Page 85 of Prince of Shadow and Ash

“Right.” He cleared his throat. “Baron Carrick said the lady whose token I wore during the joust may dine with me at his table tonight. Would you do me the honor of accompanying me to tonight’s feast?”

“I would love to!” She looked at Gaius and Minerva. “If...that’s all right.”

Minerva rolled her eyes. “As if anyone could stop you, anyway.”

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SUPPER PASSED PLEASANTLY. Carrick sat with his parents, but he sat on the opposite side and didn’t address Regulus or Adelaide the entire meal. After supper, he occasionally caught sight of Carrick laughing with other knights or dancing and flirting with various ladies.

He and Adelaide danced and laughed and talked. She told him about her mother taking her away to a cottage in the woods from age four to seven, until she no longer caused fires or made her hands emit light by accident. All to keep her abilities secret. How it took years for her and Minerva to get close after that, and how her half-siblings treated her with suspicion or indifference. They talked around her magic, never using the word and keeping their voices low.

He talked a little about his childhood. How he lived at Arrano with his mother, calling Lord Arrano Father despite Lady Arrano’s protestations—until the birth of a legitimate son when Regulus was six. Then his father sent him away to live with a distant cousin halfway across Monparth. He mentioned training as a knight but never being treated as an equal. But instead of recounting sob stories about his cousin’s cruelty, he focused on humorous tales, such as the time Drez got boxed on the ears by a cook at fourteen after he tried to flirt his way into stealing food.

Adelaide laughed. “So the noble household Dresden joined, that was your cousin’s? Was he already there when you arrived, or did you meet him later?”

Regulus glanced away. He didn’t want to lie to her, but Drez was sensitive about that. “You can’t tell him I told you.”

She chuckled, her confusion evident. “All right...”

“And don’t think worse of him.” He hesitated. “Or me.”

Her forehead wrinkled.

“When I was eleven,” he said quietly, thankful for the music and party conversation to cover his voice, “my father decided I needed a servant. He sent money to his cousin, who found Dresden’s family. They needed the money.”

“He...” Adelaide tripped, and they stopped dancing. “He was your servant?”

“I held his indenture for seven years. I should have released him sooner.” Regulus forced himself to meet her eyes. “He was my only friend. I asked him to become a mercenary with me, and he did. And when I became a lord, I knighted him. He’s my brother, not that I deserve him.”

As Adelaide stared, he tried to interpret her expression. It wasn’t judgement or distaste, she looked...pleased. She dropped his hands and embraced him, laying her head against his shoulder. He wrapped his arms around her, despite the glares from couples trying to dance around them, and kissed the top of her head.

The night ended too soon. But before everyone headed back to their tents, Adelaide kissed him again. Her kiss both set all his senses on edge and dulled them at once. The crowd around them faded like dying embers while his all-encompassing awareness of her lit his heart on fire. But then her sister was there, and he had to say goodbye. His chest ached as he watched her leave.

His knights walked back with him. After Carrick’s attack, they had no intention of letting him wander unprotected. Perceval carried a torch, illuminating their way as clouds obscured the moon. The men laughed and discussed the ladies they had danced with and the amounts of mead they had drank. Their jocular mood vanished as they arrived at the tents to find chaos. One tent had collapsed, as if something had fallen on it. No fire or torches burned as they should. Scattered ashes and scuff marks in the dirt indicated a scuffle.

“Harold?” No response. Regulus’ pulse quickened. “Harold!”

“Over here.” Coughing. “My...lord.”

Regulus snatched the torch from Perceval and darted toward Harold’s muffled voice coming from the other side of a tent. The others followed, murmuring their surprise and concern.

Harold sat on the ground next to Sieger, who was lying on his side, his nostrils flaring and chest heaving with labored breathing.

“Sieger?”

“I...I tried to stop them, my lord.” Harold looked up. Dust covered his face, except where streams of tears had washed the dirt away. Dried blood covered his mouth and chin, and his nose had a new crooked bump. A green and purple bruise blossomed around his right eye. “There were too many.” Harold coughed and winced, putting a hand to his chest. “Four of them. Their faces were covered. I’m sorry...” He choked back a sob.

Regulus fell to his knees and laid a hand on Harold’s shoulder, his gut twisting. “Harold...” He looked over his squire, noting his disheveled clothing and the blood covering his hands. Rage burned under his skin. “How badly are you hurt?”

“Mostly bruised.” Harold coughed and groaned. “Maybe a cracked rib.” He looked at Sieger, his lower lip trembling. “The blood is...it’s Sieger’s.”

Regulus’ breath caught. He moved around Harold and held out the torch. Sieger whinnied painfully and raised his head. The torchlight reflected in his eye, open so wide white showed around the edges. Regulus’ gaze fixed on Sieger’s legs. They had sliced his legs.

The low-life cowards had beaten his squire and cut his horse’s legs.

Rage burned down his throat and lit an inferno in his chest. Blood-soaked cloths wrapped around the lower part of all four of Sieger’s legs. Regulus clenched his jaw. The torch in his hand snapped in half as he squeezed it. Without a word, he strode away.

“Regulus.” Dresden ran after him. “Regulus!” Dresden grabbed his arm. “Where are you going? You can’t attack the son of a baron without proof.”

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