Page 11 of A Court of Masks and Roses
“William.” Firehorn’s voice is low and formal, his dark eyes a dangerous blend of parental fear and thronely power. Though shorter than the guardsmen behind him, the king stands with his feet apart and head high, the gray strands in his hair more reminiscent of hard stone than frail age. “Explain yourself.”
Despite my caution, I’m utterly curious as to how the sixteen-year-old prince intends to beat back the coming storm.
Wil offers his father a confused frown, so immaculately sculpted that I’m certain the prince practiced it before a mirror. “Guardsman Kal and I are just concluding an outing.” Wil’s voice is all reckless innocence. “Were you led to believe something different?” He turns the frown on his sister, whose face reddens to match her painted lips. “I regret any distress the misinformation you received may have caused you, Father, but as you can see, I am with a guard as per orders.”
Trace shifts his weight, crossing his arms over his chest. The light wind sweeps back a lock of blond hair to reveal a tense muscle edging his jaw. A more personal fury than I’d expect from a guard. I’d wager Trace spends a good portion of his time sweeping up after Wil’s mischief, and from the look on Trace’s face, his patience has come to an end.
“Liar.” Violet twists to the king. “Wil wasn’t with any guard when he left.”
“How would you know, Violet?” Wil asks. “A princess would need to walk dangerously close to a stable to observe what company I kept when I left. I’m certainyouwould never break the rules and put your precious life in danger just to spy on me. So what is this? A chance to throw a fit?”
Violet’s nostrils flare. “Take it back.”
“Enough!” Firehorn snaps, and I flinch.
Trace’s gaze flickers to me, noting the weakness.
I curse myself soundly. Not that a sixteen-year-old trainee is wrong to cower from a king’s ire, but my reactions should be calculated, not reflexive. It was sloppy to flinch. Sloppy to let Trace see it.
“Violet, go home,” says Firehorn.
“But—”
“The woods are no place for a girl,” Firehorn tells her, hisattention already returning to Wil. “Go... practice your lessons.”
Violet’s face falls. I’d wager gold coin that Firehorn knows nothing of the girl’s studies, much less whether practice is required—and the princess knows this too. Straightening her spine, Violet opens her mouth to protest, but the king snaps his fingers and a contingent of guardsmen separate to lead the princess away, the hem of her velvet dress muddy from the forest floor.
“William.” King Firehorn steps toward his son. “Are you all right? What happened? Did that horse—”
“No.” Wil pats the stallion’s neck, his voice a hair too loud before reining itself in. “I was dumb enough to spar with Kal, and he had me head over ass before I knew what happened.”
Years of practice allow me to keep a straight face. Which is good, because the relieved look on Firehorn’s face says hewantsto believe the sack of horseshit that Wil just fed him. Wants to think his son was simply roughing around, that the spy Firehorn brought in is already proving her value by befriending the prince.
Trace’s weight shifts again, this time to grace me with the scowl previously reserved for the prince. His brow lifts. “Is that so, trainee?” he asks with quiet confidence, a captain of the king’s guard detail demanding a report from a fresh-faced recruit.
Which, frankly, is unjust.
A senior guardsman of one and twenty should not be forcing a sixteen-year-old novice to publicly choose between obeying his superior officer or the crown prince of Dansil. My jaw tightens and I raise my chin, refusing to shy away from Trace’s stare. “Yes, sir. Just as His Highness said.”
Trace’s face darkens, making the contrast to his silver hairmore striking. His eyes capture mine, the threat in them clear:Don’t worry about the prince, boy—worry about me.
Heat crackles along my spine. Firehorn might have me in his fist, but the bloody Eye of the Goddess will shatter before I allow a strutting guard to cow me. Not even if he is the captain of the king’s guard detail. Especially not then.
King Firehorn sighs and rubs his temples, the tension in his shoulders easing. His son is safe, the boy’s story credible enough to fool himself into believing it. There are other matters demanding attention. “Get cleaned up, William.” Firehorn’s voice is tired. “I trust you can make it to your quarters without any more mishaps?”
Wil bows from the saddle, surreptitiously holding the stallion’s mane for balance. A tiny hint of a smile tugs at the corners of the prince’s lips. Even I must admit that the hellion managed his father well enough to have made Lord Gapral proud.
I start to release my own sigh of relief when Trace cuts in to the conversation.
“With your permission, Your Majesty,” Trace says, bowing to the king even as he steps to block Wil’s path, “I will ensure that His Highness returns to his quarters safely. Luca can see you back.”
Luca frowns but Firehorn is already nodding permission and starting down the path while his detail follows. Soon it is only the three of us in the privacy of the woods. My shoulders tense, my mind trying to calculate Trace’s next move, to understand why a guard is injecting himself into a disciplinary matter between the king and prince.
Wil nudges the horse forward.
Predictably, Trace blocks the animal’s path. He didn’t keep us back only to step away now.
“Is there a problem,guardsman?” Wil asks.
