Forsaken Kingdom (The Last Prince Book 1) by J.R. Rasmussen

Author:J.R. Rasmussen [Rasmussen, J.R.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2017-10-16T23:00:00+00:00

Bramwell laughed at Mairid’s antics as the girl flitted around the room, acting out a short drama of her own devising with three of his barons’ daughters. There were few children at the palace, since Hamlin had gone to Tobin at Narinore. Bramwell had summoned these girls’ parents for the summer as much for his niece’s sake as for any business he had with the adults.

His amusement was interrupted by Guy, clearing his throat with vigor. Bramwell glared at him. The master scout knew that his king was not to be disturbed in his private dining hall when he was with his family.

He rose to meet Guy just inside the doorway, head bent forward so they could speak without being heard. The queen was prone to hysterics, and Bramwell would prefer she not hear any distressing news in front of the children. “What is it? Dordrin?”

“No, Majesty. Only Yates. He’s broken at last.”

Bramwell crossed his arms and leaned forward slightly, the better to take advantage of his height. “Eager as I am to discover Wardin’s whereabouts, you’ve been questioning Yates for ten days. Surely whatever the man has to say could have waited one more hour. The queen will think we’re at war, with you coming in here during our dinner.”

“Apologies, Majesty.” Guy bobbed his head. “I would have waited, if it were only about Wardin. But I’m afraid there’s more to the man’s story. I think you’ll want to hear it directly from him, and immediately.”

With a sigh, Bramwell looked back at the table. Elinor was indeed watching him with wide, wet eyes. He crossed back to her and whispered a few words of reassurance before returning to Guy. “Lead the way, then.”

Yates was being kept on the lowest floor of one of the towers, in an older part of the palace that was icy cold in winter, but sweltering hot during the summer. He was coated in sweat, and smelled more like an animal than a man. He’d been divested of his tunic, and his now-gaunt torso was scattered with shallow, crimson cavities where bits of flesh had been removed. His haunted eyes darted back and forth between the king and the exit.

Bramwell scanned the room, the dirty bedpans, the straw mats on the stone floor. Three mats, to be precise. A woman and two children were huddled in the corner.

Guy had had to resort to threatening the man’s family, then. Or worse. The little boy was holding his arm oddly. Stubborn Eyrds and their cursed pride. It didn’t sit well with Bramwell to bring women and children into such things.

Still, whatever Guy had been obliged to do had apparently served its purpose. Yates bowed—stiffly, and not very far—and spoke in a ragged voice before he was asked a single question. “Majesty, I am prepared to confess.”

“Oh?” Bramwell clasped his hands behind his back. “To what, exactly?”

“Draven Rath’s capture was … not as it seemed.” Yates inhaled a quivering breath. “There was no magistery.”

Bramwell remained still, even as his pulse sped up.

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