An awkward, suffocating silence took root at the table. The only sound was the shrieking of utensils and the distant neighing of a stubborn horse.
"Could you pass the salt?" Alpheo asked, his voice deceptively flat. He turned to Asag, who looked as if he wanted to crawl under the floorboards of the table as he awkwardly pushed the cellar toward the Prince.
A thin, feeble voice rose from the back of the tent. "Cou—"
"I said arms above your head!" Alpheo snapped, not even turning around.
"Eekk!" Basil shrieked, his shoulders jerking upward. "I've been like this for half an hour! My arms hurt..."
"And you will keep them there for another hour," the Prince shot back. There wasn't a flicker of softness in his dark eyes he would usually have held for his son. "And at first light, you shall ride with Sir Rodry and five of my personal guard. You are going home to your mother. Immediately."
