Page 13

Malik

T he departure of the monarchs to their wedding moon went without a hitch. Adair had been correct: Lydia was willing to help and had played her part better than many an actress Malik had witnessed on stage. It was as though she had studied Ceridwen’s pleasant laughter and bright smiles. She truly looked like the queen as she and Adair, who was dressed in the king’s formal regalia, hurried through the corridors of the castle to their awaiting carriage. Fanciful masks hid their faces, but they did not seem too out of place considering the gaudy outfits they’d chosen.

Adair said nothing, only smiling and bowing. A wise choice. His voice was too high to be that of the king. He could pass for Drystan in appearance, though he was slightly shorter and wirier in build. Most wouldn’t notice that, certainly not when glimpsed briefly on the way to the carriage. Most would be focused on the couple’s attire anyway, a clever part of the plan.

Bronwyn had managed to look bright-eyed and happy that morning, giving her fake sister a hug and wishing her well before she entered the carriage. If Malik hadn’t known better, he would believe everything was right in the world.

He’d never doubted Bronwyn’s dedication to the cause, but seeing her so pulled together despite the previous night’s events was truly awe-inspiring. She was a far better actress than he expected.

The rest of the queen’s family wasn’t so skilled, but it was easy to pass off their sniffles as ones of joy, wishing the couple well but already missing them and awaiting their return.

When the carriage had turned out of sight, Malik found Bronwyn staring at him, her smiles gone and stoney expression back in place.

“Care for early luncheon later, Miss Bronwyn?” he asked, raising one brow for emphasis.

“That would be lovely.” Her reply was polished and stiff as her curtsey. With barely another glance, she turned and walked back into the castle.

How he yearned to follow her…

But there was another pressing task awaiting him.

Malik crept through the secret passageway with Jackoby in tow. They’d decided that Kent would go with the fake monarchs to Merryweather Hall. After all, it only made sense for them to bring staff, and he could keep in check those who resided at the hall full-time.

There was no telling what they would find when they reached the hidden room. A multitude of possibilities taunted him, each one landing like a heavy weight in his stomach. By the time they reached the door, it was all Malik could do to put one foot in front of the other.

“Ready?” he asked the other man.

Jackoby was solemn and resolute. Usual for him, though he looked pale as a ghost in the flickering lamp light. “It will not be the first time I have seen His Majesty after such a night,” he replied.

Malik frowned. No, he supposed not. The butler had seen much in his years of service to the king.

Malik was prepared, he thought, for the sight that lay beyond, but the moment he opened the door and his eyes adjusted to the gloom within, he swayed on his feet, his chest hollowing out like an empty barrel.

The shackles had held. Somehow.

Drystan was slumped against the wall, curled in on himself. Shredded bits of clothing were strewn about the chamber. Worse were the deep gouges in the stone—sharp and refined, still pale from where claws had cleaved the walls and floor. The metallic tang of blood filled the air.

Jackoby hurried forward toward his king, but Malik threw out his arm at the last moment, blocking his path. “Wait.” His harsh whisper sounded loud as a gong in the quiet space.

The monster might be—should be—gone by now, but approaching posed too great a risk. The curse had lain dormant for so long, yet Drystan’s sorrow had been great enough to rouse it, feeding whatever ember of darkness still lingered deep within him.

The huddled form of the king twitched. Ever so slowly, Drystan raised his head. Light from the lantern Jackoby carried glimmered against blue eyes before he squinted and looked away.

Malik sighed. Some of the heaviness within him lightened.

A sound that might have been a word echoed from the king. On the second utterance, Malik finally understood the cracked and broken noise. “Ceridwen?”

The pain etched in every syllable clawed at his chest.

This. This was another reason Malik hadn’t rushed after Bronwyn the night before. This was why he couldn’t tell her his feelings. It could destroy him, as Drystan’s love for Ceridwen broke him now.

He couldn’t risk that. Not yet. Not with his plans still incomplete.

It was Jackoby who found his voice first. “She still sleeps, Your Majesty.”

The king slumped back down, curling his arms around his bare legs and hugging them to his chest like a child might.

The butler pushed Malik’s arm aside and went to Drystan. “Come.” He laid a hand on the king’s shoulder. “Let’s get you up. We’ll take you to her.”

That promise gave the king the strength he needed to rise.

Malik cut one finger with his blade and used his blood to work an unlocking spell on the shackles, which fell away with heavy clanks. He and Jackoby supported Drystan on each side, helping him through the narrow passage hall. Often, they were forced to turn or adjust to make it through the space, but finally, they managed to get him back to the royal chambers. The main entrance to the chambers had been sealed that morning after Adair and Lydia left. Jackoby had issued an order to the staff that the royals had requested their rooms be untouched until their return.

A strange order, as most monarchs would want their quarters polished and tidied, but the new royals were unlike many of the past, preferring less formality and more self-sufficiency. The new ways had taken some adjustment, though much of the staff seemed to favor it. It was a change Malik appreciated as well, given his penchant for privacy—not that it encouraged him to stay at the castle more than was strictly necessary.

Malik worked the lock on the passage exit and opened the door to the royal chambers.

Gwen, who’d been watching over Ceridwen, rushed to the king, only to stop short with a curse and look away. She might have attended him for years, but clearly, the older woman was unaccustomed to seeing His Majesty naked as the day he was born. Another unfortunate side effect of turning into a monster: clothing did not contain such strange and twisted limbs.

“I’ll—I’ll go get some fresh clothes,” Gwen stammered, her face beet red.

Malik ventured into the bedroom as Jackoby saw about getting Drystan cleaned and dressed.

Mr. Kinsley and Jaina watched over the sleeping queen. If Malik had to guess, they’d come there straight from the orchestrated farewell earlier and would likely stay close in the future. It was hard to look at Ceridwen—so peaceful and serene—knowing that she might never wake.

“Any change?” he asked.

“None.” Jaina sniffed and wiped at her cheek.

He hadn’t imagined there would be, but it felt wrong not to ask, to hope. “She’s lucky to have you all watching after her. A queen with her fair guardians, like the tales of old.”

Her father snorted and shoved away from the bed. “Much good we are now,” he grumbled. He’d been ill when Malik first met him months ago, but he’d grown stronger, healthier, these past few months. Whether it was the better medical treatment he received in the capital or levity of spirit, Malik couldn’t say. He only hoped, for Bronwyn’s benefit if nothing else, that this tragedy didn’t cause him to degrade once more.

“But you are,” Malik said, attempting to reassure him. “No one will watch her better than you.”

“He’s right.” Jaina’s voice no longer wobbled as she brushed her hand over Ceridwen’s forehead. “No dragons will get past me. Not again.”

“If only Bronwyn would have listened and gone,” the older man lamented. The thought seemed to leach strength from him; he hunched and sat heavily in a chair near the bed.

“Bronwyn is strong,” Malik said decisively, drawing their attention. “She knows to be careful, and I will make sure no harm befalls her.”

“ You’re going to protect her?” Mr. Kinsley asked, as if the notion were ridiculous.

Malik notched his chin higher. “Yes. I am.”

“Bronwyn would not be their target.” Everyone turned toward Drystan, who stood in the threshold freshly clothed. “I am. And they’ve already hit where it can hurt the most.” He gazed longingly at his wife.

“They don’t know that,” Mr. Kinsley protested.

“No. And we’ll keep it that way. The other accidents have been meant to incite unrest amid the nobles. To sow instability and question my authority to protect them. Which is why they cannot know the damage they have done. And why Bronwyn would not be a target. What would hurting her achieve?”

Malik ground his teeth, both at the thought of her coming to harm and the insinuation that she was not as valuable a target. A good thing, he knew, but devaluing her in any sense angered him. “Either way,” he snapped, “I will meet with her shortly and tell her all I know. It will help, both to keep her safe and with hunting the remaining dragons.”

Another argument brewed behind the older man’s eyes, and Malik spun on his heel, ready to be away.

“Malik,” Drystan called.

He halted, hands flexing into fists then relaxing before he looked at the king. “Yes?”

Drystan lifted a stack of paper from the desk. “Later, I need your help with these.”

Ah, yes. Drystan had been scouring a number of old books and papers belonging to Rhion, anything to source the identities of his followers. Malik had looked at them briefly a few days ago, before everything had gone to shit. The volume the king currently held was full of nothing but deranged nonsense. How it could help, Malik did not understand. “They’re nonsense,” he replied. “Scribblings my father must have written in some fugue state.”

“They’re in code.” Drystan dropped them back onto the table in a ruffle of paper.

Malik reared back. “Code?”

The king nodded. “One used by Rhion’s followers.”

A huff caught in Malik’s throat. Of course Drystan would know that where he did not. It stung. It shouldn’t. His bastard of a father’s regard wasn’t something he would want, but maybe all sons craved their father’s favor in some way, no matter how horrible the man.

“I still remember most of it,” Drystan continued. “Perhaps you can pick up something I’ve missed.”

Unlikely. “I’ll try,” Malik replied with a nod. “For now, I have an impatient princess to educate.”

Drystan’s brows knit together. “She refused that title.”

Malik shrugged. “She’s a princess to me.”