Page 9 of The Sun King's Noon

“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, nodoubt 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.