Page 9 of The Artist and the Dragon

“It’s plausible, but I didn’t know of any.” Somehow, that didn’t make Malik feel any better. “The known supporters of the king were already taken care of, so perhaps it’s a secret the king kept hidden from me as well?”

“Former king,” Malik remarked. “Though if my father had another child that was talented with magic, I wouldn’t have put it past him to rub that in my face, especially near the end.” His father had spent plenty of time comparing Malik to Drystan and pointing out all the ways in which his nephew succeeded and Malik failed. It had almost been enough to make him fully embrace dark magic—almost.

Thankfully, Malik’s mother’s influence was stronger … until her death. Another sin to add to his father’s long list. May he burn in the darkest of hells.

Drystan leaned back in his chair with a sigh. “There must be something we are missing. Someone with enough hate to want to destroy me.”

“Or lust for power,” Malik agreed, though they were unlikely to find such a person by drinking in Drystan’s study in the dead of night. “Lady Siân invited me to join her and her brother at the opening of a new exhibit at the Talia Gallery in a few days’ time. Perhaps I will learn something then.”

Drystan glanced over. “You still think the Yarwoods might be involved?”

Malik shrugged. “It’s a hunch. But they are a strong magical family, and they are interested enough in the throne if Lady Siân’s attentions are any indication.”

“Aren’t they some relation of your mother’s?”

“Their father was mother’s second cousin. He’s been plagued with illness and is unable to walk these days, or so I hear, but that’s never been an inhibitor of ambition, especially if it’s for his children and not himself.” Though some might frown at such a familial connection, it was common for noble families to intermarry, especially to maintain a tight grip on magical bloodlines. After a while, the branches of family trees crossed more closely than most would prefer to admit.

“Hmm.” Drystan seemed to consider. “Well, you should go.”

Of course he should. Malik nearly sighed. Isn’t that what he did just about every day now? Cavort with the nobility? Attempt to gain their secrets and discover who led the remaining dragons? He knew enough of the dragons’ codes, secret handshakes, and other such nonsense to make the identification, but only if the other party trusted him enough to reveal their allegiance, however subtle that revelation often was. Couldn’t blame someone for being hesitant to reveal themselves as a traitor, but when they thought the other person might be, too? Well, support in numbers and all that.

A few had even proven themselves innocent by taking word of Malik’s acts straight to Drystan. Lucky for them, they’d saved themselves—and lucky for Malik that Drystan didn’t believe such reports.

But the longer it took to find the dragons hidden amongst the nobility, the more Malik worried that one error, one slip-up, might cost him everything. He needed to finish this. Only then could he shed his guise and hopefully earn back the trust and respect of the one person who truly mattered.

Chapter 5

Bronwyn

Alovelyyoungcoupledancedacross the poster, their fingers nearly grazing as they stood en pointe, facing one another. Bronwyn added the last touches of green to the foliage accenting the title of the upcoming ballet. The hint of a smile touched her lips—the first in days—as she took in the nearly finished work.

The door opened, causing her to stiffen and whirl around on her stool. When she recognized the woman who entered the opera house work room, she sighed, her shoulders dropping.

“Oh, look at it!” Wynnifred practically bounced as she crossed the room, managing to fill the space with her presence alone. “I knew you’d do fabulously. And that tutu! It really looks like a flower, doesn’t it?”

Bronwyn smiled as the opera house owner cooed over her work. For so long, she’d hid her art away from the world. For years, her pieces had gathered dust in their home, and when Father did sell them, he didn’t share the name of the artist. Somehow, Wynnifred had learned of her love—probably from Ceridwen—and asked Bronwyn to paint for her. It was Bronwyn’s one escape within the capital. The back rooms of the opera house were the one place she could be fully herself and at peace. Well, as much at peace as she could be, given the dragons threatening the monarchy and, by extension, her.

“I took some liberties with accents on the title and the male lead’s outfit, since it isn’t quite finished.”

Wynnifred Prosser, or Wynni as her friends called her, flicked open the lacy fan she always carried. “It’s better than half the ideas my costumers have. Perhaps I should hire you for that, too.”

Wynni ran the popular Grand Opera, which attracted talent and audience members from all over Castamar. When Bronwyn and Ceridwen had first come to the capital during winter, she’d changed her entire schedule to allow Ceridwen to play on the main stage. Without her help, they never would have caught King Rhion’s attention or developed their plan to overthrow him; he might still reign, and Drystan might have travelled to the Goddess’s hallowed halls instead.

The older woman sat heavily on the pink chaise lounge nearby. An odd color for furniture, but one she clearly enjoyed considering how much of it populated the backstage rooms of the opera house. Her dress was several shades darker, almost garnet. It accented the wig of voluminous blond curls she almost always wore.

“I still can’t believe how the wedding turned out.” She fanned herself. “I nearly fainted when that chandelier fell. And you were so close!”

Bronwyn’s heart dropped. “It was awful,” she said. Poor Ceridwen. She set aside her brush, the desire to paint extinguished. The wedding day her sister had longed for, spoiled at the end by such an act. “At least no one died.” Though several had suffered injuries, two of them quite severe.

Wynni gave a dramatic shiver.

“You haven’t heard anything about who may be behind it?” Bronwyn asked. Malik had asked Wynni to listen for any gossip that might help them, or so Wynni said. Bronwyn had yet to see him since that night.

The fan snapped closed. “Not a thing. I’ve had some of my trusted staff keeping an ear out as well, listening in on the nobles’ private boxes and such.”

It was hard not to sigh. They’d found nothing of use. The dragons were skilled at covering their tracks. Drystan had known some of them before his self-imposed exile to Teneboure, but anyone known to him had already fled, died, or been arrested. Finding the rest was harder than selecting one snowflake from a blizzard.

Bronwyn had once asked Drystan why they were called dragons. It seemed silly given the monsters that users of dark magic could become looked more like mangy wolves than the winged and scaled beasts of legend. Drystan wasn’t sure exactly. Dragons were thought to be noble creatures. Powerful. Perhaps that was how King Rhion saw himself, despite the monster he truly was. Drystan also reasoned it might have been a little too telling to call themwolves, since people who witnessed them and lived were likely to make the connection. Dragons evoked fear, mystery, power—exactly the message the former king wanted to send. His remaining followers, too, it seemed.

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