“Aye,” Hamish rumbled into his mug, rather empty of ale judging by the echo. “The poor lasses got hit hard in that run. But what can you expect when you place people with good throwing arms front and centre?” He gave Darshan the barest trace of a wink and waved a servant over to refill their drinks.
“It is my understanding,” Darshan continued, choosing his words carefully now there were closer ears to spread gossip. “That the prize in question picks the final trial.” He swung to Gordon, outwardly displaying little care that this act brushed his back against Hamish’s shoulder. “If you do not mind my prying, what did you choose?”
“Hunting. Me wife was good at tracking and the like. Swifter than most around here.” He plucked another small strip of crackling, chewing slowly. “Figured it would be the best way for her to come out on top.”
“You had people slaughtering animals purely for the trial?” It was one thing to hunt to ease hunger, but he’d never been one to do so for sport.
Gordon shook his head. “It wasnae a killing hunt. There was a black ram. I tied a charm around one of his horns and sent him off into the forest in the morning, they had to bring him back alive before sunset with the charm still attached.”
Hamish gave a snort that seemed to be a mixture of amusement and annoyance. He tossed a piece of the hard bread crust at his brother, bouncing it off Gordon’s head. “You’re forgetting the part where she did all this whilst pregnant with your eldest lass.”
“Forgive me,” Darshan said before either man could speak. “She was with child during the time she was competing?” He frowned at Gordon. “Your child?”
Pride lit up the man’s face. “That she was. Roughly four months in.”
“There shouldnae have been a contest,” Hamish muttered, glaring into his empty mug as if it had done him personal injury.
“Well, Mum thought different.”
“She always does.”
Darshan hunched his shoulders, suddenly conscious of just how much smaller he was in comparison to the two brothers. If either one decided to be physically violent with the other, sitting between them was a less than ideal position. “I am mildly surprised Queen Fiona has not attempted to see you remarried, Gordon,” he said in an effort to divert their attention without being too obvious.
“Mum willnae do that,” Hamish answered. “He’s cursed.”
Darshan arched a brow Gordon’s way. “Cursed?” That wasn’t at all the answer he had been expecting. Did Tirglasians still believe in such?
“Aye. After losing me wife and eldest daughter, Muireall’s clan declared that any woman who married me would be cursed to a similar fate.” He shrugged. “I dinnae mind. Could’ve been worse, Sorcha could’ve been labelled as the cause instead of meself. I can handle the slight easily enough, but it would’ve been a mite bit harder for her to.”
“I am familiar with that sort of blight on one’s character.” His twin sister, thanks to the sheer happenstance of being born second, was considered to be devoid of a soul. For most, it meant death. Anjali only lived because their father refused to be rid of any link to their mother, even the one that had inadvertently killed her.
But the stigma still followed her, extending to everything she did. She was considered unfit for marriage. Her very actions held no actual weight unless Darshan validated them, the servants and palace slaves choosing to believe items just up and vanished when they knew those very items belonged to her. Even if his twin had children, they would be considered to have been born without a mother.
He hated it, never mind that Anjali seemed not to care and used it all to her advantage. But there was little he could do on his own to overturn a belief that had been held for centuries.
Visibly shaking himself, Gordon swiped the final piece of pork crackling from Darshan’s plate. “But for a more serious question.” He took a bite of his stolen morsel before waving the end in Darshan’s direction. “Are you saving that for later?”
“The food you have so blatantly stolen? Evidently not now you have slobbered all over it.” He slid his plate to one side to get it beyond the man’s reach. “And I would thank you to stop your pilfering.”
Giving a low chuckle, Gordon popped the remaining bite of crackling into his mouth.
Hamish tilted to one side, bringing his mouth level with Darshan’s ear. “He means the crumbs in your little beard.”
A faint warmth touched his cheeks in reply. With one hand, he carefully brushed off the crumbs. How ever long had they been there?
Gordon snickered. “I can tell you’ve not grown anything longer than a bit of face-fuzz before. You looked a lot more like a Tirglasian when you let your whole jawline grow out.”
“I shall take that as a compliment.” Having left his shaving kit back in the castle during their fortnight of travelling, he had spent little time getting a decent look at his reflection. The cloister had only afforded him the briefest chance to groom himself to a respectable standard and once they’d returned to Mullhind Castle…
Being greeted by a shaggy-faced being in the mirror had paled under the rigours of travel and the drain on his magic. Trimming it into a semblance of what he had originally arrived with had been somewhat therapeutic.
“It looks like you’ve tried to kiss a billy goat and made off with his beard,” Gordon teased, nudging him with an elbow.
Darshan stroked his goatee. It was a strange sensation to have it longer than his face. Not entirely unpleasant. “I dp not intend to keep it at this length once I return home.” Whilst he preferred his men to have a certain ruggedness about them, he had, like most of the male nobility, leant towards a more clean-shaven appearance.
“That’s a shame,” Hamish murmured. “I quite like it. It’s a good look
