“That may be so,” Sean shot back, caressing his moustache as if soothing an offended beast. “At least I dinnae look like some wee, bare-skinned lad.”
The elf spluttered, dribbling soup down his chin and back into his bowl even as he set his meal aside. Coughing and struggling to form a rebuttal, he glared at Sean.
“That is hardly a fair standard to hold him to,” Darshan interjected. “No elf can grow facial hair. I would have thought you would be privy to such knowledge given that, as I understand it, you all travel together on a regular basis.”
Zurron threw up his hands. “There, you see? It’s just as I’ve been telling you all this time.” He returned to his dinner, spooning mouthfuls in at a maddening pace.
“Isnae your dad half human, though?” Quinn murmured into the silence.
Over the elf’s squared shoulders, Hamish caught Darshan wince. The man covertly increased the distance between himself and the two guards, keeping his attention furtively locked on Zurron.
Hamish hadn’t given much consideration as to how the spellster actually viewed elves, and from what little he knew about Udynea—largely the rampant magic and slavery—nothing seemed to mesh with the thought of elves being given any sort of high standing, let alone actual notice by an imperial prince. But if Darshan thought such a question would cause conflict, then perhaps he paid more attention to them than Hamish had given the man credit for.
Returning partial focus to his near-empty bowl, Hamish kept one eye on his lover whilst mopping up every last drop of soup from the inside of his bowl with a crust of bread.
“What did you say?” Zurron asked of his fellow guard, his voice as frigid as the northern trade winds coming off the icecaps. “What has me dad’s heritage got to do with you?”
Quinn shrugged. “Just wondering, can you technically be considered as elven if you’re part human?” There was a shifty edge to the way Quinn eyed Darshan. What interference could the spellster do in the time it would take the two guards to come to blows? Would a shield be enough to stop them? Would it hold long enough for the men to cool down?
Zurron rocked back, his eyes growing wider and his pale skin turning a ghostly shade.
Darshan brushed back a lock of hair, the surreptitious rubbing of his temple with a little finger almost lost beneath the strands. He cleared his throat, but otherwise remained silent.
“Quinn!” Gordon hissed before Zurron could react or speak. “Did I nae warn you about bringing that up?”
“I’m just saying,” the man replied, his sun-weathered face nothing but strained innocence. He held up his hands in peace. “I hear those snooty buggers up in Heimat willnae let the pointiest-eared elf past the border if they’re half human. I only want to ken, exactly how much of an elven bloodline does it take before they’re nae considered an elf?”
Zurron’s face was no longer starkly pale. Instead, it had taken on an equally unhealthy shade of purple. His arms strained as if he fought something invisible, but Darshan showed no sign of constraining the man—the spellster even seemed somewhat sympathetic towards Zurron. So, was the elf actually restraining himself?
Hamish tried to recall the last time the pair physically clashed. He couldn’t remember what about, only that it was a trivial matter coming to a head.
The elf had taken a fair number of blows from Quinn, who probably knew he had won only because he’d struck first and was a far bigger man. Most humans were. Even some of the children towered over the tallest of elves and Hamish would be surprised if Zurron was an inch over five foot. But the elf hadn’t looked anywhere near as angry back then as he did now.
Quinn huffed and picked something out of his teeth. “You dinnae have to get all prissy about it. I dinnae care, I just thought you’d ken your own people.” He shrugged, his dark brown gaze flicking Darshan’s way. “But I guess you’re nae interested in hanging onto that knowledge.”
Wincing, Hamish set his bowl aside. He wasn’t all that keen on having to restrain Zurron, especially if the man slipped free. The one thing he knew for sure about the guard was that he’d a kick like a mule and had broken various bones on people down at the docks with a well-placed foot. He’d vastly prefer not collecting it.
Zurron leapt to his feet, an echoing heat of the campfire raging in his dark eyes. The promise of murder twisted his lips, baring those uncomfortably long canines. If it wasn’t for the fact the elf grappled for his belt knife, Hamish would’ve sworn the man intended to tear Quinn’s throat out with his bare teeth.
“That’s it!” Gordon roared. “Zur, sit down before I have him—” He jerked a thumb at Darshan, who sat in bewildered silence with his mouth wrapped around the head of his spoon. “—restrain you.”
Quinn snickered, earning him a glare from every pair of eyes in the camp.
Swallowing his food, Darshan gestured at the two guards with his spoon. “I would vastly prefer not to have to break up a fight, but if it is needed…”
The elf sank back to the ground. He continued to glare at Quinn over the campfire. The heat in that gaze had dulled, although his eyes had gone harder than the chips of obsidian their colour mimicked.
“Quinn,” Gordon said, his voice dripping venom and blood. As always, the tone pinned the man in question to the spot without a single hand being laid upon him. “You will return to the castle at dawn and turn yourself in for disciplinary measures. And dinnae think you can sidestep that like a snake because I will be sending a pigeon once we arrive at Old Willie’s. We’ll make the trip fine without you.”
“But I was just—”
Gordon cut him off with the dismissing wave of a hand. “I dinnae care what you thought you were
