Page 104 of Court of Secrets and Flames

Sweat beads on the dragontender’s brow. “I’m not sure, Your Highness.”

A shiver sprints down my spine as I turn to Sterling, finding his expression a mirror of my own shock.

What in the three hells happened to the eyril?

Chapter Thirty-Five

Dust motes dance in the slivers of light, mocking barren shelves that should be weighed down with bundles of dried plants.

Sterling grips my hand while my mind races to form valid theories about who could be responsible for the missing eyril and how its disappearance could possibly tie in with any of our other lingering mysteries.

Tension radiates from Sterling. “I’ll discreetly ask around and see if anyone knows what happened with the eyril.”

“We.” I take his hand and hold it tight. “You and I. I’m not going to sit on the sidelines and wait for others to make decisions.”

He gives me a long, hard look, then nods. “All right.”

I widen my eyes. “That’s it? You’re not going to tell me how dangerous sneaking around behind the king’s back is or what he might do if he finds out?”

“I know you, Lark. As much as I’d love for you to stay in your room and do something utterly boring and safe, that’s not realistic. That’s not who you are.” He reaches out and curls his finger around the end of my braid. “Yes, we’re taking a risk and have to be careful. But you’re a fucking dragoncaller. You’repowerful and clever. Though there will never be a day that I don’t worry about your safety, I know you can protect yourself.”

As dawn’s touch banishes the night, Sterling and I take to the palace corridors to unearth the kingdom’s secrets concerning the eyril.

Instead of wearing pants like I want to, I’ve donned a simple rose-colored Tirene dress with slippers and pulled my hair halfway up. Elegant, yet unassuming.

Dressed in a dark, loose tunic with buckskin breeches that show off the sculpted muscles of his thighs, Sterling looks…incredible. I’m half tempted to pull him into the nearest supply closet and abort our fact-finding mission.

But I’ve already found myself in enough hot water recently. And we have work to do.

During breakfast, we hang around the kitchens in an attempt to eavesdrop on any potential gossip.

Most of the information we gather is about petty squabbles. One lord is certain another lord’s butler stole his fresh cream and replaced it with day old cream. There’s also a titillating tale about a pair of men’s shoes found under the bed of a lady whose husband is not currently in attendance at court.

The only word we hear about the king is the butler admonishing the staff to make sure his mint-infused broth is prepared fresh, and the immediate assurances of the soup cook explaining he’s just picked the herb himself.

Once the kitchen staff realize we’re there, they keep asking if we need something, and the morning chatter dies down. The head cook himself comes out and asks if there’s another poisoning that needs to be investigated.

After assuring the man that is not the case and enjoying fresh coffee and a delicious honey cake, we make a hasty retreat.

Next, we head to the stable, thinking if anyone knows about precious cargo getting moved around, it would be the carters. Listening to their conversations while they load the day’s deliveries proves easy enough as we hide among the horses and alicorns.

But these men move too quickly, their pay based on loads delivered versus time on the job. We’re about to call it quits when we hear someone in the tack room grumble about royalty.

I tug on Sterling’s sleeve and point to the room. Walking on tiptoes, I creep closer so I can hear over the snorts and stomps of the animals.

“Well yeah, of course he’s an ass! The man thinks just because he’s born royal, he can order us around. But I’m tired of lugging his belongings in and out of the carriage just because he thinks he’s too good to lift his own weight.”

Royal, I mouth the word at Sterling, and he nods.

The scattered hay under our feet serves as the perfect sound dampener as we travel farther away from the light outside and deeper into the stuffy musk of the inner rooms.

“That’s true enough.” A younger voice pipes up. “But I heard the king himself commented in court the other day that if his weak-armed cousin is too frail to lift his own polo clubs to the match, he can send ’im off to the military to grow some muscles.”

A raucous round of laughter meets that declaration. Sterling snakes an arm around my waist to stop me from inching any closer.

He rolls his eyes, then speaks so low I can barely hear him. “My cousin Jaime, Rhiann’s sister’s youngest. He’s only technically a royal.”

“King Jasper tells it like it is. He doesn’t play favorites based on blood.”

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