Page 61 of The Sun King's Noon

She’d known.

Richard pressed his tongue hard against the roof of his mouth. His eyes burned.

Would that they’d simply allowed him to die in their place.

“May I interrupt?”

The man who sat by Dianara could have been mistaken for a clerk. Small-framed, with large, jutting ears, Lord Spymaster Vagor bore an unremarkable face—easily forgotten and glanced over. When he spoke, his voice came out reedy, forcing all around the table to lean forward to catch the hushed words.

“Your Majesty. My agents have just returned from Estara. I had thought to alert you tomorrow, but now seems the right time. In essence, my spies have compiled enough intelligence to narrow the location of the eight-legged siren.”

Excited murmurs rippled.

“There is an island.” Vagor produced a rolled map from his satchel and spread it flat, weighing the corners with goblets. His thin finger traced the Estaran coastline, where the capital city, Vexmara, stretched to the open sea. “The island is a day’s sailing from Vexmara. Every Estaran sailor avoids it. Those who pass within a league of its shores are never seen again.” His grey eyes lifted. “The Estarans call the isle the Singers’ Teeth, for the fishermen who’ve sailed closest claim they hear music beneath the waves.”

“The siren,” Richard breathed.

“It is most probable.” Vagor hummed. “I propose we send a small team into Vexmara—small, as Vexmara’s security has been significantly heightened due to the rebel forces and even my spies were lucky to escape without capture. The team shall need to procure a ship and sail to Singers’ Teeth. If the song is what bewitches, then the team needs only to plug their ears upon approaching the island. It is worth a try, at least.”

Who should go was clear. Richard drummed his fingers on the table. “Sir Kaelen. I am assigning you this mission.”

Kaelen snapped upright from his chair and bowed. “I will see it done, my king.”

“You will choose one other to go with you,” Richard continued. “Perhaps a mage for magical assistance.”

“Understood.”

“There is a detail which may help,” Vagor said to Kaelen. “A famed Ardenian circus troupe—the Mirthwell Circus—is touring through Estaran territory. Jugglers, acrobats, fire-breathers, animal tamers. They are scheduled to perform at Marius’s fortress within the fortnight and have the necessary writs of passage. Should your team join the troupe, you could enter the city without suspicion.”

Richard leaned back in his chair. “A delegation should also travel alongside to Vexmara—separately and openly. That way, should Sir Kaelen require assistance later, the delegation can support.” He nodded at Malgrin. “You shall go.”

“Travel to Vexmara as a diplomatic representative?” Malgrin groaned, tugging his beard. “Your Majesty, that is a seven-day journey by carriage, and King Marius may not even grant me entry into his fortress. And what am I to?—”

“You will leave in two days, Lord Chancellor. Craft a grovelling letter to Marius in advance—something about trade agreements and paying Ardenian respects—then start yourjourney. If Kaelen’s team makes contact with you, you will ensure to help them.”

Richard ignored Malgrin’s grumble. The plan was sound, or at least as sound as any mission that required a knight to infiltrate a hostile kingdom, join a circus, sail to an island that killed everyone who approached it, and retrieve the heart of a creature with unimaginable power.

He gazed at Kaelen. Selwyn’s healing hadn’t completely managed to erase the bruising around his neck.

“Keep your filth from my king.”

A loyal thing despite all the anger and hurt between them. A lovely thing.

Richard’s chest tightened. He wanted to go. Wanted to shed the crown, strap on a sword, and ride out beside Kaelen into the unknown.

But the crown did not come off. It never did. His place was here.

“You will spend tomorrow thoroughly preparing and leave at midnight, Sir Kaelen,” Richard said. “And you will come home.”

Kaelen’s eyes softened. “Always, my king.”

There was a knock at the door, and a maid stumbled through, panting and red-cheeked. She dropped into a hasty bow before Richard.

“Your Majesty—forgive the intrusion—it is the Sylari—” She gulped. “They are leaving.”

CHAPTER 24

The outer courtyard was hushed when Richard exited the main doors. Torches lit the ramparts ahead, where sentries watched from their stations.