Page 83 of The Witch in the Dead of Night

Mordric rounded on his brother, fangs bared. “Make yourself scarce. Now.”

Enhart remained rooted to the spot. “Forgive my insolence, brother, but these streets are not empty. In fact, many a commoner traipses through them most regularly. You wouldn’t want to be caught by your subjects making a scene, would you?”

An icy silence fell between them. Mordric’s eyes flitted to the windows of the apartments surrounding us as if searching for a flicker of life behind the drawn curtains. A beat passed, and his expression grew placid.

“Carriage,” said Mordric, without looking at me. “Now.”

I curled my fingers into fists at my side. “You—” I nearly choked on a few choice words as Enhart’s voice echoed in my mind. Leave now. Before this gets even further out of hand.

I shot him a dark look. “Fine,” I conceded, seething silently as I stalked off toward the carriage. I hoisted myself into it as noisily as possible, slamming the door behind me. We set off with a jolt, the carriage bouncing precariously along the narrow streets.

I waited for almost an hour in my chambers for Mordric to return, pacing to and fro before the open windows. Frustration smoldered in my chest. I was no closer to understanding Ewan’s motivations, and now I was both furious with Mordric and devastated that I had angered the one person who meant the world to me.

I shuddered as I recalled his expression. It was as if a mask had slipped from his handsome face, revealing the volatile temper that lurked beneath the perfect image. I’d once caught a glimpse of it in the study with Viscount Harring. But this was different somehow. I’d barely even recognized him.

Glancing out the window, I stopped short. The rising sun was beginning to cast its bloodred glow over the grounds. “Letlas damn them,” I cursed under my breath. There was no way that Mordric and Enhart were still arguing on the streets of Valnar.

I had never been to Mordric’s chambers, but Niamh and Nathalie had been assigned there more than once, so I had a vague idea of where they were. Squaring my shoulders, I exited my chambers and stalked off toward the royal apartments, my hands curled into fists at my sides. The nobles were all asleep in their beds by now, so I encountered no one on the long walk to the royal family’s wing. The corridor widened until it spat me out in a circular gallery, gilded with silver accents and dusted to within an inch of its life. I’d expected to find guards, or perhaps a butler waiting outside the King’s door to receive his orders, but the chamber was deserted.

I inhaled slowly. Closing my eyes, I let my will guide me straight to a door that was as tall and imposing as the King himself. The mahogany had been polished until anyone who dared visit him here would be forced to face their own reflection first. Mine was wide-eyed. I steeled myself, raising my fist.

The door swung wide before my knuckles touched wood, revealing Mordric staring down his nose at me. His jaw was clenched, his lips pulled into a tight line. He stepped back without a word, permitting me to enter. My gaze raked over the chamber, which was just as grand as Niamh had described. The massive room was a tapestry of royal colors, from the crimson curtains that blocked the floor-to-ceiling windows to the ebony sheets that covered the bed. Mordric crossed to a short table and poured whiskey into an empty tumbler, swirling the amber liquid around the glass before he took a sip.

“Why have you come?”

I faltered at the edge in his voice, willing myself to be strong. “I’ve come for an apology.”

A muscle in his jaw twitched. “You expect me to apologize to you?”

“After you shouted at me in the middle of the street? Yes.”

“You disobeyed me.”

I drew myself up to my full height. “I’ve asked more than once for your help, but you’ve done nothing, squirreled away in your study for hours on end. I had to take action.”

“How dare you accuse me of doing nothing. I’ve sent patrols, I’ve engaged my seneschal to speak to the families of the victims. What more could you want from me?”

“I want this solved!” I cried. “Not just for me, but for all of them. You were in that cellar, too, Mordric. You saw what’s been done. Don’t you want to understand why?”

“I don’t have time to personally look into every crime that happens in my kingdom, but I suppose I shouldn’t expect you to understand that.”

“I’m sick of everyone implying that I’m naive just because I’m not highborn,” I snapped. “As if my problems are smaller just because I come from the Outlands.”

“Your problems are smaller,” he growled. “And I don’t want to hear about this again. From now on, you will focus on your training and nothing else.”

“I’m not some mindless soldier, Mordric. You can’t order me around.”

My words caught in my throat as he closed the distance between us. Fury seeped out of his every pore. “Can’t I?” he asked in a low voice. “I am your king, am I not?”

I went rigid, fighting the urge to back away.

“You couldn’t even fathom the horrors I have to deal with every day,” he hissed. “Surrounded by conniving shrews and their plots. Leeches beseeching me for more coin and more land, lest their favor be swayed by one of my enemies. All of them are prepared to put a knife in my back the moment a better offer comes their way. Waiting for the slightest fuckup that they can use for blackmail against me or each other. I thought that I could trust you at the very least, but then I find out that you were sneaking around behind my back after I expressly told you not to. Do you even have any idea what I was doing just before William informed me of your whereabouts?”

I scowled. “What is the seneschal—”

“Of course not,” he interrupted. “I was entertaining accusations that Viscount Cyril Harring, the sniveling wretch whom you’ve had the misfortune of meeting, has been plotting against me for months. Apparently, he plans to rid Valen of first me, then Enhart, and then anyone who stands in their way until the crown passes down the line of succession to a distant cousin of mine to whom Cyril just happens to owe a considerable gambling debt. So much for fucking saffron.”

I winced as he hurled his tumbler across the room. It hit the wall and exploded, crystal shards flying in every direction. “And so,” he growled. “I was squirreled away in my study, as you put it, debating with my council if I should be sentencing Cyril and his fellow conspirators to death or not. The consensus, mind you, is that I should. Because if I don’t, people will die. You will die.”