Page 2 of The Uncrowned Prince

Even as feeling left her limbs and her thoughts grew sluggish, Allera turned her face into her husband’s chest and smiled. Their life together had been built on a foundation of sacrificial love, and she regretted not a single day of it. Even when she was gone, her family would survive, and they would never surrender to the temptations of hatred or ambition.

“Val…” she whispered hoarsely. “… love…”

She could still feel the warmth of his arms as the darkness dragged her away.

* * *

Queen Evaraine of Farhall slipped into her sitting room, shut the door behind her, and leaned back against it with a groan.

“My feet hurt,” she announced. “And if I have to listen to one more complaint about the inconvenience caused by the street repairs, I think I might scream.”

Her husband looked up from a stack of papers thick enough to give her nightmares and raised one eyebrow.

“Would you care to trade, Your Majesty?”

She smiled fondly and crossed the room to rest her hands on his shoulders and drop a kiss on the top of his head.

“No, I thank you. You’ve a far better mind for numbers than I, as you well know. Speaking of which… Have you determined yet whether we have the capital for increasing the guard?”

Danric bit his lower lip for a moment before nodding. “Yes. I believe we can pull it off without changing taxes, as long as we make a few minor adjustments in other areas. We’ll have no official travel expenses this year, which should help.”

The door opened again, admitting two maids with trays for their afternoon tea.

“Thank you,” Evaraine said, allowing herself a blissful sigh as she moved towards the tea table with a brisk step. A late spring snow still fell outside, and tea was exactly what she needed to drive away the chill. “Danric, come and have a cup with me. The numbers will still be there in an hour.”

“I suspect they’ll still be here in a hundred years,” he returned dryly. “But I won’t say no to a brief respite.”

Pushing back from the desk, he joined her at the tea table, wrapping an arm around her waist as she poured the dark, fragrant liquid into a pair of etched glass cups. Cream for her, sugar for Danric.

She loved knowing how he took his tea. How he bit his lip when he was frowning over numbers. How his hair stuck up on one side in the morning, and how gorgeous he was when he was still half asleep, relaxed and content in the warmth of their bed.

It seemed wrong to have found so much happiness amidst the darkness and uncertainty beyond their gates—even as her people prepared for the inescapable reality of war.

The battle was coming, and even though they were doing everything they could, she very much feared it would not be enough. Arandar’s walls were strong enough to protect many of their people, but for how long? Garimore was too powerful, its supply chains too secure, and its army both large and well-established.

And the king at its head…

Cruel and ambitious. Hiding motivations none of them could guess at.

Distracted by thoughts of King Melger’s perfidy, Evaraine stirred Danric’s tea absently until the sugar seemed dissolved. When it was ready, she held out the cup, but her abstraction caused her to miss his outstretched hand. She fumbled, but managed to catch the cup before it hit the floor. The tea, however, was a lost cause, sloshing over her hand in a scalding wave.

“Well, that was graceful.” She eyed the spilled tea with a sigh and turned back to the tray for a fresh cup.

“Let me,” Danric admonished, snatching her burned hand and wiping away the hot brown liquid with one of the tea napkins. “That looks painful. We should call for some salve.”

“It’s just tea,” she protested, “and it wasn’tthathot.” Indeed, it had not been, but even as Danric swiped at her skin, her fingers continued to redden and swell. Blisters appeared on her palm, and her hand began to shake.

“Danric.” Evaraine kept her voice low and tightly controlled. Their eyes met—his wide with the beginnings of panic. “I think…”

Abruptly grasping her upper arms, Danric flung her to the side and snatched the tea tray from the table. The pot and cups tumbled to the floor as he swung the tray up to use as a shield, just in time to intercept a vicious dagger thrust from one of the two maids.

Evaraine hit the carpet with a grunt. She landed hard on her shoulder, still cradling her throbbing hand to her chest, but the pain barely registered amidst her fear and her fury. Someone she trusted had endangered her husband’s life.

The maid’s face was familiar—she’d served in the kitchen since before Evaraine’s coronation—but her expression was not. Her eyes were sharp, her teeth bared, and she let out a vicious snarl of hatred as the tip of the knife scraped across the tray.

“You cannot save yourself!” she hissed, drawing back to circle around, looking for another opening. “The reckoning has come, and those who will not serve will die.”

Her movements were quick and supple, filled with confidence, and she held the knife like she knew what to do with it.

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