Chapter 8
Sir Alaric lowerepoke first, her head still bowed.
“He’s but a babe, Your Majesty,” she said softly, eyes lowered. “Surely beneath such noble regard.”
From the corner of my eye I spotted the glint of a blade hidden in her sleeve. I stepped between her and King Edmund, scooped the child into my arms, and said, loud enough for the throne room to hear:
“He looks exactly like Lady Isolde, Your Majesty. Strange, though-I can’t find a trace of Sir Alaric in him.”
The King was no fool. A single look from him, and two guards closed in behind Isolde.
He nodded approvingly at me and speak to Isolde. “Let me see your face, my lady.”
Isolde lifted her chin the barest inch-and the King’s eyes widened in surprise. He glanced at the Queen Dowager.
“I feel an odd fondness for the boy,” he mused. “Perhaps he should remain in the Royal Keep.”
The Queen Dowager stiffened. “He is far too young to be parted from his mother.”
“Then leave the mother here as well,” the King replied, gaze sharpened with meaning.
Sir Alaric opened his mouth, but the King waved a hand, already turning away.
“I tire of this. You may all withdraw.”
He pointed at me before I could step back. “You-well done.”
Prince Julian beamed so brightly he nearly blinded me, dropped to his knees, and thanked his father for the praise- earning a withering look for the theatrics.
Outside the gate
Sir Alaric barred my path, anger barely leashed.
“What were you playing at in there?”
I blinked, all innocence.
“Only the truth. The baby doesn’t favor you at all. And he’s full-term, though Lady Isolde was only seven months along. You should be grateful he’s healthy.”
“If you’re scheming against me-” he began, voice low with warning.
But the moment his eyes fell on my mother behind me, the words withered in his throat.
“Elowen…” He used her old stage name like it was a charm to turn back time.
Mother’s child had reached four months; the swell showed plainly beneath her gown.
“Give me a little longer,” Alaric begged, hand hovering over her waist. “I can make this right-for you and Elinor.
Chapter 8
Mother’s laugh was cold. “Your son already draws breath, yet you still need a spare for your witch’s brew?”
“No-no, I only ask that you keep our child,” he stammered. “I can offer him everything once the King hears me out-”
“Your heir and your Lady still wait in the palace,” I said coolly, tilting my head. “Tread carefully, Sir Storme-there’s only so far a man can stretch before he tears.”
His face drained. He lunged, but Mother’s icy, titled voice cut him short.
“Mind yourself, sir.”
I cast him a final glance-measured and cold. Let him toss and turn tonight, haunted by everything slipping through his
fingers.
The next morning
Prince Julian raced in from the palace, breathless with gossip.
“They found her-an exiled princess of the old line!”
Lady Isolde-no, the last princess of the fallen dynasty-and her infant had been thrown into the water cells beneath the Royal Keep. Sir Alaric was hauled away as he tried to force yet another audience with the King, claiming he possessed
evidence of the final rebel faction.
A lover to a traitorous princess-how could he not have known?
Thanks to the Queen Dowager’s petitions, Alaric was merely confined to House Storme until the Princess’s sentence was carried out. Only then would his own fate be decided.
I had no intention of waiting that long.
