But as the others eat and hunger eases, the food steals some of the tense wariness from the air—even mine. I’m tired and sore, and it’s warm, and there’s a part of me that wishes Ididhave a straw mat, because I’d curl up on the floor and let sleep take me away from the fact that any of this is happening.
At the front of the inn, the door swings open wide, with enough force to slam it against the wall with a bang, wood cracking. I jump, but three of the soldiers are instantly on their feet, weapons drawn. Beside me, the king already has a blade in his hand, and I didn’t even see him draw it. Alarm cracks through the room, and I don’t know if people are more afraid of whatever threw the door open, or the Incendrian soldiers who suddenly look ready to level the place.
But there’s no threat. I peer past the rough and ready soldiers to see a boy who’s red-cheeked and windblown, carrying an armload of firewood. Wind and snow whistle through the doorway, and the innkeeper rushes to slam the door closed against the weather.
The soldiers exchange a glance, sheathe their weapons, and sit back down. Jory must have grabbed hold of her lady’s hand, because she lets go, taking a long breath. The king slips his dagger out of sight, but a muscle twitches in his jaw when the boy clatters the firewood onto the hearth. I wonder if he’s still worried about assassins—or if he’s worried about arealDraeg spy.
“A Hunter isn’t going to throw open the door,” I mutter, and the king gives me a look. But some of the tension eases out of his body.
By the time the barmaid brings bowls of stew, the wariness has evaporated altogether, and the bread and ale have eased sharp tempers. The soldiers at the other end of the table have begun exchanging good-natured barbs. Even Lady Charlotte smiles when the one called Roman tells Garrett to stop eating like he’s been led to a trough.
The only one not smiling is Nikko. I can barely see him over the edge, but he’s not laughing, not teasing, not talking.
He’s watching me. The expression on his face is definitelynotpity.
I fix my gaze on the floor again, on the scuffed boots of the king and his captain.Thisend of the table is deathly silent. When a steel bowl appears in my vision, I blink in surprise.
“Eat,” says the king. “I know you’re hungry.”
I don’t reach for it. “It’s yours.”
“I don’t eat before my people.”
That makes me scowl—and also ache. I’ve never heard a ruler in Astranza say something like that. “I’m not your people.”
“You’re mine for now. And there’s plenty. Astranza clearly has a different meaning formeager portions.” When I still don’t move, he adds, “I’ll share with Sev.”
His captain was eating a spoonful himself, but he automatically pushes his bowl to the middle of the table, between them. The king sets the one he was offering on the side of the bench, right in front of my face. Then he picks up the spoon from the other and ignores me.
Fuck it. I take the bowl and shovel some into my mouth. Like the bread, right now it’s the best thing I’ve ever tasted.
Jory is glaring at the king now, her eyes narrow and fierce. “You won’t win my trust this way.”
The king pushes the spoon toward the other side of the bowl for Captain Zale. “I won’t watch a man go hungry either.”
“I know of your reputation,” she says coolly. “You won’t convince me otherwise. I know you torture prisoners.”
The king’s voice is just as cold. “I don’tstarvethem.”
His captain takes a mouthful of food and then pushes the bowl back. “For what it’s worth, Your...ah...LadyJory, the Incendrian army rarely takes prisoners at all.”
A foreboding note hangs in his tone, and I’m reminded of the savage stories I’ve heard. There’s a reason Incendar might be the smallest country on the continent, but Draegonis hasn’t been able to gain a foothold. The implication of violence hangs over the table for a moment.
“But if we do,” he continues, “they’re never starved.” Captain Zale cuts a glance at me, and his voice turns dry. “Not even Draeg spies.”
I bristle, but the king just scoops another spoonful. “He could barely organize a kidnapping, Sev. He’s not a spy. Someone else is behind this.”
I can’t believe this asshole is defending me and insulting me in the same breath. The worst part is that I agree with him.
The captain takes a swig of his ale and says, “Well, you’ve chained him to your wrist, so I hope he doesn’t prove you wrong in your sleep.”
The king scoffs. “And then what? He has to drag around a dead body?”
“I’ll just cut your hand off,” I mutter.
At that, theyallsnap their heads around to look at me. Every single stein of ale or spoonful of stew goes still.
“Asher,” whispers Jory.
