Page 17

Bronwyn

S tay here?

As if she was some maiden to be coddled. With a huff, she lifted the skirts of her dress and hurried after him. The cheering had died completely; it jarred into a chilling chorus of cries and notes of panic that had become all too familiar.

Not again.

That refrain lived etched in her mind, an echo that was never far from the surface.

Past Malik’s sprinting form, she caught sight of flames licking across the grass near the edge of the stands. They sprang onto the dry wood, climbing with startling urgency. Malik darted past the stables a considerable distance ahead of her. The magic in his blood enhanced some of his senses and abilities, and he used it to advantage now, running far faster than the average human.

Fabric tore as the toe of her boot caught despite her efforts to hold up the hem. “Damnable dress,” Bronwyn swore. Worse was the tightness of her corset, restricting each breath she tried to pull in.

The closer she got, the more horror tightened the invisible band around her throat. Flames consumed one edge of the central stand, turning the wood black with smoke and char. Some of the men beat at the flames with their coats. Others raced with buckets of water, which they hurled onto the worst of the areas with seemingly little effect. People hurried this way and that, some in tears, some coughing from the smoke, some nursing wounds and being seen to by those around them. Here and there, some of the castle guard darted through the crowd. One guardsman spied her and called her name, heading her way. A second followed close behind.

In the middle of it all was Malik, in his shirtsleeves, using his coat to beat at the flames advancing on lower stands, which, from the sound of things, were still being emptied. His white shirt clung to his skin, accentuating his broad shoulders and strong arms. It was the last thing she should be staring at during such a time, but she found it hard to look away.

Mr. Yarwood said to beware of the prince, but he was wrong. He had to be wrong. Malik was trying to stop all this. He wasn’t part of it. Bronwyn skidded to a stop, panting, as the guards reached her. Immediately, they began asking to her welfare, but she urged them away. “I’m fine. Help them!” She gestured toward those battling the fire.

Not far from Malik, another familiar form had shed his coat and was carrying a bucket of water toward the fire. Light caught on Lord Griffith’s red hair, making it a dancing flame of its own. Much like Malik, his shirt was damp with sweat and the water he hauled, sticking to his skin in places.

Her mouth went dry.

Stop it, Bronwyn, she chided herself.

Said man hurled his water at the fire and raced back, but his gaze landed on her and he changed course. “Bronwyn! Thank the Goddess!”

He dropped the bucket. Then he was right in front of her, his hands on her shoulders, holding her in too familiar a way, his gaze searching her for injury. “I returned and you weren’t there.” He shook his head, eyes wide. “Then the fire—Goddess!” he swore again. “Are you all right?”

His warm, calloused hand cupped her cheek. Her head swam with the nearness of him, the warmth that wasn’t flame at all. “Yes. Yes. I’m fine.”

Just beyond him, a disheveled woman sobbed into a handkerchief. Something about her caught like a loose thread on a nail. It pulled Bronwyn in until realization smacked her in the face and sent her stepping back with a sharp gasp. The sound had Lord Griffith whirling around, looking for trouble.

“Charlotte!” Bronwyn cried, pulling herself from Lord Griffith and rushing to the other woman. Only minutes ago, Charlotte had looked so perfect and pristine; now, half her hair was a tangled mess, her skirts were rumpled and covered in dust, and her stunning lace fan was long gone. Streaks of makeup smeared her cheeks when she dropped her handkerchief and looked at Bronwyn, sniffling.

“Charlotte! What happened?” Bronwyn reached for the woman’s shoulder only to have her fall into her arms with a fresh wave of sobs.

“Elis,” she said amid her tears. “I cannot find Elis!”

Her brother. Bronwyn’s blood ran cold as she glanced toward the still-burning central stand. Goddess above, was he trapped somewhere?

Lord Griffith had reached their sides and appeared to have the same thought. “But he was right there with us. Where…”

Bronwyn caught the moment his eyes widened and his face paled. “There!” He pointed to a figure emerging from the smoke clutching his arm. The pale fabric of his coat was dark and singed.

Charlotte leapt up so fast she nearly knocked Bronwyn down. “Elis!” she cried, hurtling after Lord Griffith toward her brother.

The young gentleman fell to his knees, coughing and clutching his injured arm in front of him. By the time Bronwyn reached them, Charlotte had already dropped to the ground by her brother, heedless of the grass and dirt, and Lord Griffith had dropped to one knee beside him.

“I was trying—” Mr. Davies grimaced, then whimpered as Charlotte touched the burned sleeve.

Whatever she saw had her swaying where she sat, hand over her mouth like she might faint, be sick, or both.

“Spread so quick,” Davies groaned.

Griffith was back on his feet. “He’s badly burned,” he called to others nearby. “We need to get him help.” With the assistance of a royal guardsman and another gentleman, they helped him away from the stands, a sobbing Charlotte following in their wake.

The nagging urge to follow them pushed against Bronwyn’s shoulder blades. It’s what a friend would do, and she was trying to be better at that, however unfamiliar she was with the notion.

As she warred with the decision, she panned the crowd. Malik had taken charge, ordering people around and bringing much of the blaze under control. Without thought, she wandered in his direction.

But as she neared the stands, movement from above caught her attention. Someone was trapped up there. Her heart leapt into her throat. “Help!” She waved for attention. “There’s someone…”

Her steps slowed. The figured had wrapped themselves in a rough blanket, one possibly nabbed from a stable stall. They climbed onto a railing and raised their fist high in the air, clutching something white. “Death to the usurper! Kill the beast!”

Air fled her lungs as the man—judging by his voice—released part of the cloth he held, revealing a symbol painted on it. Though the fabric fluttered and curled, the mark was unmistakable: a dragon with its long wings stretched out.

The man dropped the banner and fled deeper in the stands, out of sight.

“After him!” someone called.

Malik was already running, sprinting with that unnatural speed toward the nearest set of stairs. The lower steps were half blackened from the now-quelled fire.

A royal guard rushed to block him. “My prince. Stop!”

Another stepped in as well, her arms flung wide. “It’s too dangerous!”

“We can’t let him escape!” Malik threw over his shoulder.

“I’ll go.” The first guard darted up the stairs, but they gave way almost immediately, sending him to his knees.

“Watch here, I’ll go around,” Malik ordered the other.

Bronwyn couldn’t say for sure what she was doing running toward Malik and the guards as if she could do something. But she had to try. She couldn’t stand still.

She was almost to them when another flash of movement from above caught the edge of her vision. One of the tall timbers holding up the roof of the stand swayed. A dark shadow rammed into it. A crack sounded.

Her gaze dropped straight down to where Malik gave orders. He was oblivious to the disaster above.

No. No! Her whole body seemed to hollow out. She darted forward, sprinting as fast as she could. “Malik!”

He turned toward her, mouth slightly parted, eyes widening. She whipped her whole arm toward the danger looming above him.

Groaning wood sounded overhead. Gasps rang out from those around, a startled yell. There was no time to explain, to pause. He’d barely begun to look up.

With a cry, she slammed hard into his chest. A deep grunt escaped him. Then his arms were around her, holding her close as they tumbled backward.

The impact knocked the air from her lungs and whacked her head against his strong jaw.

The beam landed with a heavy thud and a sickening crunch. Someone screamed.

It had all happened in seconds that stretched like minutes. Then, suddenly, time snapped back to normal. The hard male chest under her head issued a groan.

Bronwyn tried to push up, but he still held her close. “Malik.” His name was a breathy whisper as she gazed down at him.

Malik’s closed eyes popped open. His chest rose and fell as he stared up at her. Strong palms slid up and down her body, one planting on her hip and pinning her there. “You saved me.” Desperate emotion sparked in his emerald-green eyes.

Suddenly, she was all too aware of the body beneath hers—his solid chest, powerful thighs, and devilishly handsome face. Heat raced to her cheeks. “Of course.”

Bronwyn did her best to squirm out of his grasp and rise. When she glanced at the fallen beam, charred but still thick and mostly whole, her heart plummeted straight to her feet. A man was trapped under the heavy beam, and he howled in pain, his leg bent at an unnatural angle. Others were already there, trying to lift it and help him.

He’d been out to enjoy the races and likely stayed to help when the fire started. Now look at him. An injury like that could affect him forever. And how many others were hurt equally as badly?

Malik had just regained his feet when she turned to him. “Can you do something?” She looked between him and the man. “Please?”

The moment Malik’s features paled and his shoulders dropped, she wanted to cry. To scream at the injustice.

Everyone knew that the royals and some nobility had power beyond common people. Greater strength, heightened senses, and the ability to wield the Goddess-given gift of magic. But the how, the method of it, the spells they worked and the blood they used, was a carefully guarded secret, one cloaked in shadow. The injured man was a commoner. She could tell from his clothes. By the rules of magic the nobility followed, they didn’t share the practice of their magic with those who did not already know it.

There was a reason for such censorship. Drystan had once told her that if everyone knew about the blood, they’d certainly fear magic wielders more than they did. Worse, they might think blood sacrifice could grant them powers, too, which could lead to all sorts of horrible atrocities. And then, of course, there was the fear of bastard children, of what people who thought they had no magic could do if they learned it ran in their bloodline from a forbidden tryst.

Bronwyn thought differently. Why hoard the magic and limit to certain families? Why not let magic spread as it willed?

She supposed that was the danger of power. Once people had it, they never wanted to give it up. They’d fight, plot, scheme, and plan to make sure that never happened.

“Please,” Bronwyn heard herself utter. She swallowed thickly and dropped her voice even lower. “There’s already plenty of blood.”

He wouldn’t do it. Couldn’t. Not in front of so many. But she had to try. Malik had ignored the rules before. He’d used magic in front of her—healed her. Would he do it again for another? For someone he likely did not even know?

Then the strangest thing happened. Malik gave a short, curt nod.

Bronwyn blinked at him in stunned silence. He turned to the nearby guards, who, in the meantime, had managed to remove the beam from the man’s leg. “Find the culprit! Keep searching.”

As they rushed off to comply, Malik knelt before the man. Someone had already torn the leg of his pants trying to inspect the grisly wound. The man’s leg was mangled, the bone snapped and protruding. Bronwyn gasped and hurriedly averted her eyes, but still she came near, attention firmly fixed on Malik lest she see the broken leg again and faint.

“I’m going to help you,” Malik told the man in a steady voice.

“M-My prince?” he muttered.

“This will hurt, but it will help.”

Bronwyn hazarded a quick glance, just enough to see Malik’s fingers tracing subtle patterns on the man’s leg.

“Don’t look. Focus only on me.”

Those nearby were too busy rushing for help or comforting the injured man to focus much on the prince’s hands.

Blood. Shape. Intention.

The key elements needed to work Goddess-given magic.

Malik was calm and steady as a trained physician as he spoke to the man, distracting him while he worked.

The man groaned. Whimpered.

“Hold him still!” Malik ordered the others, who rushed to comply.

Seconds passed. People drew near. A few guards returned their way.

Malik’s bloody fingers stilled and then withdrew. “Not as bad as we thought,” he said. “See? The gash needs time to heal, but it looks like the bone is solid.”

One of the men who’d been helping gaped. “But it…” His mouth opened and closed.

Malik stood and clapped the man on the shoulder. “Get him to a physician. The wound needs cleaning and bandaging.”

“Of course, Your Highness.”

Bronwyn side-stepped the bloody ground as they carried the man away. She pulled a handkerchief from her pocket and handed it to Malik. “Thank you.”

He took her offering with another curt nod, his face solemn, but as he wiped away the blood, the hint of a mischievous grin caught the corner of his lips. “Did you just thank me? That might be a first.”

She huffed but couldn’t deny the slight urge to smile—a rare thing these days. “I…” She looked around quickly. “I wasn’t sure you’d do it.”

The wicked glint in his eyes softened into something far more uncomfortable than his playful barb. “How could I deny my savior?”

Thankfully, the return of two of the royal guards saved her from needing to respond.

“Anything?” Malik asked before they’d even come to a halt.

The look the guards shared told her everything. All humor vanished in an instant.

The dragons had escaped. Again.