Prince of Traitors

Jasper

Before we enter the meetinghouse, Owin unties her hair from the braid that winds around the side of her head and fluffs it up to cover the mutilated tip of her right ear. It's been covered all day, and she wants to keep it that way.

Kieran sits at a table by himself, a steaming bowl sitting in front of him, two more waiting. He glances up at Owin and me, his mouth pressed in a tight line, but his expression softens as we approach the worn wooden table. The benches on either side of it are long, meant to seat many people. Kieran has reserved the entire table, and I assume Owin's family will join us at some point. My nerves flutter in my gut at the prospect of meeting them, and seeing her father again. I can only hope Emlyn doesn't try to kill me a second time.

The meetinghouse is filled with the murmur of voices and the clatter of ceramic spoons against bowls. There's something cooking in a gigantic cauldron over the fire in the center of the structure; it smells hearty, like meat and vegetables and herbs.

"There you two are," Kieran says as we sit down across from him. He pushes the two other bowls on the table toward each of us. "I grabbed you supper. I think it's rabbit stew."

"I'm so hungry, I don't even care," Owin says. She bends over her bowl of stew, scarfing it down. My stomach growls at the mouthwateringly savory smell of the soup, and I eat it eagerly. It's delicious and hot, better than the dried meats and foraged roots we've been eating for months.

In the middle of our meal, Owin looks up from where she sits beside me. Her face breaks into a grin. "Mum!" she exclaims, and she stands to hug the woman that approaches the table with Emlyn. A beaming Nimia comes to sit on my other side, setting down her own bowl of stew.

Owin pulls away from the woman, and the latter turns to look at me.

"You must be Jasper," she says. Her voice is soft and warm.

"Uh, yes," I reply.

She smiles. "I've heard a lot about you," she says. "I'm Aroll, Owin and Nimia's mother."

As much as Owin's father looks like her, Aroll is an almost exact copy of her daughter, her finely lined face kind and gentle. She wears a leather bandolier that crosses over her small frame, the long column of her neck draped with beads. Her hair is a silver mane of curls, a pair of thick braids drawing back from her temples, tied back behind her head. She sits beside Kieran across the table from Owin, and Emlyn sits next to her. The chieftain watches me with wary eyes, his fingers interlaced atop the table.

I look at Aroll. "You have?" I ask.

She nods. "Nimia tells me you'll be staying with us for a bit," she says.

I give a nervous chuckle. "Yes, I suppose I will." I reach across the table and shake her hand. "It's lovely to finally meet you. I hope I'm not imposing."

"No, my dear. Not at all. Any friend of my daughters' is a friend to all Navaarim, despite my husband's opinions on the matter," Aroll says. She peers at Emlyn, who only returns her gaze with a small smirk. He takes one of her hands in his and lifts it to his mouth, kissing the top of it.

I'm admittedly a little taken aback at how Owin's parents interact with each other; it's unlike anything I've ever seen from noblemen and their wives in my father's court. Emlyn is such a strong man, exuding such power, and yet Aroll is completely and utterly his equal.

I'm finding the Navaarim keep surprising me.

Nim half-stands in her seat and waves a hand in the air. "Saer! Bryn! Over here!"

The pair that approaches the table with bowls of stew have the skinny frames of girls not yet grown into womanhood. One wears a cool expression, her silver curls cut to her chin, and the other smiles pleasantly, her hair straight and long.