Crown of Iron (Book 1 of the Crown Trilogy)

Forty-Three

Music, laughter, and the clinking of glasses seep out of the Rusty Hound. The dealings inside the tavern are known to be questionable—smoking hallucinogenic herbs, selling carnal pleasures, and drunken brawls that make their way out to the street at all times of night. It's the type of establishment the king's guard, council people, and a future queen shouldn't step foot into, making it the perfect place to gather if one is planning a secret rescue mission.

With a deep breath and my chin held high, I yank open the bulky door. Alcohol mixed with pungent smoke invades my nostrils, and I blink against the haze illuminated by candles on top of the rustic tables. The patrons seated at the bar sip their drinks, watching me over the rims of their glasses as I scan the room for a familiar face.

I've dealt with my fair share of drunken courtiers. A hand drifting to my waist, an off-color joke, and bold stares at body parts, but the privileged are careful not to get caught in the king's palace. The same can't be said for the patrons of the Rusty Hound. One doesn't need to look hard to find acts unbecoming of a lady or gentleman.

I shift side to side anxious to find my friends. A clap cracks throughout the tavern when a palm lands on the tight leather covering my ass. I jump, rubbing the stinging skin and finding a voluptuous woman with a mountain of cleavage licking her thin lips.

"I've been dying for some new meat. How much will it cost for a night with ya, lass?" she says, sounding like she's spent decades with a cigar between her lips.

I open my mouth to give her a piece of my mind but come up short.

An arm drapes over my shoulder and a sultry voice says, "She's out of your price range." Greer gives me a wink. "Besides, she's with me."

I place my hand on Greer's stomach and bat my eyelashes at the lude woman. "Sorry, you're just not my type."

"Of course I'm not," the woman grumbles.

We turn away, exchanging smiles, and push through the crowd.

Greer shakes my shoulder, saying, "It's good to see you, Elle."

"Same. It feels more like weeks than days since I left Basecamp."

"It just hasn't been the same without you."

My heart warms. I worried what little normalcy I found amongst their ranks would vanish when I returned home. They would go back to training and fighting, and I to a palace and crowns. But the sincerity in Greer's eyes and her firm touch on my arm assure me I'm wrong. All my hard work to fit in paid off. My absence has left a mark with the soldiers I trained with, and the friendships I forged are true.

"I'm glad you all are here; I've missed spending time with you," I say.

"You'll feel different after a night with these assholes," she says, tilting her head toward the round table for eight in the far corner. Kyron and Leif stand to the side, the general handing my best friend a silver key. Leif tilts his head to the ceiling, sliding the item into his pocket.

"That's the last time I give you a job," I say, bumping Kyron with my hip.

"I'm just grateful he remembered to give it back. The Palace Steward was glaring at me earlier today, and I thought he figured it out. But I'll sneak this to him with no problem," Leif says.

Kyron pulls out a chair at the table for me, and Ulric slides a stein of beer my way. "Drink it up, nanny goat. We got a long night ahead of us."

"That's not how it works; you'll be carrying her out of here before the night is through." Kyron takes a sip, shudders, and sets the beer in front of me again. "What the hell are you drinking, man?"