merely part of the forest.
Inside, it was clean if small. Two bedrolls were tied and stacked neatly against the far wall. Matching benches that could seat two in a pinch were on either side of the fire pit in the center of the hut.
The pit smoldered in the fashion of a fire that had been recently banked. Gart poked at it and blew on it until a small blaze caught the fresh wood Artair laid across it. They worked in a unison that told of longtime friendship and training together.
“We’ll heat stew for our supper,” Artair said with a smile for Ciara.
Gart harrumphed and grabbed the stew pot from a shelf on the nearest wall. He hung it by its handle from the tri-legged iron stand over the fire. The big soldier grabbed wooden cups from the same shelf and Artair poured wine from a skin into them before adding water from a bucket.
He served Eirik first. She thought it was because the Éan was a prince, but Eirik took a sip of the watered wine before handing the cup to Ciara.
He’d been testing it for her safety. “If you trust them with your secret, surely you can trust them to serve us a drink.”
He ignored her and took his own cup from the Chrechte soldier.
She frowned, but took a sip of her drink, suddenly realizing how very thirsty she was. She should have drunk more water on the journey here, but she had been preoccupied with her thoughts and conversation with Eirik.
Artair indicated one of the benches with his hand. “Please, sit.”
She took his offer with alacrity, only to nearly jump out of her skin when Eirik joined her on the small bench. He pressed against her side from hip to shoulder. She tried to bump him with her hip, but he didn’t move.
He could be a gentleman and choose to sit on the floor, but perhaps those kinds of manners were not taught among the Éan. Him sitting so close was indecent though.
And she did not care that she had ridden his dragon not a half an hour past. ’Twas not the same. No, it was not. And she would tell him so. Later.
The two warriors shared the other bench, instead of one of them taking the floor, too. She supposed it made sense, but she did not like the way her body heated in inappropriate places at his closeness.
The Balmoral soldiers started to pepper Eirik with questions of what it was like to be a dragon.
“Do you see with colors?” Artair asked.
It was a fair question. Wolves did not.
Eirik nodded. “My vision is very good as well.”
“Better than your raven?” Artair asked.
“Much.”
Both soldiers went silent to give that truth the respect it deserved.
Then Gart asked, “Does your dragon pull you to shift like your raven?”
“Aye. He’s an impatient beast,” Eirik replied.
Ciara didn’t even pretend not to be interested in the discussion and the stew was bubbling in the pot before she knew it. The delicious aroma from the rabbit stew made her stomach growl embarrassingly.
Artair smiled at her with understanding. “Time to eat, I think.”
“Aye,” Eirik agreed with a concerned look for her.
“I am fine.”
“You do not eat enough.”
Oh, for goodness’ sake. Did he really need to share her shortcomings with the Balmoral soldiers? “I’m going to eat now.”
Gart grabbed shallow wooden bowls that would double for plates and Artair ladled a rich broth filled with vegetables and meat into each. Again, Eirik tasted her stew before she was allowed to eat.
“Are you going to do this from now on?” she asked him with exasperation.
“Aye.”
“It’s ridiculous. I’m a wolf. I would smell if my food or drink was off.”
“I am a dragon, my senses are stronger.”
“You are being arrogant again.”
“I am protecting you.”
“From friendly soldiers?”
“From the possibility they let their food spoil.”
“Well, they didn’t.”
“Nay.” He nodded to Artair and Gart. “’Tis tasty.”
“Thank you,” Gart replied.
Artair shrugged. “He does most of the cooking when we are on watch. I’m better at catching our meal than preparing it.”
“Our Artair is a fine hunter,” Gart said with some pride. “He’ll make a good husband to a lucky clanswoman.”
Artair smacked his friend on the back of the head and a bite of stew went flying, but Gart saved the rest of his food with his quick reflexes.
Their conversation continued over the meal but moved to the Éan settling into the Balmoral clan. Apparently, since none of the secret society of the Faol who wanted to kill all the Éan had been