “Speaking of the divine…”
Celeste turned to see Reeve standing at the head of the table.
“I brought you this.” He thrust a mug of ale into her face and took the seat beside her, pushing himself much closer than he had been before. She took the stein, noting he had his own, also full of ale instead of the milk he’d been drinking.
“Yourfriend,”—Fitz gestured to Celeste—“says she may or may not be remaining in Briarwyke. What about yourself?”
“My intention here is to return Valcord’s glory to his house.”
“You’re going to bring clergy back to that old temple?” He sucked a breath over his teeth. “Well, they’ll probably be better than the last priests—those guys were useless. No wonder they disappeared, they wouldn’t even keep the kids after the plague orphaned them. Good thing Halfrida’s got all the extra rooms and at least a little motherly instinct.” He pointed to the three children scrambling around Baylen. “Better than them being out on the street; Briarwyke’s got enough trouble.”
Reeve took a hearty gulp from his mug. When he pulled it away, his face twisted as if someone had just punched him in the gut. Celeste took a small sip of her own ale, but it didn’t taste off.
“Say, if you’re a holy man, does that make you a priestess?” Fitz’s gaze slid back to Celeste, who shook her head. “Oh, good, that would be such a waste.”
She felt herself blush deeply, already hot tucked in between the two men.
“There is no waste in serving that to which you are bound.” Reeve’s voice had gone low and cold, though he repeated the words as if they were something he’d been taught long ago.
“Now, that is where we agree.” Fitz reached out and clapped him on the shoulder, and it looked friendly enough, but Reeve only took a deep pull from his stein, eyes shut.
Fitz was undeterred and kept attempting to befriend with amicable conversation. His family had been in Briarwyke longer than any other, so long that probably just about everyone already had a little of his lineage in them somewhere, though all of his direct relatives had passed, and he was left alone in Fitzroy Manor. “That’s the estate across the circle. Can’t leave,” he said, smile wistful. “Father wouldn’t like it, and even though he’s dead, I did promise I’d stay and take care of the place.”
Reeve sat forward at that. “You intend to keep this oath?”
“Eh? Gets harder every sunset. Most leave or die off, and very few ever come to stay.” He raised his own drink to the tavern with a sigh and then asked after from where they’d come. Celeste answered in the way she’d learned from a captor years ago, half lies and half untruths, but Reeve was forthcoming enough for the both of them.
The knight told Fitz about his home in Bendcrest, and Celeste listened with a curl to her lips, finding it easy to imagine the river that ran through it and the ships leaving port in the spring. The two fell into a conversation about weaponry and how training was all the same in the end: strike early, hit your target, and stay alive.
After Reeve was plied with two more steins by Fitz, he was convinced to tell the tale of slaying a hydra on the coast of the Maroon Sea. The details poured out of the knight much more easily than all the rest, which had begun rather tight-lipped and surly, and Celeste was glad he seemed to finally be having a better time.
Reeve stood then as his mug was empty again, but he wavered, catching himself on the table. Celeste sprang to her feet beside him. “Are you all right?”
His eyes glistened, blinking too slowly as he grinned at her. “No, you’re fine, why?”
She placed her hand on Reeve’s broad back, and he straightened under it, then swayed again. “Uh oh.”
“Be back,” he said, and they watched him wander to the privy where he knocked on the open door and waited.
“Go on in,” called Fitz with a laugh, and Reeve staggered inside, thankfully remembering to shut the door behind him. “Didn’t think it was possible for him to have too much.”
Celeste gnawed on her lip, wincing at the bang that came from beyond the door. Reeve was big, but size mattered much less when one’s tolerance was non-existent. When he again opened the door and attempted to leave, he stopped short, squinting at the ground. He took a step forward and then staggered back again. It became quickly apparent to Celeste that the Obsidian Widow Maker’s pommel was catching on the edge of the door, but the fact was lost on Reeve. “Oh, dear,” she murmured and pressed a hand to her heart.
Fitz laughed. “Maybe you ought to send him back.”
“You’re right, we should return for the night.” She hurried across the tavern to help.
“No, no, sendhimback.” Fitz followed after. “You should stay.”
Celeste made it to Reeve and placed a hand on his chest. Startled, he looked up at her, and then he grinned in a dopey way and slurred out her name as if surprised to see her at all. She managed to maneuver his bulk out of the little privy chamber without catching his sword again, though Sid quietly groused about trying to sleep.
“I think we ought to head back, don’t you?”
“Whatever I want.” Reeve hiccupped, and the combination of milk and ale on his breath was…a lot. “You don’t have any objections.”
