The Prince's Dragon (Fire and Valor Book 2) by W.M. Fawkes & Sam Burns

Author:W.M. Fawkes & Sam Burns [Fawkes, W.M. & Burns, Sam]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2020-04-16T03:00:00+00:00

The archery field was one of few places on the palace grounds suitable to a fight between lords. It had raised seating, a small, man-made hill that allowed the peers of the realm to look on as others shot for entertainment. And Allard seemed none too pleased by the idea of Nicholas and Tristram’s skirmish ruining the lawn.

On the hill, many nobles had already gathered to watch this play out. Some were stern faced and scowling. Elinor Radcliffe was watching with a pinched expression, her face pale. She caught Bet’s eye, and he saw the accusation there. He inclined his head to her.

Ewan and Marion had followed Bet from the training grounds. They hung back as he approached the small gathering. There, Allard laid out the rules of engagement. Tristram stood listening, his arms crossed. Nicholas only appeared to be half listening, Lady Margaret’s hand on his arm and her lips at his ear.

Alf, Tristram’s one-time squire and now a knight in his own right, weighed the balance of Nicholas’s sword. Yards away, Lady Judith checked Tristram’s. Bet narrowed his eyes. Who trusted a mage not to curse their opponent’s weapon before battle?

“This is absurd,” Bet grumbled.

Allard’s attention snapped to him. “Excuse me?”

“I said”—Bet raised his voice—“this is absurd.”

He stepped closer, palms spread. His first inclination was to take a spot beside Tristram to show solidarity, but the last thing Radcliffe needed now was any association with him.

Still, when Nicholas turned his way and Bet saw the prince’s crooked nose, his bruised eyes, he could have kissed Tristram right there in front of his mother and the whole court. “Your Highness, you look nightmarish.”

“This doesn’t concern you, Kyston,” Prince Nicholas snapped.

It wasn’t Bet’s first run-in with the man. Nicholas was Gillian’s age—younger than Tristram and Reynold and Bet himself—and had not been allowed into Reynold’s inner circle. Perhaps Reynold had sensed his weakness of character.

“Actually,” Bet sneered, “the only person it does concern is me.”

“Bet,” Tristram hissed.

No doubt Lord Radcliffe thought he could defeat the last prince of Llangard and see the matter finished. Perhaps he could, but he shouldn’t have to.

Bet ignored him; he was getting good at that.

“I killed your father,” he announced.

Princess Margaret blanched. Lady Judith’s mouth hung open. Nicholas reached for his sword at his belt, but the weapon still lay in Sir Alf’s open palms.

“I left the servant’s quarters through the western window and crept along the outside wall. The royal wing is cloistered at the center of the palace, safe from dragons, but not from me.”

“Impossible,” Princess Margaret spat, turning up her chin and wrinkling her nose.

“Is it?” Bet turned to the crowd. “Lady Elinor, how often have I visited King Roland in your rooms since his father’s death?”

“At least a dozen times,” she offered. For the briefest moment, a flash of guilt lit her eyes as her gaze landed on her son. She quickly looked away. “Our rooms aren’t far from Prince Laurence’s.”

“No, they are not,” Bet agreed. He turned back to Prince Nicholas, a sneer on his lips.

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