Til Death Do Us Bard

by Rose Black

Genres: Humorous Fantasy; Fantasy Romance

Synopsis

Legends & Lattes meets Kings of the Wyld in this sweet, queer, light fantasy, in which a grumpy ex-adventurer must come out of retirement to save the kingdom... after he saves his sunshiny bard husband.

Marriage isn't always sunshine and unicorns... sometimes it's monsters and necromancy.

It's been almost a year since Logan 'The Bear' Theaker hung up his axe and settled down with his sunshiny bard husband, Pie. But when Pie disappears, Logan is forced back into a world he thought he'd left behind.

Logan quickly discovers that Pie has been blackmailed into stealing a powerful artifact capable of creating an undead army. With the help of an old adversary and a ghost from his past, Logan sets out to rescue his husband.

But the further the quest takes him, the more secrets Logan uncovers. He'll need all his strength to rescue his husband - but can he save their marriage?

Til Death Do Us Bard is a charming queer fantasy, perfect for fans of Legends and Lattes and Nettle and Bone.

(P) 2023 Hodder & Stoughton Limited

Release date: November 21, 2023

Publisher: Hodder & Stoughton

Print pages: 320

Sample

Chapter One

For the fourth time today, Logan regretted leaving his axe at home. Bodies pressed in around him. Shouts and cheers battered his ears. No chance then of hearing anything coming up behind him. A tightness in his chest stifled his breathing.

Long fingers closed around his own.

‘We can go home if you like,’ Pie whispered beside him.

Logan glanced at his husband – and by gods, that was still a strange-tasting word – and shook his head. A fluttering settled in his stomach, and his feet felt lighter. They’d been married six months, but Logan fell in love with Pie all over again every time he looked at him. The bard was tall and slender, with a jawline cut from marble and a smile like a summer’s day, soft and warm.

Logan took a breath, forcing his swooping stomach to settle, and let his surroundings wash over him again. Not a battlefield, a festival. No monsters in sight. No one likely to creep up on him but a peddler or fortune-teller plying their wares.

And his expression alone was usually enough to keep them at bay.

‘Don’t fuss,’ he said, as Pie paused to allow a group of children to pass. They carried pieces of a wooden ship, ready to put together on top of the bonfire at sundown.

‘But fussing with you is my second favourite pastime,’ Pie replied, his lip protruding into an adorable pout that made Logan want to bite it.

‘No, it isn’t. Your second favourite pastime is spinning ­elaborate tales to anyone who’ll listen, and your third favourite is drinking,’ Logan quipped back.

‘You know me so well.’ Pie grinned, and there was a note of ­satisfaction in his voice. Pie saw him, and Logan found that he liked being seen. ‘Though I’d argue that those are work for a bard, not pastimes.’ He held up a finger. ‘Even the drinking. Especially the drinking. So, I redirect you back to my original point.’

Logan sighed. ‘No fussing.’

Pie narrowed his eyes, scrutinising Logan for a moment before yanking on his hand and pulling him toward a couple of wooden benches near the makeshift bar. He pushed Logan onto a seat and returned a moment later with two tankards.

‘Is your leg hurting?’ He handed over one of the tankards, full of a dark and frothy ale. ‘And before you say anything, that’s not fussing. That’s just asking a question.’

Logan shook his head. The serpentine scar on his calf never stopped aching, but the pain was easy to dismiss currently. He took a sip from his tankard, watching the strips of coloured cloth that were stretched across the streets flap lazily in the breeze. In the centre of the town square, children danced to a pair of pipers, and off to another side, a roast hog was turning on a spit over an open fire. The rich, meaty scent made Logan’s mouth water.

He hadn’t expected to retire – an uncommon outcome amongst adventurers. Logan had imagined his end in the form of slavering jaws in some gods-forsaken corner of nowhere. Now he had a cottage and a husband, and there was nothing to do today but drink and relax and anticipate eating roast pork.

If only it didn’t make him feel uneasy.

‘I saw you trying to reach for a weapon. Would you rather be out there’ – he waved at the distant horizon – ‘off fighting monsters?’

Logan took a long sip of ale and leaned against Pie. The uneasiness retreated. ‘Out in the mud and rain, battling something slimy, poisonous, or both? What makes you think I’d give up a warm cottage and having my socks darned for that? Besides,’ he added with a growl in his voice, ‘I can still be Logan the Bear for you whenever you like.’ He pressed his teeth against Pie’s ear.

Pie laughed. ‘I’ll take you up on that later. But I mean it. If you’re not happy, we can just go home. We don’t have to stay. I know you’re not fond of music . . . or crowds.’

‘I like music plenty,’ Logan replied with a snort. ‘Just not keen on bards.’

‘Yet here you are, married to one.’

Logan rested his head against Pie’s shoulder. ‘This one’s special.’

Part of him did want to go home. They didn’t need the rest of the world when they had each other, and there was always more work to be done around the cottage. But he also knew how much Pie enjoyed playing with other musicians, and if it made his husband happy, then that was enough for Logan.

One of the pipers in the square called to Pie. Logan plucked the tankard out of Pie’s hand and pushed him to his feet.

‘Go on. I’m quite happy here.’

Pie picked up his lute and gave Logan a kiss. ‘Don’t drink too much, it makes you gassy. I love you.’

‘Cheek.’ Logan kissed him back. ‘I love you too.’

The group of musicians struck up a lively jig, and more people poured into the square. A pair of women, gazes locked together, whirled around in perfect harmony, their quiet smiles mirrored on each other’s faces.

Logan finished his beer, then Pie’s, and set the tankards down on the bench with a thud. This time he’d do it right. This time he’d be a good husband. He headed over to the peddler’s stalls on the far side of the square, fingering the coins in his pocket. A gift. That was a good start.

Children scattered as he passed, pointing and whispering in not-quite-hushed tones about his scars. He snorted. There were many more hidden under his clothing, along with the tattoos that told of monsters killed and battles won. Forty-two years marked out in ink on his skin. Little brats like that might think him scary, but he was not nearly as scary as the creatures that met their end at the blade of his axe.

Most of them had probably never seen an adventurer. The growing population had driven the monsters back to the wilder areas of the island, and there was little need for them in quiet towns like this one.

He felt the old twitch in his guts, the one that sometimes woke him in the darkest hours. The one that said he still had an obligation, that retiring was selfish. He told it to fuck off, as he always did, but remembering his past made it loud, bold. He could be an adventurer, out there protecting people, or he could be retired, settled down with Pie.

Bitter experience had taught him that he couldn’t have both.

He forced his attention back to the sellers and their wares: pewter amulets of various patron gods, festival ribbons in red and yellow, and rings carved from hematite, but he settled on a soft woollen scarf that matched the green in Pie’s eyes.

‘Happy Founding Day,’ the woman said, a note of wariness in her voice, as if she expected Logan to run off with her goods rather than offer her coin.

He grunted an acknowledgement. The anniversary of the country’s birth meant little to him. ‘How much?’

‘Half a sovereign.’

Logan laughed. ‘You’re joking, right?’

‘Not at all,’ she replied with a dismissive sniff. ‘Without magic, prices are on the rise. Do you want it or not?’

He haggled half-heartedly, then handed over the coins. He’d heard the king had forbidden magic use a year ago, but the consequences hadn’t reached their tiny village yet. Magic wasn’t a common skill, tending to run in certain ­families. Few of them tended to be adventurers. There was more money to be made in assisting trade; the country was known for a particularly fine spellcaster-produced glass.

The ban left him conflicted. On the one hand, magic had little direct influence on his life. But magic was as much a part of the country as adventuring was. Spellcasters had been amongst the early settlers who took on the job of taming the wild and abandoned island. And banning something simply because it was dangerous rankled him. Axes were dangerous. He was dangerous.

Would the king one day decide to ban adventurers?

Someone placed a hand on his shoulder, and Logan spun around, his hand instinctively reaching for his missing axe.

‘Sorry to trouble you.’ A barrel-chested man faced him down. Logan might have taken him for a fellow adventurer, but the black under his nails and the small burn marks on his shirt suggested blacksmith instead. ‘We could use another strong pair of hands to help carry the wood over to the ­bonfire.’

Music drifted across the air and Logan shrugged. He shoved the scarf into his pocket. ‘Lead on then.’

When he turned back to the square and the dancing, the two pipers and an enthusiastic tambor player remained playing, but Pie was nowhere in sight. Logan gazed around the revellers. Pie was tall, lanky, with auburn hair past his ­shoulders. He should have been easy to spot, even in a crowd.

Logan’s stomach dropped and he started for the square at a run. People stared at him, and he forced himself to slow down. This was silly. Pie could be fetching more beer, or pissing, or talking to someone. The bard knew everyone in Stowatt it seemed, so it wouldn’t be unusual for someone to pull him into a discussion.

After confirming that no one had seen Pie at the bar, or by the roasting hog, Logan moved away from the festivities. The town was small enough that it didn’t have a gods-square, just a series of small shrines running down one street. Each of them was decked out in red and yellow flowers and ribbons, apart from the shrine to the death goddess, which had several sheep ribs arranged in a criss-cross pattern.

Footsteps ahead made him tense and reach once more for the axe that wasn’t on his back. A man in a fox fur-lined cloak walked down the street towards him, head down. As he passed Logan, he raised his head and gave him a grin. Younger than Logan by some ten years, he had a narrow face with a small, scrawny goatee. Logan watched him walk away, an itch to fight scratching in the back of his mind.

The man’s clothes, posture and expression screamed adventurer, but Logan didn’t recognise him. Of course, he’d been out of the business for six months now. The bigger question was what an adventurer was doing here. Stowatt wasn’t on any of the major roads, so it was unlikely any of the gentry needed escorting through the forests. No battles or wars. It could only mean a monster was on the loose.

He tensed, thinking of the children dancing in the square. Thinking of Pie. No axe, so he’d have to improvise. Or maybe the stranger had a spare weapon. Logan started to call to the man, but he’d disappeared. He was about to try and find him, when Pie suddenly called his name. Logan turned back to see his husband emerge from the same direction as the stranger.

‘Logan . . . what are you doing?’

‘I wasn’t sure where you’d gone.’ The words came out awkward, oppressive, controlling. He didn’t mean Pie belonged under his thumb. He turned away to hide the heat creeping up his neck, but Pie caught his hand.

‘Can we go home, please?’ Pie glanced over his shoulder, then down at the ground. Anywhere but at Logan. He worried at his lower lip.

‘Of course,’ Logan replied instinctively, but . . . If Pie was safe at home, Logan could take his axe and go hunt. Been a while since he’d tracked anything, but the man had probably been staying at the tavern and he’d pick up the details there. Logan pulled Pie close. There was a sour scent to Pie’s breath. ‘Are you sick?’

‘Think I ate something I shouldn’t,’ Pie replied. ‘I’m fine. I just want to go home.’ The words came out in a tumble.

But they’d eaten the same breakfast and Logan felt fine. He put a hand on Pie’s forehead. His skin was a little clammy, but not hot. ‘Did you see the adventurer?’ he asked as they turned away from the main square and started back toward their cottage. ‘Fox-fur cloak, crossbow, bastard sword, pair of daggers. Had a beard like a goat and a face that wasn’t far off one either. There must be something wrong. Let me get you home and I’ll come back and see what’s up.’

‘He’s not an adventurer.’ Pie shook his head. Unlikely, Logan thought to himself. ‘He’s just . . . just a messenger. He had an invitation to a gig, that’s all.’

‘I see,’ Logan replied, catching the way Pie’s eyes darted to every door and window. It was good there was no monster, of course it was. But for a moment, the call, the thrill of his old life had been loud in his ears. Now, a different feeling all together was settling into Logan. Pie was lying to him. Logan had never met a messenger with that many weapons. And the look he’d given Logan – that was one professional to another.

It was a short walk from the town to the village where they lived – the last vestige of civilisation pressed up against the moors, little more than a sprinkle of houses around an inn. If the little village had ever had a name, no one knew it anymore.

The cottage sat on a little rise away from the main cluster of homes, a single-storey building of whitewashed stone with a neat, thatched roof, surrounded by a bed of vibrant flowers. Such a simple, unassuming structure, but for Logan, who’d lived on the road for two decades, the sight of it often brought deep warmth to his heart.

Home.

Pie let himself in to start on supper, while Logan fed their pig and the pair of goats. He stomped past the little apple sapling he’d planted this spring, the leaves fluttering in the breeze. In a few years, the tree would bear fruit and then they’d plant more, maybe even have a whole orchard.

The itch he felt earlier had settled into a heavy knot at the base of his spine. Pie was prone to exaggeration, as all bards were, but he’d never lied.

Not to Logan.

He stamped the mud off his boots and paused, fingers not quite touching the front door. The idea of confronting Pie tied his stomach in knots. Besides, he was probably reading too much into things. Letting his own private fears cloud his judgement. If Pie said the stranger was a messenger, he was a messenger.

Inside, Pie spooned soup into two bowls and set them on the table. A fire burned in the hearth, bathing the walls in a warm light. Logan’s axe on the wall reflected the glow from the fire. More ornament than weapon now.

Logan took a seat on the bench as Pie slid up against him, his hip pressing comfortably against Logan’s. A bottle of whisky sat open in the centre of the table, some of the contents clearly missing. The sharp scent cut across the smell of warm broth and fresh vegetables.

‘Where did you get that?’ Logan asked. It hadn’t been in the house this morning, and he hadn’t seen Pie take it.

Pie shifted his gaze from the bottle to the floor in a swift motion. ‘I, er, borrowed it. I’ll pay them back. I thought we could have our own celebration.’ He carefully poured measures into two wooden cups and offered one to Logan. ‘Here’s to Captain Miranda and the storm that blew her ship off course. And here’s to our forgotten island full of monsters and dead necromancers. What a place to call home.’

Pie pushed the cup of whisky toward Logan, who accepted it without a word. Pie’s tone was light, but the humour didn’t reach his eyes.

‘What’s wrong?’ Logan asked as Pie downed his cup in one and poured himself another drink. ‘Did something happen earlier?’

‘No. It’s nothing,’ Pie responded, knocking back his drink and reaching for the bottle again.

Logan nudged it out of his reach.

‘It’s nothing.’ Pie sighed. ‘I’d just rather spend the evening reminiscing with you. Do you remember last winter, when we got snowed in? Stuck in that inn, nothing to eat but that blood sausage that made everyone fart? If the snow hadn’t melted when it did, I’m pretty sure we would have all ­suffocated!’

‘The Prancing Foal,’ said Logan. ‘Only you called it the Farting Foul and the name stuck.’

‘Innkeeper hated me,’ Pie agreed. ‘Not sure why. I happen to know he’s done a roaring trade since I publicised that little adventure.’

Logan settled down to eat, some of his tension ­melting away. They shared more memories as the contents of the bottle slowly disappeared, and the sun gradually followed. By the time the stars were out, Pie was swaying on the bench.

‘Bed,’ Logan said firmly, smiling down at his husband. As Logan stood, something fell from his pocket. The green scarf. He picked up the delicately wrapped parcel and held it out to Pie. ‘Here, I got you this today.’

Pie stared at the brown wrapping for a moment before snatching it out of Logan’s hands and pressing it to his face. He failed to stifle a sob, which made Logan chuckle.

‘Definitely time for bed.’ Logan slung his husband’s arm over his shoulder. ‘It’s only a scarf.’

‘It’s the best scarf,’ Pie replied, his words slurred.

Logan manoeuvred him away from the table and hearth and over to the big bed that occupied much of the other half of the room. He eased his husband onto the big bear pelt, helped him out of his shirt, and untied the leather thong that bound his hair. Pie curled up, and Logan pulled the patchwork quilt Pie had made last winter over his ­shoulders.

‘Gonna be with you shortly.’ He kissed Pie’s forehead. ‘Just going to check on the pig.’

‘Logan, I . . .’ Pie caught his wrist. ‘ . . . I need to go to the city tomorrow. I broke a string.’

Logan glanced past the wooden clothes chest, Pie’s discarded peacock-feather hat, and a collection of daggers with chipped blades he hadn’t mended yet, until his gaze reached the lute perched against the wall.

The lute with all six strings intact.

The next day, Logan was regretting his life choices.

Well, not all of them. He’d never regret pushing Pie out of the way of that axe, and he didn’t regret putting his foot down about walking to the city together. The ache in his leg was making him tire of other things, like people with axes and grudges. And having a husband who ducked and evaded all his questions.

The rain didn’t help.

The region was notorious for it: a fine, consistent spray that didn’t so much fall as smear itself across the air. There was no way to avoid it, no material that could keep you completely dry. No matter how high or tight your collar, the rain always found its way down your neck.

Pie, hungover and sullen, had spent the journey in silence once it became clear he wouldn’t be able to prevent Logan from coming along. Logan had wanted to say something to explain that whatever Pie really needed in the city, he wouldn’t judge him for it, but he couldn’t find a way to start that didn’t open with ‘You lied to me.’

So, he pushed on through the rain despite the pain in his leg. He’d desperately avoided showing any weakness, setting the pace hard as he had done in his prime. Years ago, he could walk twenty-five miles in a day and still have the energy to kill any creature that crossed his path. But it was no longer years ago. The journey had taken most of the day, and there was no disguising the limp. The pain that came with every step brought waves of nausea. He stumbled, and Pie caught his arm.

‘For a man nicknamed the Bear, you are as stubborn as a goat,’ Pie said, breaking his silence. ‘Put your arm around me, you great idiot.’

Logan gratefully put his arm around Pie’s shoulder, taking some of the weight off his injured leg.

‘I don’t need a bodyguard, Logan. I don’t need you to injure yourself because you think I’m weak.’

‘I don’t think you’re weak.’ Logan stared out across the moorland. The city was still about an hour’s walk from here. ‘I think you’re precious.’

Pie sucked in a breath, his face flooding red. ‘Dammit, you’re not helping. You can’t watch out for me every second of every day. You must trust me to take care of myself.’

‘I do trust you.’ Logan tightened his grip around Pie’s ­shoulder, though the knot in his gut tightened. You lied to me. ‘It’s everyone else I don’t trust.’

The road turned, and the city of Tallywell came into view below. Logan hadn’t been back here since they passed through six months ago, looking for somewhere to settle down. High walls of pale grey stone jutted out of the ground, nestled in a bend in the river, standing taller than anything for miles around. The bulky barriers, ugly and functional, wrapped around the densely packed buildings inside, keeping them safe.

‘Well, you’re going to have to,’ Pie muttered. ‘Come on. It’ll soon get dark, and they’ll shut the gates on us.’

They passed through the wide city gates with plenty of time before dusk. As night settled in, the doors would swing closed, trapping those already here inside and keeping out anything creeping through the darkness. Things were better than they had been when Logan was a child – there hadn’t been a monster attack in the area for seven or eight years now – but not enough that people would willingly give up the comfort of fortifications and closed doors.

At the gates, armed guards checked carts and wagons and compared faces against a series of sketches pinned up in the gatehouse. Their names were noted in a logbook before they were allowed to pass.

‘Never used to be like this,’ Logan muttered, and Pie shook his head.

Inside the walls, wooden houses crowded close together, facing off across muddy streets. Not only larger than ­Stowatt, it was also denser and darker, with no open spaces for dancing and bonfires. Beggars squatted at crossroads, and rats scuttled between alleys. The last time Logan passed through, it had been crowded but thriving. Now, the place had a pervading scent of dampness and dejection, as if folks here were waiting for the break in the clouds covering their lives.

The inn stood on the main thoroughfare, close to the gate. The open door spilled out warm firelight and snippets of conversation. Logan, cold, hungry and in pain, had never seen a more beautiful sight. Pie helped him to a table near the fire, and Logan sank into the chair with a contented sigh.

‘Stay there,’ Pie said. ‘I’ll go get us some supper.’

Logan waved him off, unable to help even if he wanted to. He let the heat of the roaring fire caress his aching body, washing away the throbbing pain and leaving behind a deep, simmering exhaustion.

The inn was busy tonight. Many of those gathered in the common room had the appearance of travellers. Their clothes were functional and worn, and that wary look in the eye gave them away. Now that magic was illegal, there were more travellers on the road, many carrying messages between towns. One more thing that had to be done by hand once again.

Pie returned with two tankards and a room key. He pushed one of the pewter vessels towards Logan. Not a dent or scratch on it. The ones at the local inn near their home all bore the marks of friendly and not-so-friendly arguments. In a small community, grievances didn’t wander, and the inn gave them a beer-fuelled outlet.

‘You know I love you, right?’ Pie said, reaching for Logan. The tips of his fingers, calloused by lute strings, stroked the back of Logan’s hand.

‘Of course.’ It had taken him a long time to believe it, believe he was worthy of it, but looking at Pie’s earnest expression, he could never doubt it.

‘I’m sorry about yesterday. But it’s nothing, really.’

You’re lying. Logan shook his head. He didn’t want to push Pie. The middle of the common room wasn’t the place for a fight. ‘If you say so.’

A barmaid with a plait down to her waist and cheeks that dimpled when she smiled brought over two bowls of dark stew. Dumplings floated in the broth like clouds, and Logan’s mouth watered at the rich scent. She said something quietly to Pie, who gave her a smile and a nod in return.

‘They’ve agreed to let me sing,’ he said as she wandered off again. ‘Been a while since I’ve done it unaccompanied.’ His fingers twitched as if missing the lute.

‘You’ll be fine.’ Logan gave Pie’s hand a squeeze.

Pie returned a small smile, looking down at the bowl in front of him. ‘Thank you. I . . . I love you, and I want to be with you forever.’

They’d never been shy about saying it – words never wore out, they just got more polished, or so Pie said. But this was twice in short succession, and the words hit Logan like a blow. Especially as he’d had little more than a grunt or a nod out of Pie since they’d set out that morning. It didn’t feel insincere. In fact, the opposite. Perhaps Pie was feeling more open now. If he could keep his husband talking, he’d get some answers.

‘Forever,’ Logan repeated, pointing his spoon to the knot tattoo on Pie’s bicep. Such a small symbol to carry so much weight. His gaze dropped to his own matching mark, following the interlocking lines around and around. They’d married under the auspices of Hawkint, god of roots and hedgerows, mostly because they’d come across the stone shrine on the moor on their search for a place to settle down, and the moment had felt right.

Neither had any affiliation to the deity, but still, they’d said their oaths under the oak tree, sealing their promises with blood and ink. Marriage, the priest of the hedgerows said, was about roots growing together, twisting into one another.

Pie went back to staring into the bowl, his spoon trembling in his hand, and Logan reflected on how little he really knew about Pie's roots. He never spoke of his family, except once, earlier in the year, after his brother died. He was educated, but his accent was carefully cultivated to sound like everywhere and nowhere all at once. The first time they’d met, he’d worn a signet ring, but Logan had never seen him wear it again.

‘Enough of this, Pie. You’re in trouble, aren’t you?’ The words tumbled out before Logan could stop them. Pie’s eyes went wide. He looked away.

‘It’s nothing. I just need to take care of a couple of things.’

‘Why won’t you talk to me about it?’ Logan thumped a fist on the table. Pie flinched. The conversation in the room lulled as several people turned to stare. ‘Whatever it is, I can help,’ Logan whispered.

‘No, you can’t,’ Pie said softly. His expression was haunted, a tear forming in the corner of his eye.

The barmaid hollered, pointing to the raised platform in the corner of the room.

‘I need to go,’ Pie said. ‘They’re ready for me.’

Logan grabbed his wrist.

‘Tell me everything when you’re done. Whatever it is, we can fix it together.’

Pie paused, his gaze fixed on something behind Logan. His lips moved, and then he nodded to himself. He leaned over and kissed Logan’s cheek. ‘I’ll tell you everything. I promise.’

Logan settled back in his chair, calmer now. Any problem that existed could be defeated as long they could see it. Problems that floated in the shadows like wraiths, un­­acknowledged – those were harder to put down. Tonight, he’d get to the bottom of this, and tomorrow they’d start on the path to sorting it. He downed the rest of his drink, feeling the alcohol warm his insides, and signalled for another.

Pie’s voice floated across the tavern, quelling the conversation. He sang of a mermaid who gave comfort to the lost and lonely. It was magic the way a bard could dominate the room with their voice, as if the music made them greater than their physical form. Even without his lute, each note carried ­echoes and images, emotions that bypassed the mind and buried themselves in the heart.

The barmaid brought Logan another tankard but refused his coin. He shrugged as she walked off, her braid swaying hypnotically behind her. It wasn’t unusual to be drinking on the bard’s tab. The warmth, ale and Pie’s soothing voice wrapped around him all lulled Logan into a comfortable stupor. He hoped the neighbours were feeding the pig well and that it was receiving its customary scratch behind the ears..

Whatever Pie’s problem, they could fix it, tomorrow. Together.

Midway through Pie’s set, Logan’s head began to droop. Pie finished his song and announced he was taking a break and would be back shortly. He walked back to the table and put an arm around Logan’s shoulder.

‘No falling asleep here, you,’ he said, his expression soft and loving. ‘Come on, let’s get you to bed.’

Logan finished his drink, something gritty irritating the back of his mouth. He staggered to his feet, the heat of the room making his vision swim. He put his arm around Pie’s shoulder, letting the bard lead him upstairs.

He hadn’t noticed himself getting this drunk.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said, leaning against the wall as Pie unlocked the door to their room. ‘Don’t know what’s come over me.’

‘It’s probably the consequences of your stubborn arse marching at full speed for ten miles today,’ Pie replied, his face pinched into a frown.

Logan . . .