Page 101 of The Musician and the Monster

The older man wept by the end of it, but not in the way the king had hoped. Drystan had the lord’s vow of loyalty and the promise to gather others to the cause. He and those loyal to his father’s memory would attend the midwinter party, where Drystan would reveal the king’s ills for all. How exactly he would do that was a puzzle still taking shape in his mind, but the pieces were forming, moving into place. Lord Stellan was just the latest of the few lords and ladies he’d appealed to over the past days while on errand for the king, but each pledged to his cause.

It was a risk, one not taken lightly. Some other nobles had seemed less zealous, so Drystan did not venture his luck on them, but he knew one thing for certain: Without some risks, he could never win, and he’d come too far to stop now.

The carriage rocked to a stop. When the halt lasted more than a handful of moments, the driver informed Drystan of a spilled cart ahead, blocking the way. With other carriages crammed into the busy street behind them, there was little room to move. They would have to wait it out.

Eager to see more of the city, Drystan excused himself to continue on foot. It was short blocks back to castle—not a risk with his hood up and the spilled cart drawing everyone’s attention.

He was halfway when he spied something that rooted his feet to the cobblestones. Drystan stared at the newly nailed poster, certain he must be seeing things. But there was no mistaking the name scrawled across the bottom of it. He traced the letters with his fingertips. “Ceridwen.”

His blood ran hot and cold at once. The woman he loved was here, impossibly fulfilling the dream she’d once told him of. But there was only one reason she would venture to this city she loathed, the one that had taken her mother. He’d wager it had nothing to do with her brother, whose unit was likely here somewhere, and instead everything to do with him.

Did you hope to get my attention, dearest Ceridwen?

She certainly had it now, and that of many others by putting on such a show at the Grand Opera. His chest swelled with pride at the thought of her on the stage. She should be safe there, far from what he planned.

But what if she wasn’t? Or worse, what if she tried something even more reckless?

He snapped his hand back from the poster and clenched it tight into a fist. He had to see her, make sure she was safe, and find some way to keep her that way.

Without another thought, Drystan turned on his heel and ventured toward the opera house.

Patrons swarmed the main entrance when he arrived, already making their way in for the early performance—Ceridwen’s. A sold-out sign had been hung over the ticket window, and he’d never make it in the main entrance anyway. They’d demand he remove his hood. The mask would draw too much gossip, and without it? Well, he might be able to see the show if he could procure a ticket, but he doubted they’d let the average attendee see the star.

“Three nights in a row now. Can you believe it?” someone whined to their companion as they trudged away from the opera house.

“And tomorrow, too,” the other said. “How will we ever get tickets?”

Bravo, Ceridwen.

Drystan smiled in spite of himself as he watched the strangers leave. The city loved her, as it should.

Around the back of the building, a few stagehands sat on stacks of crates and smoked pipes a short way from a narrow door. That was his way in. Easy enough—he’d done a good bit of sneaking into places on behalf of the king, but finding Ceridwen once he got in before someone spotted him and threw him out would be another matter.

Drystan pulled free a small blade and quickly slid it across his palm, just enough for blood to well and pool in his cupped hand, ready for his use. He painted one quick spell on a crate in the shadows of the alleyway across from the theater. In a few moments, it would turn into flame, enough to catch attention but hopefully not to cause any real damage. Another spell he traced onto himself, one to coerce the shadows to cling to him. It wouldn’t hide him perfectly—that was beyond his skill—but it would help.

Once the flames ignited, the men took notice and rushed to put them out, just as he’d hoped. The distraction presented the perfect opportunity to slip inside. The halls were dim and cluttered, full of props and crates of supplies. He wound through the passages, ducking into shadows and holding his breath as people wandered by, praying for the Goddess to aid his magic in cloaking his presence.

The sound of a familiar voice around a corner made him go deathly still. All at once, he knew exactly how Ceridwen had gotten a show at the opera house, though whether he was grateful or furious, he couldn’t say. Perhaps both in equal measure.

He waited patiently as the conversation wrapped up and footsteps headed his way. A familiar figure rounded the corner, and Drystan stepped out from his hiding place. “Malik.”

His cousin jolted and stumbled back a step. “Goddess above!”

Drystan pulled back his hood, only belatedly realizing he still wore the mask when his cousin’s eyes widened. He jerked that free as well. “It’s me.”

Malik heaved a sigh. “If you wanted to kill me, there are easier ways.”

Drystan’s fist tightened at his side.Of all the times—

“But good, you’re here.” Malik patted him on the shoulder. “You saw the posters?”

Some of the tension slipped from his form. “Yes. She’s…” Words tripped over themselves.Here? All right? Safe?

“Just fine. Her sister too.”

Drystan’s brows rose. Bronwyn was there too?

“Come with me, quickly. She’s about to go on stage.”

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