Elf Defence (Adventures in Aguillon #2) - Lisa Henry Page 0,71

tugging the waistband out to try to create more room.

The duke’s private dining room was typical of Tournel castle: all honey-coloured wood panels, exposed ceiling beams, and the ubiquitous stags’ heads on the wall. Calarian hadn’t seen a single deer since arriving in Tournel, and he was starting to have a pretty good idea why. He met the glass eyes of the nearest stag and apologised to it silently.

“The food here is amazing,” Quinn said, digging into some of that noodley stuff that Calarian still couldn’t properly pronounce.

“We should steal their cook,” Loth agreed.

Gretchen raised her eyebrows. “I’d hate to start our relationship off on the wrong foot with a civil war though.”

Quinn almost choked on his noodles.

“I was joking,” Loth said, wide-eyed.

“So was I,” Gretchen said with a grin. Calarian would bet she wasn’t though, not entirely. Truthfully, the noodley stuff was amazing, and Calarian would happily have gone to war for it, if not for the fact that wars were just an awful, messy, expensive way for the ruling classes to grow fat on the suffering of the common man in the trenches under the pretence of defending national honour.

Wow. He blinked. Benji was really rubbing off on him.

“So, Lars,” Quinn said in an obvious attempt to change the subject entirely. “Gretchen tells us that yours are the finest cows in all Tournel?”

“I said they were okay,” Gretchen muttered under her breath.

Lars turned adorably pink. “Um, thank you, Your Majesty. I think so, yes. Maisy’s milk makes the best cream you’ll ever taste.”

Benji opened his mouth, his eyes shining bright with mischief, and Gretchen gave him a pointed look that just dared him to say it and face the consequences. Benji looked like he was going to burst trying to hold it in.

So Calarian said it for him.

“I’ve had better, actually,” he said and smirked, delighting when Lars turned even pinker.

“He means a different sort of cream,” Benji said helpfully. “Get it? Do you get it?”

Quinn’s jaw dropped, but Loth grinned and said, “Not as often as I’d like.”

“I am so sorry,” Quinn and Gretchen said to each other at the same time.

The door to the dining room opened, and Hannah bustled in. “Sorry I’m late,” she said, hefting her basket onto the end of the table. “I brought leftovers from the bakery.”

Benji dived for the gingerbread, only to have his hand slapped away by Loth. “Royal dibs!” Loth proclaimed loudly. “I haven’t had Tournellian gingerbread in years!” He grabbed the big horse on top of the pile.

Benji reached over and snapped the legs off Loth’s horse and stuffed them in his mouth, glaring.

“Benji has a problem with gingerbread,” Calarian offered.

“Benji has a problem with sharing gingerbread,” Gretchen corrected, staring hard at Benji as he and Loth wrestled over a cow.

“I am the king!” Loth growled.

“You’re not my king!” Benji growled back. “I didn’t vote for you! Also, death to all kings! Especially ones who try to steal my gingerbread!”

The cow snapped, and both of them fell back into their seats with more or less half each.

Quinn rolled his eyes. “Apologies. My husband is a giant child.”

“Quinn,” Loth said. “Have you ever tasted this stuff?”

“No, not that I can remem–” Quinn was cut off by the gingerbread cow’s arse that Loth shoved in his mouth. He chewed and swallowed, his annoyed expression transforming into one of almost transcendent bliss. “Oh, wow!”

Loth shrugged and turned to Hannah. “Tournel gingerbread has that effect.”

“We’ll have to make sure we send your envoys home with a good supply,” Gretchen said.

Calarian froze with a hazelnut cookie held halfway to his mouth.

Home.

Not that Callier was home, because Calarian was a wandering hero always in search of a new quest, but that was where Gretchen meant. He caught Benji’s gaze, and saw the same sudden terrible realisation reflected there. They were done here, all their business finished and loose ends tied up, except for one.

Lars’s mouth quirked in a tremulous smile as Calarian looked at him. Then he pushed his chair back, and stood. “Excuse me,” he said softly, and left the room.

Calarian darted after him, hearing Benji’s chair scrape back too.

They caught up with Lars in the corridor outside, underneath a tapestry depicting some forest scene bristling with trees and deer.

“Listen for a moment,” Lars said, before either of them could speak. “I love you. Both of you. But you should go. Calarian, you’re a hero. You go on impossible quests to kill monsters and rescue princes and do the sorts of things that