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Amelie kissed Trésor’s nose and stroked her forelock. “I am not tying you up,” she said, looking into the mare’s brown eyes. “If there is danger, I want you to bolt, do you understand? My brothers are here, so you need not worry about me.” She touched her pocket. “And I have the sword.”

Marcel looped his horse’s reins onto a bar, overhearing her last words.

“Did you get to use the sword?” he asked, as if querying whether she had tried out a new toy. “I can not imagine where Davron procured such an artifact.”

“Marcel—” said Raphael. He patted the rump of his horse before joining his siblings. “Think what you are asking her.”

His brother paused, then reddened. “Oh. Sorry, Amelie.”

She smiled and linked arms with the two men, guiding them toward the inn. “I did use it and I have to say, it performed spectacularly.”

“You always said you wanted adventure,” said Marcel with a magnanimous shrug. “Happy we could oblige.”

She snorted.

Raphael gave her arm a gentle, surreptitious squeeze. He had always been the most perceptive and sensitive of her siblings. She’d not deceived him with her nonchalant talk of the sword. He intuited how badly shaken she had been by her experiences.

But in truth, it did make her feel better to speak with such bravado. Perhaps this was why men were fond of telling their stories of war. Recounting events to other people showed things in a different light. A simpler, more palatable, and exciting light.

The tavern interior was bursting at the seams, a fire roaring in the hearth and two fiddle players making lively music by the bar. The musicians were red in the face from their advanced states of inebriation. They played their instruments to the banging of mugs on tables and drunken patrons singing along.

Raphael found them a spot at the end of a long table. They sat shoulder to shoulder, greeting their neighbors while attempting to wave down the innkeeper. Eventually, they succeeded, and the rosy-cheeked woman wearing an apron took their order.

“What’ll you have then?” She beamed. “We’ve got beef and kidney pie, leg of lamb, or roast guinea fowl.”

“One of each, please,” said Raphael over the din. “And ale for the three of us.”

She nodded and moved to the next table, her hips weaving expertly through the crowded space.

It was too loud to talk, so the trio enjoyed the music while waiting for the food and drink. The ale arrived in gigantic mugs plunked down by the innkeeper. The siblings knocked their mugs together in salute and drank deeply.

The simple and hearty fare appeared shortly afterward, which the three of them shared. Rotating plates with her brothers, Amelie tasted the rich pie, smoky lamb, and savory spiced fowl. It was simpler food than she had eaten at Castle Grange, yet every bit as enjoyable. Before long, the plates were clear except for discarded bones.

Marcel sat back, patting his stomach contentedly. “Now that was worth stopping for, was it not?”

Raphael drained his mug. “Aye, it was.”

He motioned to the innkeeper for a refill. She arrived with a jug and topped up their mugs. Amelie went to say no, the drink already going to her head, but quickly relented.

After all, why not? This was practically a celebration. Here she was, reunited with her brothers, enjoying a meal in a roomful of cheery folk. The sounds and smells and sight of such collective merriment were a salve for the anxiety and isolation she experienced at the castle.

Her heart ached as she imagined Davron at this very moment, dining all alone in the Great Hall, with only the ghosts of recently dead raiders for company. He would go to bed alone, wake up alone, and do it all again tomorrow.

Amelie stared into her fizzing ale, frowning. What did he have to look forward to now? To be haunted by the curse for the rest of his life, forever alert for the Dark One’s next attack?

Her brooding was interrupted by overwrought shouts from outside.

“What’s going on?” she asked with a jolt of alarm. “I can’t see anything.”

“I don’t know,” replied Raphael, standing. “But we should leave.”

Amelie shared his sentiment, her hand slipping inside her pocket to feel the reassuring weight of the silver rose in her hand. She should’ve known the journey had been too calm and easy. Of course, trouble would find them at some point. These were dangerous roads. Her thoughts jumped to Trésor, and she hoped the horses were alright.

Marcel rose to follow his siblings outside, delivering coins into the innkeeper’s palm on the way out. Many other patrons were trying to leave in response to the shouting, and the press of hot bodies made Amelie feel like the inn was strangely devoid of air. Marcel offered his arm, preventing the mass of people from shunting her.

In the clearing in front of the inn, a crowd had formed around a dark hooded figure, its face obscured by the hazy mauve dusk. Amelie’s skin broke out in goosebumps. Before she could react, the figure raised its arm and sent a streak of vibrant swirling light at her.

CHAPTER 29