Page 97 of The Musician and the Monster

Guards stopped him at the main gate, as expected, inquiring over his identity and his request to be let inside. One quick show of his family sigil, one the king himself created for him after his fall, appeased that request. No one seemed to care that there hadn’t been a Lord Winterbourne before. Nor did anyone seem to recognize him as the prince he used to be. Too many people believed whatever they were told, looking no further than for an easy reason to agree and be on their way.

Long minutes he waited in the king’s audience chamber for the man to appear. Servants had offered to take his luggage to a room for him, but he refused to let the case out of his sight, keeping it beside his chair instead. It contained the Gray Blade, and he would not risk its theft or discovery.

Drystan tapped a slow rhythm with the toe of his boot on the elaborate rug while he waited, the only thing keeping him sane. Even his beast paced within him, impatient and uncertain.

Finally, the door groaned open, and the king entered, waving off his guard who waited outside the doors. Killing him now would be possible—risky, but possible. However, it would ensure his own demise, and he wouldn’t have the chance to dismantle the damage the king wrought during his horrible, albeit short, reign. For true success, he needed more, something public, damning—an act he wasn’t quite sure of yet but would search out every moment until he found it.

Drystan jumped to his feet and dropped into a bow before his uncle, as expected.

“Lord Winterbourne,” the king boomed, smiling all the while, though that was no true indication of a welcome reception. “And back much earlier than I expected, with no staff and few belongings, I hear.”

“Apologies, Your Grace.” He lifted his head but remained standing, the iron dragon pin in proud display upon his chest. “I tired of the dreary winters up north and wished to return to your service. My servants will finish tending the manor and arrive with my things in due time.”

The orders he’d given were quite the opposite: Stay for a few days so as not to draw suspicion. Pack and shut down the manor as they would have upon midwinter and their return to the capital. But then, take the gold he left in the vaults and whatever around the manor could aid them to start a new life. If he was successful, he could refurnish the manor and offer his staff a place with him in the capital, should they choose. If unsuccessful? Well, if a future lord or lady complained about the sparsity of their new residence, they could be damned for all he cared. There would be bigger things to worry about then.

Drystan had no regrets on that front. The only regret was leaving Ceridwen before dawn. But she would have surely begged to go with him if he’d told her or if he had waited until midwinter. How could he refuse her anything? Hopefully the money he left for her family would ease the sting of their parting, even if every moment without her was an agony for him.

“Hmm,” the king mused, slipping into his favorite chair of crimson velvet and gold-painted wood. “I suppose the north is quite dull at the best of times. And my son, is he not with you?”

“Prince Alistair wished to remain a few days longer.”

“That boy.” The king tsked before pursing his lips. “Always ignoring his duties.”

For all that he was a monster in truth, the king’s fair looks, ones so similar to Drystan’s father, still unnerved him. His dark hair, liberally streaked with gray, fell just the same way his father’s had. They shared the same strong jaw and nose, as well as the bright-blueeyes that Drystan inherited also. It would be easy to believe the best of him, if one didn’t know the heinous acts he committed, a fact he used to his advantage with commoners and nobles alike.

“Though I will say, the reports I’ve received from my son thus far have been most assuring, as well as your own. That mayor up there though, whatever his name is”—he waved a dismissive hand through the air—“loves to send his complaints.”

Damn it.Drystan’s jaw stiffened. He knew the mayor would find a way to cause him trouble.

“Complaints about a beast stalking citizens?” The king arched a dark brow. His ring-decked fingers steepled in front of him.

“Apologies, Your Grace,” Drystan forced out. “I thought it best to keep my skills in practice so that I may be of service to you. However, I have been most discreet in that and my stay in Teneboure.”

The king crossed his legs, the top one bouncing a bit. He never could sit still. “Good, I’ll have use of them. More of his complaints were about your inability to kill it.” He laughed. “Ironic that? He also confirmed that you were quite…absent from society.”

Drystan shifted slightly in his seat, unsure how to take the king’s upbeat mood. It could be a sign of acceptance or the taunt of a viper waiting to sink in its teeth. “All with your reign in mind, my king. I offended you by accidentally being seen and confused for someone I was not.” To the king, Tristram was dead. He created Lord Winterbourne, but Drystan picked out his own first name to go with the title. Still, it was best not to annoy him by making any reference to his shamed nephew. “I thought it best to keep well out of sight and let my title and mere presence in their city placate the citizens. I hope I have not displeased you in this.”

The pandering, the constant need to appease the king’s ego, tasted foul on his tongue, but such words were necessary. With one word, the king could order a real execution this time, and his efforts at revenge would be for naught.

“No, you did well.” The king stood once more, pacing slowly in front of his chair. “I don’t care what one upstart mayor thinks.” He paused, tapping a finger on his lip. “Perhaps I’ll have him replaced with someone more…docile. In any case, settle in today and rest from your travels. I may have need of your services, so your return is timely.”

“Oh? And how may I be of service?” Drystan asked, hoping to appear conspiratorial.

The king smirked. “I’m to have a midwinter party, and a few nobles have rejected my invitation. Can you imagine that?”

“No, Your Grace.” He certainly could, especially if they favored the light. But a party? Now that could be an interesting opportunity. “Who would reject such an invitation?”

“Who indeed,” the king echoed. “One claimed illness or such nonsense, but still, I may need your assistance aiding some of your fellow dragons in convincing them. It wouldn’t look good if the party isn’t crowded. You understand, of course.”

“Yes, Your Grace.”A large crowd…If only he could find a way to expose the king’s true nature to them.

“Well then, we shall talk tomorrow.” Without a backward glance, the king left the room.

Drystan smiled broadly. The Goddess blessed him twofold, first sparing him from the king’s ire and, secondly, giving him the seed of a plan.

Chapter 45

Ceridwen

---