Reap the Wind (Cassandra Palmer 7)

“I mean, I told him to go get dinner. They’re roasting an ox in your honor and everyone’s very excited. They mostly live off fish now, since they were run off their lands, but nobody really likes it.”

There were a lot of things wrong with that sentence, but my stomach only focused on one. “That’s . . . ox?”

I peered into the basket, and just the smell made my mouth start to water again. And my stomach to grumble. Suddenly, it felt like I could eat a whole damned ox by myself.

“No, it’s not ready yet. But I thought you might be hungry, so I told them we’d take whatever they had.” He looked at me sternly. “If they bring an eye up later, eat it. It’s considered a delicacy, and you’ll offend them if you don’t.”

“And . . . and what’ll they do if I offend them?” I asked nervously.

“Probably pout. For years. No one has a memory like the fey.”

He pushed the furs closer to the tree so he wouldn’t get food on them, and finished laying out our feast. I watched him work for a moment, trying to shift gears. And to catch up, although nothing was making any damned sense. “In my honor?” I finally said.

“Mmhm.”

“But a little while ago they were throwing rocks at my head and trying to stab me. . . .”

“That was before.”

“Before what?”

“Before you helped saved the lives of two of their warriors. And before they knew about the blessing.” He paused, cutting the bread long enough to narrow green eyes at me. “You might have mentioned that.”

“Mentioned what?”

“You don’t know?”

“Know what?” I demanded, tired and anxious and hungry.

And then startled, when he suddenly shoved the knife at me, fast enough to make me gasp and flinch back. And then to flinch again as what sounded like a cascade of bells pealed in the air all around me. And before I’d recovered from that, a half-dozen spears appeared, as if by magic, all big, all shiny, all in the hands of a bunch of pissed-off-looking guards.

And all pointed at Pritkin’s throat.

For a moment, we just stayed there, the spears, the guards, and the two of us in the middle of the deadly circle, not even breathing. Anyway, I wasn’t. Pritkin looked cautious, but not nearly as alarmed as he should have been with a bunch of knife-edged blades centimeters from his jugular.

But he was very deliberate in his movements as he slowly set the bread knife down. “Just checking,” he told them as one of them quickly snatched the blade away. “But as long as you’re here, can we get more beer?”

The guards gave him the look that he deserved, gave me the once-over, and left just as quickly as they’d come. Nobody offered more beer. But I suddenly felt better anyway.

A lot better.

Not being on the menu can do that for a person.

“So . . . they’re not going to hurt us?” I asked, crawling on the edge of the platform to watch them swing back down again. And to watch counterloads swing back up and then around, because a single makeshift elevator seemed to serve a number of trees. One portly-looking female was giggling and laughing as she swung in a big arc, smacking oversized mugs into eager, reaching hands around the circle of trees, like some kind of manic beer fairy.

Damn, that looked like fun.

“Hurt us? You’re Fey Friend,” Pritkin said, his voice giving it capitals. “They’d . . . well, probably not die for you; it’s not their mark. But at some point, you did a great service to a member of one of the dark fey clans, and therefore can expect consideration from all of them.”

It took me a minute. It took several, actually, while I stared at occasional sparks from below, a few of which were starting to fly up into the air as far as the edge of our platform. And then I remembered.

“Radella.”

“What?” He looked up from slopping something into a bowl.

“A fey. A pixie. I gave her . . . a rune. . . .” Pritkin looked puzzled. “A thing to help with fertility.”

“Ah. No wonder you were named Friend. I’m surprised they didn’t adopt you!”