Four men joined the prince at the far end of the tavern, where the dim lantern light barely reached. Henry sat hunched over the rough wooden table, his elbow braced against it, his forehead resting heavily on his palm. His eyes were shut, lashes trembling as though sleep might claim him, but it was not sleep that held him there. It was his mother's voice—sharp, measured, impossible to escape—echoing relentlessly in the hollow of his mind.
What use are you, Henry? What do you contribute that is not foolishness?
His lips parted before he realized he was speaking.
"What are the things I can contribute that isn't stupid?" he murmured.
