Chapter 4
It was a kinder sun that emerged the next morning, its beams filtered by the clouds. The jousting yard seemed all the merrier for it, with pennants snapping red and gold above the roaring crowd.
“Third pass!” the herald cried.
Richard’s fingers tightened around his armrest. Sitting on his right, Elara cheered as the two riders circled into position. Kaelen, bending low to murmur into his horse’s ear. And Corwin, yelping as his steed pranced sideways.
The first two passes had splintered lances without victory. After the second, Corwin had flicked a crude gesture at Kaelen, who’d lifted his visor and replied with something that made Corwin and nearby spectators laugh.
Now they wheeled to opposite ends again. The drums began to beat. The horses pawed at the sand. Richard stared at Kaelen, taking in the steady shoulders and the perfect angle of his lance. Was Kaelen frowning behind the helm? Or was he smirking in anticipation?
The trumpet sounded. Hooves thundered. Lances levelled. The crowd’s roar multiplied.
Richard saw the instant Kaelen’s victory was assured. Corwin, in his attempt to ensure his lance hit, leaned too far in his saddle. It was a habit Richard had tried again and again to coax out of him, and now, Kaelen saw the opening. He struck his lance hard against Corwin’s shield.
Wood cracked. Corwin went flying. People surged to their feet, stomping and clapping. Flags waved, and flowers were thrown into the air.
Flames flared along Elara’s arms, singeing her chair’s upholstery. “Yes! That’s how you do it!”
Richard bit back his smile. A part of him had winced at Corwin’s fall—an older brother instinct too far ingrained. But another part of him welled with pride as Kaelen raised his lance towards the stands. The cheers morphed into a chant of his name.
Kaelen didn’t linger in the glory. He swung down, handing off the reins to a squire, before crouching by Corwin’s stirring frame.
Corwin gingerly sat up, lifting his visor to spit out sand. Kaelen reached for his arm, but was shoved away.
Richard sighed as Elara cackled. She bent over the rail and cupped her mouth.
“You petty child, Corwin! Accept your loss with honour!”
“Sister,” Richard muttered, hoping Corwin was too far away to hear. But from the way Corwin yanked off his helm, his hopes were low.
Suddenly aware of the quiet on his left, Richard turned. Briony had chewed her thumbnail down to the quick. Her eyes flickered over the assembly of people, her chest heaving.
“Briony.” Richard tugged her thumb down. “Are you well?”
Briony flinched at his touch. “Yes, Brother…it is just too loud.”
Richard gaped. Loud had never bothered Briony a day in her life. But before he could press, the herald’s assistant appeared at his shoulder. “Your Majesty. It is time.”
Richard rose with his sisters and was ushered down from the royal stand, through a corridor of guards, and out into the yard where a podium had been erected. The crates that formed the floor were wreathed in red cloth and decorated with flower garlands.
Silence fell as Richard mounted the steps. He took his place at the centre, Elara and Briony behind him on either side. Kaelen and Corwin approached from opposing sides of the yard. Corwin limped slightly, dark hair flattened with sweat and sand smudging his cheeks.
The herald handed Richard a ribboned bouquet of roses. Corwin stopped in front of Richard, his mouth fixed in a surly grimace. Richard leaned in, pretending to brush off grit from the boy’s chin, before he seized the collar and jerked him close.
“You will not sulk,” Richard hissed under his breath. “Not in front of our people who are trying to forget ruins and screams. Now, straighten your face and make them believe you care more for them than your bruised pride.”
Corwin glowered right back, but once Richard released his collar, he forced a grin and waved to the crowds. Richard pressed the bouquet into his hands.
“For courage and skill,” Richard announced. “Prince Corwin, second place in the King’s Tourney.”
The cheers that resounded were almost drowned out by the shrill whistles and coos from a gaggle of young ladies. Corwin’s grin widened, and he blew the ladies a kiss before joining Elara and Briony.
Richard’s pulse quickened when Kaelen stepped forward. He, too, was drenched in sweat, but his armour gleamed. Unseated not even once throughout the tourney. Dain, patrolling by the stands, puffed up his chest and smoothed his moustache.
Kaelen’s smile faded as he met Richard’s eyes. He bowed, fist thudding against his breastplate, and then stood rigid, face blank.
“Your Majesty.”
“Congratulations, Sir Kaelen.” Richard passed a bag of gold. A modest sum—some fifty gold pieces. “Your prize.”
“Thank you, Your Majesty,” Kaelen said stiffly.
“And—” Richard hesitated, warmth creeping up his neck.
He reached into his tunic’s inner pocket and drew out a dagger.
The crowd ooh-ed as he unsheathed it, revealing its glossy black surface and emerald-encrusted hilt.
“This was gifted to me by Princess Seola of Frostheim. The obsidian comes from their deep ice caves, and slices through the toughest leather as easily as paper.”
Kaelen’s brows twitched into a frown. “I recall, Your Majesty.” His voice dropped. “You tried to slice your throat with it.”
Richard fought the urge to roll his eyes. Two months prior, he’d attempted to carve out the Lumeron. Kaelen had panicked over how the Lumeron sat over his carotid and had tackled Richard to the ground.
“It is yours,” Richard declared, sheathing the dagger. He held it out with both hands and a smile. There. Exactly as William had said. An apology gifted as a present.
But the knight’s frown was deepening. “I would not part your gift from you, Your Majesty.”
Richard tried not to glare. Could Kaelen not see his intent? “Nevertheless, it is mine to gift, and you may have it.”
But Kaelen’s jaw was set. “Please, Your Majesty, keep it.” He looked at the dagger with distaste. “I would rather see the blade at your hip than in my hands.”
Richard blinked. Perhaps he had underestimated how deeply his words had nettled. Perhaps Kaelen had no intention of moving past it.
“Very well.” Richard pocketed the dagger. “May the gold please you well.”
If Kaelen did not wish to reconcile, that was entirely his prerogative. Richard was king, and kings did not beg for forgiveness, and neither, he thought with a lift of his chin, did he need to. It had been Kaelen who behaved so rashly in the council meeting. On his head be it.
A deafening crack split the air, and the podium shuddered. Richard stumbled, and in the briefest instant, saw Kaelen’s eyes widen, saw Kaelen lunge for him—
But Richard was already skittering back, spinning to grab Briony just as the podium floor erupted.
BANG.
The explosion threw Richard into the air, splinters spraying into his arms as he wrapped them tight around Briony. For a heartbeat, they were airborne, thrown like sparks from a hearth.
The sand rushed up. Richard took the brunt of the impact, his left shoulder crashing against the ground and his teeth clacking. His vision swam, and pain flared across his left side.
“Briony,” he rasped.
The girl peered up at him from against his chest, her curls askew. “I’m alright.”
Richard exhaled shakily and staggered to his feet. Sand dusted his ceremonial robes. Seamstress Cecily would weep to see it.
The podium was rubble. Garlands torn and smouldering. Crates were a mess of wooden shards. Soldiers were surging forward, hurrying to haul Elara and Corwin up from broken boards.
Kaelen and Dain were sprinting towards Richard, their swords drawn and mouths open in a yell.
Richard cocked his head, goosebumps prickling his nape. He could not hear them. A translucent wall shimmered in the air before them.
Kaelen hit it first. The impact rocked him back a step, as if he’d run into stone.
He slammed his palm against it, then his fist. Dain, too, barrelled into it and bounced with a splutter.
Guards pressed in from all angles, hacking and pounding.
Their strain was clear in the veins popping in their necks, but the barrier did not yield.
Richard stood in front of Briony. They were trapped in an invisible rectangular box of some kind. A barricade. A trap.
Across the sand, at the box’s other end, figures appeared out of nowhere. Three men and two women. They wore yellow robes, and their fingernails were painted black. Bone-white masks covered the lower halves of their faces.
Witches.
Not Threadbourne mages like Elara, who drew magic from the Threads on instinct.
No, witches stole sips of power they had not been born with.
They siphoned magic from the Threads through anchors—objects or places cut, carved, and coaxed into forming conduits.
A tree scored with the right runes. A well sunk into a root of Thread.
A sacrifice of bones and nails buried into the earth to be rewarded with magical energy that shaped their curses, blessings and spells.
Richard unsheathed his sword. His father had been stern with laws surrounding witches—no binding of will, no blood price, and all covens to be registered and monitored under crown law.
But these five wore no known sigil. Somehow, they’d planted their curse below the podium and turned invisible to approach.
One of the women held a branch in her hand, no doubt an anchor for some smaller spellwork—but surely not for a barrier of this size.
He found his answer as the final figure came into view. The blind man he’d seen yesterday stood behind the witches, slumped against the corner, eyes glowing pink as he dug his fingers into the barrier’s wall. A sorcerer working with witches. Why? What was this trap meant to—
Briony’s arms curled around Richard’s waist. He ignored her, focusing his glare on the newcomers.
“You are on Crown grounds,” he snarled. “Your treason is punishable by death, but I may yet show mercy.”
The witches slunk forward, sliding out daggers from their sleeves.
Richard’s mouth went dry. He addressed the sorcerer in the far corner. “Release us, and I may let you live.”
The man swallowed hard and averted his sightless gaze to the ground.
A crash sounded at the box’s right wall as Kaelen drove his shoulder into it again.
He was close enough now for Richard to see the panic in his face.
Elara and Corwin were by him. Elara blasted the barrier with fire, but the flames only crawled along the wall and spilled away.
Corwin tried to smash the wall with his mace, but his powerful blow made no dent.
Briony trembled. “B-Brother. I-I can fight.”
The witches’ eyes darted to the girl—hungry, eager.
They were here for her.
Richard shrugged off his ceremonial cloak and shoved the heavy fabric into Briony’s arms. “Get to the farthest corner and keep your eyes closed.”
She didn’t reply, but he heard her footsteps scuttling away.
Richard retrieved his dagger and hooked it against his belt before rolling his wrist and bringing his sword to level.
“Your first mistake was bringing this to my doorstep.” He slid a foot behind him, carving a groove in the sand. “Your second mistake was trapping me in here with you.”
The witches’ steps stuttered, and they exchanged nervous glances.
“Your third and final mistake”—Richard bared his teeth in a grin—“was targeting one who belongs to me.”
He raised his sword and uttered the last words with a coldness that made the witches flinch.
“Pray that your deaths are swift.”