Page 23 of The Musician and the Monster

Watching her was tempting. Joining her? More so.

“What are you reading?”

Ceridwen jumped in her seat, nearly dropping the book. “You startled me.”

“Apologies,” he replied, though he wasn’t the least bit sorry.

Drystan walked to the window seat where she reclined. Ceridwen scooted closer to the window—giving him space to sit or moving away from him? He hoped the first and sat on the edge of the cushion, the little bit of space between their legs full of tension and warmth.

She turned the book his way, showing him the cover. The lack of wear alone marked it as a new item in the mostly aged collection. “It’s the tale of the late King Jesstin and Queen Manon, Goddess give them peace.”

“Ah, I see.” Of all the things for her to pick.

He knew of the book, though he had not read it himself. It chronicled the late king’s struggle against his father’s dark magic and his efforts to restore peace and prosperity to the kingdom. A recent history, as things went, though it happened before his birth. He’d wager the printed version of the tale held must less detail than some of the rumors he’d heard.

“Quite the tale,” he replied at length.

“It’s…oddly vague in parts,” Ceridwen said, her lips pursed. It only confirmed his suspicions. The secrecy of the royalty and nobility extended to books. No one would dare print the details of their magic and power, even if they knew what they were.

“There was little about the dark king and how he turned from such a loving father to a horrible madman,” Ceridwen said. “You lived in the capital, right? Are the stories about the atrocities the dark king committed really true?”

The reminder of those dark days, and their likelihood of coming again, settled on him like a heavy weight. Ceridwen had no idea the significance of what she read and how the darkness rose once more in the capital. At length, he sighed. “The atrocities are true, as far as I know. I was not born yet, so everything I know is something I’ve heard from others.”

Ceridwen inched closer in the seat until her leg brushed against his arm. The simple touch had desire building between his legs. “Can you tell me about the dark magic? What makes it different from yours?”

He grinned in return. “Dark magic is forbidden.”

Ceridwen half rolled her eyes as if that were obvious. “Well, perhaps I’ll find something about it in this library. It does seem there are books from the capital here, after all.” She lifted the small book for emphasis.

Unlikely. Those secrets would never be put in books available to the public, not even ones left openly in a noble’s home. “Hah,” he replied, attempting to maintain some lightness in the conversation. “It may take you many years to read them all.”

Her shoulders slumped as the book found a home in her lap once again.

“What is it?” he asked. But he had a sneaking suspicion. She wouldn’t be here that long. Soon, he’d have to return to the capital, and she’d go back to her normal life. He thought about that looming deadline plenty, but not in relation to her, not the fact that he’dprobably never see her again once she left. That fate was suddenly worse than whatever awaited him in the capital on his return.

“It’s nothing,” she said.

He knew well enough that wasn’t true but let it go.

“It’s horrible what happened to them,” Ceridwen said, looking back up at him as if she needed the change of conversation as much as he did. “The king and queen, after all their sacrifice and hardship, to be killed by their own son.”

The comment hit him like a punch to the ribs.Horrible indeed.

Ceridwen stared at the painting of the couple on the front of the book, one meant to resemble the now late monarchs in their youth. “Was it really as awful as the stories?”

“Yes.” The word was thick with unspoken emotion. “Likely worse than the stories.”

“Then it’s a good thing King Rhion found the prince before he could escape and brought him to justice.”

She spoke with such fervency, having no idea that the king she praised was as terrible, or even worse, than his nephew.

“Were you there when they executed him?” Ceridwen leaned closer, but he still couldn’t quite bring himself to meet her gaze. “My friend Lydia claimed the whole of the capital attended, or at least all the nobility, though her sources are sometimes dubious.”

“The execution?” Drystan asked.

She nodded, her hand settling on the cushion just an inch from his.

“That’s a dark subject… But yes, I was there. Crying and begging for mercy were not what anyone expected from the prince in his last moments.” A huff of air left through his nose as he pressed his lips in a thin line. “Do they include that bit in the stories?”

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