Page 8 of The Artist and the Dragon

It was the late hours of the evening—or early hours of the morning, depending on one’s perspective—but the happy couple had found no rest, or at least Drystan hadn’t. Consequently, since he’d been pulled into his cousin’s confidence to discuss this latest fiasco, neither had Malik.

“They’re desperate,” Malik said, keeping his voice calm and even. Anything to help relieve Drystan’s temper. Not that it worked. “This must be some last-gasp effort to try to unsettle you. They know their numbers are dwindling and their influence fading even faster. If anything, this will only turn the people’s sympathies toward you, not away.”

Drystan halted and turned. “Oh, really? Being called out as a monster in front of much of the nobility is supposed to aid our cause?”

Malik took a sip of his whiskey, savoring the burn before responding. “It may, depending on your response. The dragons are trying to get under your skin. They are trying to get you to act foolishly and do something that could damage your reputation. The best thing to do is not to let them.”

“And you propose we just hope they go away?” He ran his hand through his hair again. “Continue to pluck them out here and there when they’re foolish enough to reveal themselves and pray to the Goddess they don’t harm more innocents?”

Malik’s heavy-cut crystal glass made a thunk as he set it aside. “As opposed to?”

Drystan stared at him for a heartbeat, two, before letting out a groan and resuming his pacing. That was the problem. What else was one to do? Arresting innocents on the chance they could be guilty wouldn’t do them any favors. Neither would cowering in the castle and keeping the world out. That would only show weakness, which they could not afford.

Their current plan was slow, careful. Frustratingly so, at times. It could take years to stifle the dragons enough that they were not a constant thorn in the crown’s side. Years before Malik could look over his shoulder without waiting for someone to stick a dagger in his back. It had to be worse for Drystan. Each dragon they captured was interrogated, but most had little information, and none could say for sure who led them, almost like the person was a ghost. Ridiculous that so many would give their lives to a cause without knowing exactly whose cause it was. Hate ran deep and lust for power even deeper, it seemed.

Most of the time, Malik was content with the slow play. After all, it wasn’t the first time he’d seen a long con through to its end. It had taken many years to discover Drystan’s true intentions and ally with him to remove Rhion.

Tonight’s attack, however, irked him more than most of the threats the dragons made, or even the littleaccidentsthey’d caused in the capital over the past months. This was beyond blatant. And worse, it could have so easily ended the life of the woman he wanted to protect most.

Every time he closed his eyes, he saw it again. Time had seemed to slow as the chandelier swayed above the ballroom, as the chain holding it groaned, as plaster cracked and fell. His heart had nearly stopped when his gaze drifted from the impending disaster to the woman standing frozen beneath it.

All thoughts had fled. All worries. All cares. Everything except saving her.

He hadn’t thought. There had been no time for it—no time to cry out for her attention. Instead, he’d run and leapt, wrapping her in his arms and sliding them both to safety.

Malik rubbed at his cheek, at the cut starting to scab over. It was just one of a half-dozen he’d acquired when the glass shattered not far from where they’d fallen. So close. If he hadn’t been there at that exact moment, if he hadn’t knocked her out of the way—

He shook his head. He couldn’t think on it. That would send him down a dark path he dared not follow.

Instead, he asked Drystan, “What does your wife say you should do?” If there was ever a way to get through to his cousin, it was through Ceridwen.

Drystan sighed and sat heavily in the chair next to Malik’s. The gas lamp on the table illuminated his profile in sharp lines and angles. “To show resilience. To thank the citizens for their prayers and concern and carry on as if there isn’t an enemy in our midst begging for my death.” He poured himself another whiskey and took a long sip.

If Malik were lucky enough to have a wife he loved, he’d be damned if he left her alone after a threat on their lives … or on their wedding night, but certainly not both. “And don’t you think you should be with her this evening? Surely, she needs comforting after what happened.”

“Less than me, perhaps.” Drystan stared at his glass, watching the amber liquid move as he swirled it lightly. “She was asleep when I came to find you.”

Ah, well, at least that explained some things.

Unlike the queen, Malik had been wide awake. Sleep wouldn’t find him this evening, not with the events of the night replaying over and over in his mind. Apparently, his cousin was the same.

“You investigated the chandelier?” Drystan asked. “The guards wouldn’t let me near,” he grumbled.

At least the guards had retained their sense of duty amid the chaos, unlike when Drystan and Ceridwen had slain Rhion. They’d been all but useless then, an error that the new captain of the guard had clearly set about rectifying.

“I did.” Malik reached for his glass once more. Holding the drink gave him a strange sense of comfort. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “There were traces of dark magic where someone had placed the message on the chandelier itself. When they did it, I couldn’t say. But the spell was complex. To have such shape, and to be ignited by the disaster…” He shook his head. That fact alone made him ill at ease. Most of the dragons’ work thus far had been sloppy or used simple magic. But this…

Malik took another sip of his drink. Someone among their number was powerful and skilled, likely an apprentice of the former king himself. Probably whatever bastard called themself the Dragon in the threats they’d received.

Drystan leaned forward, mirroring Malik’s pose. “But how would a spell have gotten there? It couldn’t have been a servant, could it?”

“Not unless there are some running around with powerful magic that we don’t know about.” A highly doubtful outcome. Magic ran in few of the noble and royal lines, and those bloodlines were careful about guarding their secrets. Sure, there could be bastards among the commoners, ones blessed with magic from their sires, but to have honed it to such proficiency while keeping it a secretandworking in the castle? Unlikely.

Though, the more Malik thought about it, the more the thought grew on him. It wouldn’t surprise him to learn he had a half sibling somewhere. Could his father have found a long-lost heir and brought them up right under their noses?

“I know that look,” Drystan said.

Malik smirked. “You know when I’m considering possible bastard siblings?”

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