Page 69 of The Prince and His Stolen Throne
Interruption Three
An unexpected summons interrupted Brutus’ extremely important research. He shoved his book—which was certainly not a romance novel—under his desk and scrambled to prepare himself for the call. It was probably Wilde, giving him an update on the quest, but Brutus needed to present a poised, intimidating figure, worthy of his title.
With the hood pulled down over his eyes, he could barely see the mirror and couldn’t see the summoner. Steepling his fingers, he demanded, “Who calls upon the dreadful Lord of Grimnight?”
“Do you meandreaded?”
Brutus had not heard that snide voice in forty years. He yanked his hood off and stared in shock at the mage gazing back at him. The last time they’d seen each other, Brutus had been seventeen, Cyril less than eight years his senior. Since then, Cyril had aged like a fine wine when he deserved to age like vinegar. Salt and pepper hair, a graying beard, and a relaxed pose implying he held all the power between them.
Well, Brutus knew how to knock him down a peg or two. “Hello, Cereal.”
The other mage’s eye twitched at the old moniker. He recovered himself quickly and chuckled in fake amusement. He flashed his teeth in a charming smile that quickly turned sinister as the shadows crept in around him. “Good, we can dispense with the formalities. I’m calling to speak to your apprentice.”
“What? Why?” The first question was loud, the second asked in barely a whisper. Brutus raised his arm to partially cover the mirror with his cloak,both to hide Cyril and to keep his office hidden. “What do you want with Wilde?”
“I’m getting on in years,” Cyril began. He didn’t need to use his cloak to hide his environment—the thick, impenetrable shadows surrounding him did that well enough. “My wife wants me to retire, but I want to pass my titles along. I worked so hard for them, you understand?”
This time, Brutus’ eye twitched. He and Cyril had competed for their master’s title. Cyril had been older and stronger, but the real problem was hiswife. Without her help, Brutus would have snatched the title away. He would be the Prince of Shadows right now rather than the lesser Lord of Grimnight.
Cyril had the title, a wife, a home in an evil gated community. Now he wanted to steal Brutus’ apprentice. Could he not let Brutus haveone thing?
Of course not—otherwise he wouldn’t be evil.
“Wilde is on an important mission. He doesn’t have time to speak to the likes ofyou.”
The door opened and Wilde walked into the study. “Master, I—”
“Not now!” Brutus shouted, scrambling to fully cover the mirror with his cloak. “What are you doing here? You’re supposed to be—” He cut himself off. If Cyril discovered Brutus’ plan, he would barge in to take over the whole operation.
“Is that your apprentice?” Cyril called. Brutus could block his image but not the other man’s voice. “Excellent timing. Let me speak with him.”
“Absolutely not!” Brutus shouted. “We’re busy, goodbye!” He ended the call and silenced the mirror to prevent any further summons. As Cyril’s reflection disappeared, the mirror now reflected Brutus’ own face, red and mottled from anger and anxiety and framed by blond curls. He removed his cloak and covered the mirror, then whirled around to face Wilde. “You’re supposed to be tailing the champions!”
Wilde’s lips twitched.
Brutus narrowed his eyes, trying to decipher the small motion. Had they twitched up or down? Up implied amusement at his master’s predicament. Annoying but not concerning. Down implied dissatisfaction. If he was dissatisfied, he would be more open to the idea of leaving. With another evil mage already head-hunting him, Brutus couldn’t risk any cracks in their master-student relationship.
He approached Wilde and grabbed one of his hands, giving it a paternal pat. “This whole plot has me a little stressed. Being an evilmage is not an easy job, you understand? The guards have constant questions about defense and security—as if figuring all of that out isn’ttheirresponsibility. The imps are running amuck, demanding attention, getting into everything. And I must plan every beat of my monologue. It’s simply exhausting.” He sighed deeply. “But I shouldn’t take it out on you. You’re a good apprentice, Wilde. Probably one of the best.” No, wait, that was going in the wrong direction. Brutus had to find a balance between soothing his apprentice’s ego and keeping him in his place. “With me as your master, you will do great things.”
Wilde waited until he finished to speak. “The champions are spending the night on the MacFayden farmstead. Would you like me to send the patrols?”
Brutus’ lips twitched in dissatisfaction. Dammit, why must he mirror everyone else’s expressions? All his opponents seemed a beat ahead of him. He dropped Wilde’s hand and waved him off. “Yes, yes, report it to the lizard on duty.”
“Lacertian.”
“What?”
“They’re called lacertians.”
Brutus rolled his eyes. “Wilde, my boy, do you think Icare? They’re minions. I will refer to them however I please. You should as well. It keeps them in their place.”
Wilde accepted this lesson with a blank expression. “If that’s all, I’ll return to my post.”
“Oh, don’t bother.”
Wilde had already turned on his heel to leave. He paused and glanced over his shoulder. “What do you mean?”
“The patrols will pick the champions up soon. You need not be involved any further.”
