Free The Banished of Muirwood by Jeff Wheeler Page A

flames, and the room bustled with patrons who joked and bantered with each other, adding to the lively setting. Stag antlers and even a huge bust of a moose hung from the walls. The main room was narrow but deep, and it appeared as though all the rooms were up the narrow stairs that flanked each wall.
    Maia was startled by the commotion, but it felt pleasant to be around people again, all of them chattering away in another language that was lilting and beautiful to her ears. She could understand what they were saying, felt confident that she could mimic the cadence of their speech if need be. Jon Tayt scouted for an empty table, but without much luck. Argus’s tail wagged vigorously, and he snouted along the ground for fallen bits of food.
    The heat from the fires was starting to suffocate Maia, and she edged her cowl back from her face a bit, feeling the warmth and light play on her skin. She was bone weary from the hard journey that day, but she wanted to enjoy and savor the commotion and companionship, even if she did not wish to be noticed.
    Her eyes gazed around the room, taking in the details, and she felt a small smile threaten her. She indulged in it for just a moment. On each table were little vats of melted cheese, and patrons were dipping hunks of bread into it on small skewers. The smell of the melting cheese was enthralling.
    As she looked from table to table, she noticed one man was sitting alone, his leg propped on another chair in a lanky pose, swirling a goblet near his chin as he watched the patrons of the inn—exactly what she was doing. He was tall and broad with dark hair that went down to his shoulders. When she saw him, her heart took a shiver and a jolt, for he was one of the most handsome men she had ever seen. It was a dangerous kind of handsome, and he had the smug look of self-assurance that said he knew exactly how others regarded him.
    His gaze met hers, and the swirling cup stopped. The goblet came down on the table with a thud. A bright smile stretched across his face, a look of delight that sent shivers down to Maia’s blistered feet.
    “Tayt!” the man shouted across the room, his voice surpassing the drone of everyone else.
    Jon Tayt whirled at the salute, his eyes narrowing when he saw the man seated at the table by himself. “Ach,” the hunter muttered under his breath. “It had to be him. By Cheshu, why tonight ?” he murmured with a groan.
    “Who is that?” Maia asked cautiously as the man sat upright, waving his arm vigorously for them to join him. Her heart skittered with dread.
    “He’s the king’s collier,” Jon Tayt said, defeated. “Not a word. He cannot be trusted.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

    Roc-Adamour
    M aia had a penchant for being disappointed by handsome men. She was not one who instinctively trusted those who could win someone’s favor with a charming smile or gallant behavior. Those traits, life had taught her, were often wrapped up in shallow-mindedness and the spoiled stubbornness of people who were used to getting their way. Things often came too easily for men and women like that, perhaps because others deferred to beauty too readily. Though it pained her to admit it, her own father had always allowed beauty to get the better of him.
    They approached the man at the table, except for the kishion, who had melted into the crowd without a word. Just she, Argus, and Jon Tayt made their approach, and Maia moved forward warily.
    The man scooted his goblet away and scrutinized them. He gave Maia a cursory look, his eyebrows wrinkling slightly as he took in her disheveled appearance, but he greeted the hunter with enthusiasm.
    “At the end of another mountain expedition by the looks of you,” he drawled, slapping the tabletop good-naturedly. “How many in the party died this time?”
    “Only three or four,” the hunter said blandly. “A boring trip.”
    The man reached out to Argus, but the boarhound growled menacingly, and he withdrew his intent. He stood and