Excerpt
CHAPTER ONE
In the overheated back corner of a Parnesian wine house, Brannon Luthinor, heir to the Hawthorne Throne, Prince of the Dark Elves, warrior-mage and prophecy-born, was losing at dice. Rather spectacularly. And not on purpose.
"Pity," said the olive-skinned man seated across the table as he swept the last of Bran's coin into his pile. "Got any more stake?"
The silver florins gleamed mockingly against the pitted wooden tabletop. Bran, trying not to clench his teeth, shook his head. While surveilling the wine house, he'd thought to plump up his purse with a simple game of chance. He'd thought wrong.
For a moment, the leashed wellspring of his magic flared.
Just a little nudge of the dice, and the tables would turn…
No. That was not his way, no matter how much the mortal world might tax his patience. He glanced over at the man who had taken the last of his coin.
"I am finished," Bran said.
"Tsk." The man sucked his teeth. "Another coin or two, and you might win it all back."
"I have no more."
"I could lend you a bit." The gambler smiled, his expression all kindness with not one drop of sincerity.
Bran regarded him steadily from within the shelter of his hooded cloak. "I think not."
"Eh. Your loss." The man scooped the coins into his purse with a sweet, metallic clink of farewell. "Better luck tomorrow, then."
"Perhaps," Bran replied, though he had no intention of frequenting that particular wine house. The Soiled Cockerel. It seemed aptly named.
"Ciao." The man flashed a cheeky smile and slid out from the bench to spend his ill-gotten gains elsewhere. He eeled his way into the crowd around the bar, leaving Bran to his tangled thoughts and his empty purse.
The Hawthorne Prince let out an irritated breath. It was only money, after all. He would sleep beneath the bridges tonight, and manufacture more coin on the morrow. The flat white stones along the riverbed were easy enough to enchant into silver florins, and they spent as well as any mortal coin.
Although the whole concept of money was strange to him. They did not use such a system of commerce in Elfhame. It had taken him some time to understand its use, and longer still to take advantage of it.
"Another glass?" the barmaid asked, coasting past his table with a half-dozen empty goblets blooming like a crystal bouquet from her hand.
"Thank you, but no." Bran pushed aside his goblet, still half-full of harsh red wine.
There were no answers here, no hint of the enemy he was chasing. A wasted evening, and it was his own fault for thinking drink and a bit of gambling would help ease the tight twist of yearning in his heart.
