Rather than elaborating, the barmaid raised her eyebrows knowingly, a twitch of a smile revealing how she was relishing their reactions.
Kaetha made an exasperated sound. “Well? What happened?”
The young woman paused, heightening the drama of her recounting. “Some say it was in his sleep. That the exertions of past battles had finally caught up with him. But I think it was poison.”
“So, Princess Rhona is queen now?” Kaetha wanted to gauge how much was known about Rhona’s disappearance.
“That’s the thing,” the barmaid replied. “No one seems to know where she is. I think she killed her father for the throne but was discovered and ran away.” For this comment, the young woman received a swat around the head with a dishcloth from the woman behind her who was tapping a barrel of ale.
“You doo-wally!” The older woman rolled her eyes. “Why would she murder the king when she was to inherit the throne anyway?”
The barmaid glared at the woman. “Perhaps – Ma – she got impatient.”
Kaetha snatched their drinks from the barmaid’s hands without returning her grin.
Aedan traced the grain of the table with his fingers and Kaetha chewed her lip, wondering what was happening in the citadel, trying to imagine what this meant for Rhona. Looking down, she realised she’d been so distracted, she hadn’t noticed that the bowls of stew had been set before them.
“You’re a quiet pair.” A man’s shadow loomed over the table. “Most chatter away for hours after they hear the news of the king and the missing princess.” The scent of whisky hung in the air around him and he studied them with shrewd little dark eyes set in his clumsily featured face.
“The news was a shock,” said Aedan. “And we’re tired from travelling. Was there anything that you wanted?”
“I’m the ostler. Saw you came with two horses. My stable boy will feed and groom them for a copper penning each.”
Aedan handed him the money though, rather than leaving, the man continued to squint at them.
“What did you say your name was?”
“I didn’t. It’s Aedan Baird and this is Kaetha Baird, my daughter,” he added.
Kaetha almost choked on a lump of beef, covering her mouth to suppress a cough.
“You alright, lass?” asked the ostler.
She nodded, swallowing her mouthful and coughing away the tickle in her throat, but it seemed to her that the man was looking at her with suspicion rather than concern.
“You don’t know anything about these going-ons in Ciadrath do you? You came from that direction.”
“That doesn’t mean we know anything,” said Aedan. “We only found out about the king now, that lass just told us.”
“Been talk of a witch about too. Killed a royal guard they say, trying to get to the king, I reckon. Seen any sign of dark magic or strange happenings on your travels?” His gaze kept returning to Kaetha and the cat she held.
“None at all,” said Aedan. “Kaetha?”
“None,” she said.
The ostler grunted before sidling away.
She was unnerved by the man’s manner but her thoughts were now preoccupied by how Aedan had not only openly called her his daughter but had said her last name was ‘Baird’. She couldn’t work out how she felt about that, so she pretended to ignore it and, instead, talked of King Alran.
She’d seen him two years ago when, much to Gwyn’s annoyance, she’d abandoned her lessons and snuck out to see the royal procession in Ciadrath for Princess Rhona’s twenty-first birthday.
“King Alran had been the image of strength and majesty,” she remembered, “‘mighty as a bear, regal as a stag.’ That’s what people said of him. He was clearly proud of the princess. He was a warrior, certainly, but I think he was soft at heart. Towards her at least.”
She’d thrown flowers for the princess when she rode by. Morwena had ridden behind the princess, a sight that had filled her with pride. Behind Morwena rode other nobles and, at the back, before the tail end of the royal guard, she’d seen a young man’s pale, angular face, framed with white blond hair and set with ice blue eyes – the king’s son, Svelrik, but not by his wife the queen. She’d pitied the bastard son, overlooked by most, in a place of such little importance in the procession. If it was a procession of my relatives, that would be me, she thought, feeling somewhat smaller and slouching forward in her seat.
“He certainly was a great warrior,” said Aedan. “Braddon’s in the clanland of Mormuin, a land that used to be ruled by Clan Onuist. When I was a boy, Clan Macomrag rebelled, fighting for the status of High Clan. From a hilltop, I watched the final battle. The Macomrags might not have won had King Alran not appeared with his army. I saw King Alran personally take Chieftain Cerrin Onuist’s head.”
“Why did the king get involved?” she asked.
“Perhaps he believed that the Macomrags would have more loyalty to him. Though he didn’t honour them enough to grant them an earldom. No Macomrag has ever sat on the Royal Council.”
“Were the Onuists disloyal?”
Aedan shrugged. “Clan Onuist trace their line back to the old Edonian chieftains, though they married into Dalrathan families. They say King Alran feared that the Edonians who were once driven out of this country would invade to reclaim their old lands. Perhaps he feared that the Onuists would side with them. Though, of course, no such invasion ever took place.” He glanced at her uncertainly. “When we’re in Braddon, it may be wise to hide from the likes of the Macomrags that you are part Edonian.”
This revelation made her thoughts spin like a spindle whorl. She was part Edonian. Of course she was. Not for the first time, nor the last, she felt like
