Page 18

Malik

O nce again, he’d come so close only to fail. A dragon had been among them at the races—quite possibly more than one. There had to be a better way to identify them, to stop them for good.

When he’d found Lady Sian again at the carriages with her brother, she had nearly sobbed in a display far too theatrical for her. Apparently, she’d refused to leave until she knew Malik was well, which he assured her she was. Her gaze had darkened slightly when she’d noticed Bronwyn at his side. It was subtle, something most might miss, but he didn’t. Jealousy.

But he couldn’t forget that she and her brother had been present for most of the recent disasters. And where had Mr. Yarwood been when the fire started? The man had said something that unsettled Bronwyn, and Lady Sian, in her torrent of worry, had divulged that she’d found her brother only after she’d fled the stands.

Could he have done it?

Malik turned the possibility over and over in his head as he and Bronwyn returned to the castle with some of the royal guards, those who didn’t stay behind to finish investigating the racecourse or assisting the venue owners. In his hands, he clutched the banner that the dragon in the stands had dropped. It was small, no bigger than a pillow, and bore a simple painting of a dragon. Though he couldn’t feel any trace of magic on it, that wasn’t definitive. It would require further examination.

Bronwyn kept staring at it like it might come alive and attack her. Not that he’d let it even if it did.

They didn’t discuss what he’d done, the risk he’d taken. It had been the right thing to do, but would he have done it had she not asked? He hoped he would, but he wasn’t sure. How many others had been injured and carted away without magical aid?

Most had been nobles, though. They could seek aid from one of the other members of the nobility who practiced healing arts, a highly sought and lucrative occupation.

The beam had been meant for him but had struck another instead. And when Bronwyn asked him to heal the man… Well, he could deny her nothing, especially when it painted him a hero in her eyes. He was so rarely that—to her, to anyone.

But … Malik had shown his magic. His father would be in a rage in whatever hell he resided in, if there were one, though the more Malik thought about that, the prouder he became. Perhaps he’d share all the secrets of magic one day, if only to spite Rhion. Times were changing. The whole populace knew what their king could become now, unless they lived in denial; it was time people knew about the Goddess’s gifts through more than the legends most thought were fairy tales.

Too long had Castamar been a kingdom of secrets and isolation. They could be more, so much more. They would have to be to avoid the sins of the past.

When they arrived back at the castle, Bronwyn mentioned, with a meaningful look that belied her words, that she would be going to spend some time with her father.

Perhaps she would, but it would be spent at Ceridwen’s side. He had no doubt of that. From what Drystan told him, Bronwyn spent time by her slumbering sister’s bedside every day. The cloud of worry was never far from her shoulders.

And Drystan…

Goddess help them if they didn’t figure out a way to wake Ceridwen soon. Their king might become a monster fully and in truth.

With the help of Jackoby, Malik found Drystan in his chambers, which he navigated to through the secret tunnels. Malik passed Ceridwen’s sleeping form on the way in. Her father read silently near her bedside and informed him glumly that there’d been no change. The queen still slept as if she were frozen in time. Her body passed no waste, nor did she seem to require liquid or food. Only rare shallow breaths and the abnormally slow beat of her heart showed she yet lived.

Bronwyn had not yet arrived, likely planning to wash and change, as he had, rather than appearing before her father in her disheveled state. If Mr. Kinsley knew of the accident at the racecourse, he made no mention of it, and neither did Malik.

When Malik entered the adjoining room, however, Drystan took one look at him, sighed, hunched over his desk, and said, “Don’t tell me. Not today.”

It seemed not even a quick bath and even quicker change of clothes could disguise that something had gone terribly wrong at the racecourse.

“Find anything useful?” Malik crossed the room to lean on the edge of the desk. With the curtains drawn tight and the candles burning low, one would never guess it was still mid-afternoon. Rather, the king’s quarters were locked in a state of perpetual night, as if the whole castle had been placed under a sleeping curse and not just its queen.

“Perhaps.” He passed Malik a stack of bent and crumpled papers that looked like they’d once been folded up. A few still bore traces of sealing wax.

Malik gave the top few a cursory glance. “What am I looking at?”

“There’s mention of a secret meeting place of the dragons that I’m unfamiliar with, Briar Rose. Seems to have been active after my time, up until when I was in Teneboure last year.”

“You think it might still be in use?”

He shrugged one shoulder. “It’s a possibility with investigating if we can sort it out.”

Malik grunted in agreement. It was one of the better leads they’d come up with.

He spent the next few minutes poring over the pages and comparing the words and phrasing to the key that Drystan had jotted out for him. The letters were full of words, but the real message was hidden in code.

A whisper of sound came from the other room—low conversation between Mr. Kinsley and a voice that never failed to make his heart give a little leap. He couldn’t hear what Bronwyn shared with her father, but the lack of any sharp exclamations said it probably didn’t include much sordid detail from the day.

Their conversation became even more muffled as Drystan rooted through a stack of books, clearly on the hunt for something.

“Here,” he said at last. “I meant to show you this.”

Malik came to peer over his shoulder, noting at once the familiar, decorative headings of a spell book he’d once studied and had loaned to Drystan for his pursuit of a cure for Ceridwen. Light magic. Thank the Goddess for that, though he knew Drystan had researched, and likely dabbled in, both light and dark spells in search of a cure for his wife.

His brow pinched as he took in the details on the page. “A detection spell? You mean to isolate the curse within her?”

He nodded. “If we can find where it resides, it may help in removing it.” He paused. “But I was … unsuccessful. I believe the detection spell may have been corrupted by my presence.”

A heaviness settled low in Malik’s stomach at the silence that followed and the indirect confession it contained. So, Drystan had been using dark magic again…

Malik’s fist tightened at his side, but he said nothing. He hated it. Such magic led to nothing but ruin. But, had it been the woman he loved dying… He glanced toward the other room. Much as he loathed such magic, he understood why Drystan risked it.

“I’ll try it.” He’d never performed the spell. Hadn’t seen the point in it, really. It may not work for him, especially not without practice, but it was worth the attempt—several, if need be.

When they entered the bedchamber where the cursed queen lay, her father had departed, and Bronwyn occupied his chair. She held a letter, the seal broken, and tapped it on her leg to some silent rhythm. At their entry, she glanced up. Malik caught the spark of hope in her eyes, then the slight drop in her shoulders when neither of them showed much optimism.

“Malik is going to try a detection spell,” Drystan said by way of greeting. His casualness around Bronwyn said much for how close the sisters were and how often she visited.

“To detect what?” She shifted toward the edge of the chair, interest piqued.

“Dark magic,” Malik replied. “If we can isolate where the curse is within her body, it may help in finding a way to remove it.”

Her lips pursed in thought before she nodded slowly. “It’s worth trying.”

His thoughts exactly.

“We’ve had a letter from Lydia.” She lifted it for emphasis.

Beside him, Malik heard Drystan suck in a breath before blowing it out. “Please say it’s good news.”

At her short nod, he released a held breath. They needed some positive turn.

“The bribes of the staff seem to be working. Kent has been effective in turning away a few nosy people who have tried to stop by for a visit. Bothering the king and queen on their wedding moon.” She tsked, shaking her head. “Otherwise, they have kept the estate locked down save for food deliveries, which Kent oversees. Lydia remarks on the beauty and peace of the estate. However…” Her lips twisted.

The king tensed once more, bracing for bad news.

“However?” Malik prodded.

“Well…” She flipped the letter open again, frowned at something in it, and folded it back up. “It’s hard to say, but it sounds like there might be some strife between her and Adair, though she was wise enough not to say what.” She folded the letter again and set it aside. “I’m sure they’ll work it out.”

“That brother of yours,” Drystan grumbled.

Bronwyn winced and gave a little shrug. There wasn’t much to be done about it now. “Perhaps your attempt will bring us more good news?”

Bronwyn and Drystan kept a careful distance from Malik as he made a precise cut on his arm, collected the blood, and began painting the workings on sheets of paper. That, they believed, would be the place to start. A safer option than trying a new spell on the queen’s body directly.

With the book beside him, Malik did his best to focus on the design of the spell and channel his magic and will into it. New spells were tricky. Often, he had to practice many times before he got it just right, and many more to be able to work it from memory like some of his healing spells.

And getting more than simply minor effect? That could take years of practice.

Sweat beaded on the back of Malik’s neck. He’d lost track of the number of times he’d tried to work the spell, failed, crumpled up the paper, and started afresh.

He blew air through his nose in frustration, about start over once more, when the blood working slowly vanished. He gasped and leaned back.

“What is it?” Bronwyn was on her feet in a heartbeat and rushed over.

Drystan was slower to rise, almost like weariness and fear of disappointment held him back. Even when he did, he barely moved a foot from his chair.

“I think it may be working,” Malik replied. “Something is happening. The blood only vanishes when the spell holds.”

A moment later, only an empty-looking piece of paper remained. He and Bronwyn shared a look. “Should we try?” she asked at last.

“Be my guest.”

Bronwyn lifted the paper carefully by one edge and carried it to her sister’s sleeping form. Malik followed.

“So, I just…” She laid the paper on her sister’s arm.

A moment passed. Then another. And, slowly, a circular section of the paper began to darken.

Bronwyn grabbed Malik’s arm. The touch was light and fleeting, there and then gone, and she did not look at him, almost like she’d done it without thinking. But he noticed. His breath hitched as he snapped his attention to her, all his focus glued not to the spell he worked but to the bare section of his forearm below his rolled-up sleeve, where she’d touched him. The feel of her soft fingers lingered like a brand.

“It worked.” The note of awe in her voice stirred something low in his abdomen.

“It did.”

They worked late into the night. Or, rather, Malik did, successfully working the spell on more pages. Gwen and Jaina brought dinner—quite the task, taking the food through the secret corridors without spilling it.

The prince’s efforts yielded two important pieces of information: the new spell he’d worked could detect dark magic within about three to four feet, but it was not precise enough to pinpoint its location within the sleeping queen. Or, more unfortunately—and more likely, Malik believed—the curse lingered throughout her and could not be isolated.

“So, it’s useless after all.” Drystan threw himself down in his chair, sending its legs scraping against the floor as it absorbed his weight.

Bronwyn stared at the dark spot on one of the sheets of paper. “Maybe not.”

“What do you mean?” Malik raked a hand through his hair and leaned back in his chair.

“Well, it could not isolate the curse in my sister, no, but it did successfully detect dark magic. Not only the curse in Ceridwen but the presence of someone who…” She swallowed, her gaze flicking to Drystan and then away again. With her voice dropped to a whisper, she continued, “Someone who recently used dark magic. Right?”

Drystan nodded gravely. “I tried some spells a few nights ago.” He hung his head. “Not that it helped.”

“Anyhow,” she continued, her voice back to its normal level, “if we’d had such a spell weeks ago and used it effectively, we might have prevented the disaster after the wedding.”

Drystan snapped his head up and looked like he might balk, so Malik said, “Go on.”

Bronwyn nodded. “If we were to put these spells near the main entrances, we could detect when someone who has used dark magic, or is in possession of an item enchanted with it, comes into the castle.”

“You’re going to have everyone who comes in here—hundreds—hold a piece of paper?” the king asked. “There will be too many questions.”

Malik liked her suggestion, but Drystan was right. The city would be buzzing about the new strange ritual at the castle within the day.

“No.” Bronwyn folded the paper into a little square as she spoke. “Of course that wouldn’t work. But we can limit the entrances for a time and have something that everyone must walk near. A painting, perhaps? Some of the entryways are narrow enough that we’d certainly detect anyone passing that we don’t want ambling about.”

A tingling sensation raced up Malik’s arms. “Brilliant.”

Bronwyn turned to him, her lips parting in surprise.

Drystan, who’d been hunched over with his elbows on his knees, sat up a little straighter. “That … that could work.”

It could. It damn well could. And he knew just who the perfect artist would be.

“If I worked the spell on canvas, you could paint something around it,” Malik said to Bronwyn.

“Yes. I already have some ideas. They wouldn’t need to be large paintings or that elaborate. A moon would already be white, or certain flowers. Both appropriate subjects for a painting. And several of the entry halls already have art. We can simply switch out the old ones for new.”

“And if they all turn black on the first day?” Drystan asked.

“Then it’s better we know, don’t you think?” Her hard stare dared him to refute her.

“Indeed,” Malik agreed. “We should start tomorrow.”

Bronwyn nodded, then halted and frowned, her brow pinched. “My paints are at the opera house. I can bring them here, though I still have a poster I promised to do for Wynni, and I was going to work on touching up a few set pieces that may be hard to move...”

Malik stood, stretching. “We’ll do it there. I doubt Wynni will mind.”

“You mean to tell her?” Bronwyn asked, straightening in her seat.

“No. We keep this as quiet as possible. But I doubt she’d refuse to let you paint other things while you’re there.” Malik shrugged. “Has she ever? And I visit often enough for it not to be suspicious.”

“I certainly hope you’re right.”

So did he.