Page 59 of The Sun King's Noon

Richard resisted the urge to quail. The formality was a straining leash. Had they been alone someplace, Dain would have seized him by the lapels.

“Haldric was my brother in all but blood.” Dain’s chest heaved. “Aralynn was my dearest friend. They were butchered—butchered, Your Majesty—and you sat on this knowledge. Did nothing as Marius drew breath and ate his suppers and slept in comfort, while the king and queen of this realm lie as ashes.” He shrugged off Kaelen’s hand on his shoulder. “We should have marched on Estara the day you learned of it! We should have dragged that wretched man from his throne and answered blood with blood!”

Lady General Ivelle bared her teeth. “The Lord Commander speaks true. Our king and queen bled with us, laughed with us, and we have allowed their murders to go unanswered!”

“A stain!” General Barlow roared. “A disgrace!”

“Generals,” Malgrin wheedled, lifting a hand. “I share your fury. But Ardenia, two years ago, was in no state to wage war. We were in mourning, with a new king?—”

“Do not defend this, old man!” Barlow snarled. “We have been made fools. Every ambassador we received from Estara, every trade agreement we brokered! We have smiled and shaken hands with those who bathe in our sovereigns’ blood!”

“Oh, the bodies.” Lord Physic Perindale wiped his brow with a trembling hand. “Our king and queen’s bodies, so battered and broken…how they still haunt me…”

“What message does it send?” Sarn boomed by Barlow’s side. “That any foreign king may slaughter our monarchs and face no consequence?”

The table devolved. Voices crashed over each other—generals demanding armies be mustered, Malgrin and Lord Warden arguing logistics, Lady Treasurer shouting about costs, Lord of Granaries reminding all that war had a history of depleting food stores. Fists struck wood repeatedly. A goblet rolled off the edge and clanged against the floor.

Through it all, Elara and Corwin sat motionless, staring at the table.

Richard’s stomach lurched. They would come for him later, he knew. In private, where there were no titles to restrain them.

What would he do? What would he say? To keep the truth from them had been necessary, for it was not a wound he wanted them to carry nor a risk he wanted to take.

And yet, Haldric and Aralynn had been their parents, too.

Father,Richard prayed as the shouts of the councillors rose to a din.Mother. Will you not help me?

A breeze ruffled his fringe. For the briefest instant, he felt a kiss brush against his temple, and a familiar hand clamp over his nape, thumb kneading fondly. The breeze morphed into a gust, and the doors slammed open with an almighty bang.

All heads jerked to the door. Most of the councillors wore puzzled frowns, but Richard caught the glimmer of purple light in Dianara’s eyes. He sent them a quick grateful look, then rapped his knuckles against the table.

“I made a choice,” he said. “You may rage against it. You may curse my name. But you will heed it nonetheless.” He steepled his hands. “I did not want a senseless war. I did not want fields of dead soldiers, widowed wives and husbands, orphaned children, and a treasury bled dry—all to satisfy your hunger for retribution against an embittered old man. I will not spill blood to sate your thirst for revenge.”

His gaze settled on Dain. The Lord Commander stared back, bushy brows furrowed. The man who’d carried Richard on his shoulders, who’d taught him the sword and horseriding, who’d fussed over his tears as a boy. The same man who had tried to join Haldric and Aralynn’s pyres after having watched the trolls clobber them to death.

“Nor to sate your guilt,” Richard said quietly.

Dain’s nostrils flared, and for a moment, Richard thought the man would rise, would cross the distance to land a punch?—

Dain looked away with a hard swallow.

Richard’s headache pounded, making his eyes water. He pressed two fingers to his temple and breathed through it. “There is another matter. Chief Mage.”

Dianara produced a leather-bound sketchbook. Richard had seized it the instant Galdran had vanished. He’d dashed to the bench Briony had sat on, snatched the book and flipped it open. The first pages had been what he expected—drawings of thecastle’s cats, of Haldric and Aralynn dancing on the balcony, of Cook Shirley baking her scones.

Then he’d reached the seventh page, and his legs had nearly given way.

“Briony,” Richard called to the open doors. “You may enter.”

Briony shuffled in, her gown smeared with blood from where she’d lunged to stem Kaelen’s bleeding. Her curls were limp, and she looked terribly small against the chamber’s vaulted ceiling. Smaller still when she noticed the sketchbook in Dianara’s hands and all colour drained from her face.

“No!” she cried out. “Give it back! You mustn’t look inside! Please—please, you mustn’t?—”

“Briony,” Richard said. “I have already seen.”

A gasp spilled from her lips. She clamped two hands to her mouth, tears streaking down her cheeks.

“You have kept this secret long enough, little one,” Richard said gently.