Page 8 of The Cursed Crown

Prince Tharsen was High Queen Una’s own son, raised to take over as high king of Denarhelm. The year he was supposed to take the crown from his aging mother, a terrible sickness ravaged the land, killing thousands of folk. The prince used all of his magic to fight it, till he was so depleted he would have died. His mother managed to save his life, but he never woke.

Many attempts were made on his life, so the queen had his body removed to the mounts of Kreferdor, deep in the Wilderness, where no ambitious heir could reach him, until he could acquire enough energy to be reawakened.

She died soon after, leaving the throne vacant—and vacant it had remained since.

Prince Tharsen had slept for almost two thousand years.

“Is it?” Rydekar asked.

She couldn’t even begin to read his features when he was this quiet, this calculated, but for some reason, Rissa had a feeling that he was angry again.

No, not angry this time. His anger had felt like a hot, smoldering embrace, ready to consume her.

This was cold.

This was…worse.

“The lords would bow to Tharsen,” Rissa insisted. “They’d rally to him. If anyone can defend our land, it’s a prince raised to lead our armies.”

“Hm.” Rydekar was a tomb.

Until now, his presence had been a force taking over the whole meadow. He was gone, his eyes vacant. Indifferent.

“I could go.” Animated, Rissa nodded. She was growing more and more convinced by the minute, and she desperately wanted Rydekar to agree with her, though she’d be hard-pressed to explain why. “I could wake him. It’d be best for everyone.”

The king’s darker warrior remained out of the meadow, but his voice traveled the distance with ease. He must have been taught the art of oration, like most noble children. “Princess, Tharsen’s as north as it goes, behind a hundred tribes of wild folk, the Hunt, and dragons, if rumors are right.” He chuckled, shaking his head. “You wouldn’t manage it. Not with an army. There’s a reason no one has attempted to seek him out yet.”

Rissa glared at him. “No one has attempted to seek him out because the lords didn’t want or need a king until now.” She turned to Rydekar. “If the situation is as desperate as you say it is, Tharsen is your best hope. And I won’t need an army. I’ll go alone.” She lifted her chin. “I’m a nightmare.”

Nightmares, ormara, were an old kind of folk—one of the first to ever roam the lands. There were few of them left, and all of them lived in the Wilderness.

Except her.

Rydekar snorted. “A half-nightmare, at best.” He paused. “But I suppose the wild folk may not attack you on sight. If you wish to go north, I cannot stop you.”

Part of her wanted to point out he couldn’t stop her from doing anything at all. He wasn’t her king, or anything else to her. But the memory of the way he’d made her come to him, his violet eyes brightening as the compulsion moved her limbs, made her shut her mouth.

Choose your battles wisely, Rissa.Now wasn’t the time to push him again. “I’m not asking for your blessing.”

“Excellent. You do not have it.”

Infuriating man.

“We’ll play this game, as you insist. Go north. Find your lord and savior.” There was something dark in his voice. “Let him steal the crown from you, if you so wish. But first, you’ll travel with me to the Old Keep. Already, seelie folk are coming to us for shelter or guidance. The lords have sent ambassadors. Youwillstand beside me, and present a united front to your people and mine, so that the world sees you’re fighting this war with us. It’ll go a long way to smooth the relationship between our two kingdoms. Do this, and I’ll provide whatever support necessary for your journey.”

She considered each word.

More orders. Rissa didn’t like his tone, but she supposed the arrogant bastard couldn’t help it. He was used to people jumping at the snap of his fingers.

“Fine,” she finally said. So long as there was no more talk of slapping a crown on her head, she was winning. “But you’re going to have to stop ordering me around if you want people to believe I have any sort of authority.”

Rydekar snorted. “I’ll give that all due consideration.”

That was a no, then.

“You’re a bastard, Rydekar Bane.”

He snorted. “With any luck, you’re right.”

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