“That’s an oath,” the poet says, soft and easy. “Regarding Avren the Sparrow’s throat, should any touch a hair on your head tonight.”
“Such a relief to be among allies at last,” Pepperidge sighs, and sips the tea; a more similar brew to those found in her hometown than to the ones the Highland favours.
“Oh, they’d understand,” Lilli says cheerily, tucking the blade away. “And look, you’re fine, which eternally does my heart good.”
The elves exchange looks around her.
“You’ve borne up under far worse,” Taelin says, in an embarrassed way. “And I know, Professor, I know it’s not ideal, but — poetry.”
“I am but a humble fool without any. You may have to explain.”
“Swive me, man,” Allister mumbles. “I had a wife who took that tone wi’ me once. Took a butcher knife to me later, when I slept.”
“How is Grana?” the Sparrow murmurs back at him.
“Oh, fine, fine. An urge for the sea took upon her and she sails with the alfar-zee this last while. Visited last, oh, maybe eighty summers? Brought a chestful of seashells for the many-great grandweans.” The big man’s smile glitters. “Still a damn fine girl to play ‘Pirate queen demands yer booty’ with—”