Page 30 of The Artist and the Dragon

The monster might be—should be—gone by now, but approaching posed too great a risk. The curse had lain dormant for so long, yet Drystan’s sorrow had been great enough to rouse it, feeding whatever ember of darkness still lingered deep within him.

The huddled form of the king twitched. Ever so slowly, Drystan raised his head. Light from the lantern Jackoby carried glimmered against blue eyes before he squinted and looked away.

Malik sighed. Some of the heaviness within him lightened.

A sound that might have been a word echoed from the king. On the second utterance, Malik finally understood the cracked and broken noise. “Ceridwen?”

The pain etched in every syllable clawed at his chest.

This. This was another reason Malik hadn’t rushed after Bronwyn the night before. This was why he couldn’t tell her his feelings. It could destroy him, as Drystan’s love for Ceridwen broke him now.

He couldn’t risk that. Not yet. Not with his plans still incomplete.

It was Jackoby who found his voice first. “She still sleeps, Your Majesty.”

The king slumped back down, curling his arms around his bare legs and hugging them to his chest like a child might.

The butler pushed Malik’s arm aside and went to Drystan. “Come.” He laid a hand on the king’s shoulder. “Let’s get you up. We’ll take you to her.”

That promise gave the king the strength he needed to rise.

Malik cut one finger with his blade and used his blood to work an unlocking spell on the shackles, which fell away with heavy clanks. He and Jackoby supported Drystan on each side, helping him through the narrow passage hall. Often, they were forced to turn or adjust to make it through the space, but finally, they managed to get him back to the royal chambers. The main entrance to the chambers had been sealed that morning after Adair and Lydia left. Jackoby had issued an order to the staff that the royals had requested their rooms be untouched until their return.

A strange order, as most monarchs would want their quarters polished and tidied, but the new royals were unlike many of the past, preferring less formality and more self-sufficiency. The new ways had taken some adjustment, though much of the staff seemed to favor it. It was a change Malik appreciated as well, given his penchant for privacy—not that it encouraged him to stay at the castle more than was strictly necessary.

Malik worked the lock on the passage exit and opened the door to the royal chambers.

Gwen, who’d been watching over Ceridwen, rushed to the king, only to stop short with a curse and look away. She might have attended him for years, but clearly, the older woman was unaccustomed to seeing His Majesty naked as the day he was born. Another unfortunate side effect of turning into a monster: clothing did not contain such strange and twisted limbs.

“I’ll—I’ll go get some fresh clothes,” Gwen stammered, her face beet red.

Malik ventured into the bedroom as Jackoby saw about getting Drystan cleaned and dressed.

Mr. Kinsley and Jaina watched over the sleeping queen. If Malik had to guess, they’d come there straight from the orchestrated farewell earlier and would likely stay close in the future. It was hard to look at Ceridwen—so peaceful and serene—knowing that she might never wake.

“Any change?” he asked.

“None.” Jaina sniffed and wiped at her cheek.

He hadn’t imagined there would be, but it felt wrong not to ask, to hope. “She’s lucky to have you all watching after her. A queen with her fair guardians, like the tales of old.”

Her father snorted and shoved away from the bed. “Much good we are now,” he grumbled. He’d been ill when Malik first met him months ago, but he’d grown stronger, healthier, these past few months. Whether it was the better medical treatment he received in the capital or levity of spirit, Malik couldn’t say. He only hoped, for Bronwyn’s benefit if nothing else, that this tragedy didn’t cause him to degrade once more.

“But you are,” Malik said, attempting to reassure him. “No one will watch her better than you.”

“He’s right.” Jaina’s voice no longer wobbled as she brushed her hand over Ceridwen’s forehead. “No dragons will get past me. Not again.”

“If only Bronwyn would have listened and gone,” the older man lamented. The thought seemed to leach strength from him; he hunched and sat heavily in a chair near the bed.

“Bronwyn is strong,” Malik said decisively, drawing their attention. “She knows to be careful, and I will make sure no harm befalls her.”

“You’regoing to protect her?” Mr. Kinsley asked, as if the notion were ridiculous.

Malik notched his chin higher. “Yes. I am.”

“Bronwyn would not be their target.” Everyone turned toward Drystan, who stood in the threshold freshly clothed. “I am. And they’ve already hit where it can hurt the most.” He gazed longingly at his wife.

“They don’t know that,” Mr. Kinsley protested.

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