50 Barin
The food dancing in Barin’s mind is beautiful. Chunky potatoes in a creamy soup, bread slathered in butter, a sweet mead in his hand. His stomach growls for the umpteenth time.
“Can’t you control that thing?” Enre grumbles under his breath.
“Do you have any food to give it?” Barin asks, shifting his legs. “I am starving.”
They have been sitting outside the meeting room for at least an hour. Three messengers have come and gone, one of which had been the bearer of a tray of food. None had been offered to Alois, Barin, or Enre.
“It won’t be much longer now,” Alois says calmly. He is watching one of the candles burn, the wax slowly dripping down the side. “They can’t stay in there all day.”
Barin sits up at the sound of running feet pounding up the stairs at the end of the hal
