Page 83 of In Rising Tides

No one spoke, but by the drooping of shoulders and tightening of lips, Warick had assumed correctly.

Warick began pacing, his tall, black boots thumping on the gleaming marble floor behind Wilder.

It was easy to follow his steps as the reverberation vibrated up through Wilder’s knees and thighs.

“The Prince confronted you based on information that was gathered during an ambush. An ambush that was orchestrated with your participation?—”

The High King’s glower deepened with his displeasure.

White bloomed across his knuckles as he clenched his fist.

Several nobles nearest him leaned away to avoid notice.

“That—is unnecessary, Warick,” Oberon growled.

Warick stopped moving. A hint of humor laced his voice, “Is it?”

Wilder couldn’t see Warick’s face, but he knew exactly the picture of mischief his uncle exuded.

“As I was saying,” Warick drawled. “The Prince had been kidnapped and assaulted. Clearly he wasn’t within his right mind, but that wouldn’t matter if the formalities of a challenge had been voided, anyway.”

A divot formed between Oberon’s brows. “Excuse me?”

Warick took a step towards the king, and inadvertently, towards Wilder. “Your words cleared the rules of a challenge. By you disowning Prince Wilder, you enacted the rite of holmgang.”

There was a sharp intake of breath from around him. Only someone with vast knowledge of their rules and customs would have known about a holmgang.

It was positively archaic.

Wilder could think of only one person who would have knowledge that vast—Baelwyn.

“Holmgang,” King Oberon grumbled. “Show me the text.”

Heavier boots thudded from behind Wilder, and a tunic of pure silver shimmered as the elf passed.

Baelwyn.

“It is an ancient rite,” his deep voice washed over the room. “But it is here.”

A tome of crumbling leather, with gilded, scrawling letters, was gripped in his fist.

He slid the pages open and pointed at the passage for the king.

Oberon’s eyes scanned the text.

Baelwyn held still, allowing Oberon to read the text several times. It was silent, uncomfortably silent.

“Seems very much like an ancient game, does it not?”

Slowly the High King lifted his eyes from the page and locked them onto Wilder.

“Blood or not, he drew his sword against the King.”

Warick strode back to the perimeter of the room nearest to the window.

The sun had set at last, and darkness crawled towards the castle. It was apparent that a solution would not be met anytime soon.

Wilder felt a twinge of gratitude that someone—anyone—had come to his defense at least.