Page 21 of The Artist and the Dragon

Drystan snarled again, his eyes blazing with fury. Jackoby hurried to him with Kent not far behind. They had more experience with Drystan’s monstrous side than most, and though Ceridwen had mostly tamed it and he hadn’t slipped in months, this was liable to send him down a dark path. The violent thoughts no doubt churning through his mind weren’t helping.

They led him to a chair, whispering to be calm, that Ceridwen wouldn’t want this. Gwen composed herself and attempted to offer him wine, which Drystan briskly refused.

It was Bronwyn who answered Malik properly, rising and turning to him. “It was a metalworking of a miniature spinning wheel.” Her voice was hollow but steady. No tears stained her cheeks, but her eyes were red, her gaze vacant.

A desperate ache in his chest begged him to take her into his arms and hold her close, but he held himself back.

“It cut her, and moments later, she collapsed.” Her gaze dipped toward her sister’s still form. “She sleeps, but we cannot wake her no matter what we try.”

Relief flooded him. She was alive, then. Thank the Goddess for that. If there was any light to be found in this dark night, it was that she hadn’t died as he’d feared upon first entering the room.

“She sleeps for now, but she’ll sleep forever if we can’t undo this,” Adair spat. Fury burned in his eyes. The eldest Kinsley child had his faults, but no one could doubt his love for his sisters.

“How do you—” Malik began.

“There was a note in the package,” Bronwyn said, shifting her attention back to him.

“A threat!” Drystan snapped. He nearly lunged from his chair as he spat the words, but his staff urged him back down with calming tones.

Malik closed the distance between himself and Bronwyn. “Tell me,” he whispered.

Her throat bobbed, but she nodded. “Drystan tore apart the box it came in. Inside was a scroll.” She grabbed a small strip of paper from the bedside table and handed it to him.

One line was written on it in neat, even script.

Tristram Ithael abdicates his throne or, in one month’s time, his queen sleeps forever.

Sketched at the end of the paper was a little dragon.

A sleeping curse…Malik shuddered. Such was the work of dark magic.

He rolled up the paper and turned to Drystan. “You’ve tried your healing spells?”

The king simply snarled at him in response.

“I can try—”

“And finish the job you started?” Drystan snapped. A red sheen glazed his eyes. Several of those nearby gasped.

Malik gaped at him, horrified. “You think I’m responsible?” he asked, voice barely a whisper; then, louder, “This is dark magic. You know I don’t involve myself with that.”

“Which is the only reason you’re here and not in a dungeon.”

Malik reared back as if he’d been struck. His cousin truly thought so poorly of him, after everything? His breath came in short, quick bursts.

“If I wanted the crown, I would have taken it for myself when you killed my father. But I didn’t! I placed it on your head! You made me your heir.” He thrust an accusing finger at Drystan. “I never even wanted that!”

Drystan lurched to his feet, shaking off those that tried to stop him. “But the dragons want you on the throne.” He stalked toward him. “Why is that?”

“How should I know?” Malik scoffed. Most likely, they wanted him dead, too. He leaned in, refusing to back down. He shifted his stance and clenched his fists at his side, ready to defend himself.

“Stop it!” Bronwyn leapt between the two men, palms out to each of them.

Instantly, some of the fight went out of him.

“Stop this right now!” She scowled at both of them before turning on Drystan. “How dare you! My sister, your wife, is cursed. Dying! Yet you fight each other.” She glanced over her shoulder at Malik. “Don’t you think that’s what they want?” She looked back at the king, staring him down in that way of hers that could make any grown man cower. “They want to weaken you. To tear you down. Don’t be the monster they want you to be!”

Drystan flinched, shrinking in on himself. The red vanished from his eyes, and he looked away.

---