Page 62 of An Archer's Redemption

Part III

Chapter 26

Liam

The sun had just peeked over the horizon when I groaned, stretched my arms as far as they would reach, and tossed back my thick woolen blankets. I shivered at the cold and frowned at the darkened coals in my bedchamber’s hearth, then blew out a sigh, stretched one last time, and set about my morning routine.

First, I had to do something with my bushy tangle of sandy hair. It had somehow found ways to tie itself into knots that would make any sailor proud. The first few pulls of my brush tugged at my scalp, and then—the successive pulls hurt, too.

My hair was a mess. Had I wrestled a bear in my sleep?

Once satisfied I was presentable for my father’s guests, I rinsed my face in the frigid water of my washbasin and donned my uniform, dove gray trousers covered by a pale blue smock embroidered with a sparkly silver crown. I traced a finger across the stylized symbol of the Kingdom’s royal household.

Years earlier, King Alfred and Queen Isabel visited our town and stayed at our inn. That week transformed the town of Oliver’s sleepy but reputable inn into a palace away from home for the couple. At least, that’s what my father told anyone who would listen. To hear him tell it, he laid marble in every room, polished the cherry wood (though the walls were oak) to a mirror-sheen, and sold his soul for a chef straight from the Isle of Vint.

In truth, we dusted and cleaned as best a family of common innkeepers could, but the boarding house was the same as before the royals arrived, if a tad less dusty. The King’s household provided the chef and foodstuffs for their visit. All Hershel, my father, had to do was help haul it into his storeroom and kitchen. The royal seneschal explained that only royal servants could attend their Majesties, which included serving food or wine, cleaning their chambers, or anything else that involved direct interaction with our vaunted rulers. Hershel and his household would be introduced to the royals upon their arrival, but there would be no further interaction once the King and Queen were settled into their chambers.

The day after the royals departed, I woke to a series of loud bangs outside the door of the inn—onthe door of the inn, actually. My father had commissioned an artisan to create a new masthead for the business, one bearing our new name,The Crown’s Glory, in sparkling silver, complete with a stylized replica of the royal household’s symbol. He changed the crown just enough to comply with laws forbidding use of official marks but kept enough to make it clear to all that the royal couple had blessed his establishment with their presence.

The Glory, as the townsfolk called it, became the center of culture and entertainment in Oliver, such that it was in a small town. Traveling minstrels and players were present mostnights, and the ale was never watered as it was in the lesser establishments down by the docks.

Most respectable nineteen-year-old men in Oliver were still snuggled in their beds.

But not me.

I was not a common commoner.

I loved to work.

I loved interacting with the minstrels and players, the cooks and washer folk, the farriers and stable hands. They gave the inn life, and I loved each of them.

Above all, I loved our guests.

Whether weary workmen, couriers traveling to some faraway destination, or wealthy nobles spending their time and fortune on leisure, I reveled in their tales, learning what made them laugh, and living vicariously through their journeys I longed to enjoy for myself.

Oddly, the other men of the town held no grudge for my passion, certainly not the way many women flung petty jealousies toward each other. Perhaps others accepted the royal blessing on our household. More likely, they were infected by my self-deprecating wit and ever-present smile.

Of course, thathadto be it.

When I entered a room, even when laden with a tray of food and drink for a raucous table, heads turned. My bright brown eyes sparkled when I smiled, making most women—and even a few men—mirror my warmth. My laugh sounded like the rumbled gurgling of some ancient creature risen from the depths of the sea.

It was heartfelt.

It was infectious.

It was me in sonorous beauty.

I might not have been the handsomest man in Oliver, but I was surely the one folk enjoyed the most.

I splashed my face one last time with the wintry water and wiped my eyes, then padded downstairs toward the kitchen where vegetables waited to be chopped and eggs demanded cracking for the guests’ morning meals.

The common room was dark and chilly, though a small fire still danced in the hearth thanks to the night clerk. As I wove my way through the tables toward the kitchen door, I felt a tingle, that unsettling feeling I always felt when I was being watched.

I froze and scanned the room.

The stage was clear.

The bar, with its hefty marble top, stood silent.

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