Page 141 of A War of Crowns

“What is your name?” the queen asked as if from far away, though the question repeated itself tenfold within his mind. It echoed—questing, searching.

Name, name, name, name.

The answer came easily to his lips.

“Aldric Hargrave,” he gasped, shuddering from the effort of keeping himself from flying into a million pieces. The full force of the Lord’s light continued to flow through him, burning him bit by bit. His bones ached. His innards screamed.

“And are you the firstborn son of King Warwick II of Drakmor?” the queen asked next.

Another easy answer.

“Yes,” Aldric bit out around the taste of his own blood.

“And are you the rightful King of Drakmor?”

The sheer absurdity of that question actually lured a strangled laugh from Aldric’s throat. His fingers trembled within the holy man’s slick grip. The Shepherd was sweating.

Or perhaps he was the one sweating.

Forcing his one good eye open, Aldric tried to level a look at his bride. But he could not see her through the blaze of that holy fire.

Baring his teeth, he half screamed, half snarled a heated, “Yes,” in reply to her. That single word, pulled from the very depths of his heart, echoed throughout the throne room.

Yes, he was the first-born. He was his father’s heir.

Hewasthe rightful king.

Clearly satisfied by whatever madness had driven her down that particular line of questioning, the queen switched tactics when she next asked him, “Did you know the assassin who attacked me last night?”

Another easy answer.

“No,” Aldric howled. He rocked upon his stool now with the effort of keeping himself from burning alive from the inside out.

But there was no mercy. There was no reprieve.

The heat continued scorching its way through him.

“Why did you come to my room, then?”

The conflagration roaring away within him flared even more brightly. His back arched as he fought against it. It lapped at the lie that had immediately sprung to the forefront of his mind. It devoured the words with all the hunger of a raging wildfire. Aldric tasted more blood within his mouth as he fought against the urge to scream.

He failed.

“Because an assassin came to my room as well,” Aldric finally shouted—a half-truth. The rest of it lingered within him, fighting to be free.

No. She didn’t need to know the whole of it.

Hecouldn’ttell her the whole of it.

Now it was the Spymaster’s turn to ask a question. The Lothmeeran woman demanded to know, “Someone tried to assassinate you as well last night?”

Aldric snarled a simple, “Yes.”

“How did you enter Her Majesty’s room?” The weasel of a Spymaster again.

“Through the balcony.”

“And the balcony doors were unlatched when you arrived?”

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