Page 48 of Water Dragon
“We’re not going anywhere,” Ewan stated, too used to the power of his station to simply fold to a request, no matter the power the one making it held.
Iona gave him a look to comply, but Ewan was too focused on Leon.
“I think that you will,” Leon said.
Eyes rounded with misgivings, people watched from the balconies, from behind the broken lecterns, from between the upturned tent, and from the tents still standing. Highborn and lowborn, knights and servants alike. The tension rose as Ewan held Leon’s gaze.
Iona felt the sword lift slightly from the ground as she’d gotten her foot underneath it. Gently, gently she tried to lift her knee in order to raise it further. She wouldn’t be able to wield it against the sorcerer, but perhaps if he was distracted, she could fight off a guard with the blade, make a run for it, and find Maize. Dosomething…
“That won’t serve you,” Leon said, eyes still on Ewan. “Let me take it,” he added and with a flick of his wrist the sword flew out from where she had hidden it and straight into his waiting hand.
Malcolm took another step forward.
“This is what is happening,” Leon stated, voice loud as he addressed everyone watching. “There is going to be a transfer of power, and things are going to change around here.”
“No,” Malcolm said.
“So defiant, these princelings,” Leon shook his head. “For centuries, I have watched you all grow into the same mindless pandering as your parents before you. Buying into the idea that you should hold your position simply because your bloodline was chosen. Enough!” he yelled the final word, again addressing everyone listening. “It is not real, can’t you see that? It’s an illusion, and they’ve tricked you for so long that you’ve stopped even considering that something better might be waiting just beyond it. Aren’t you ready to find out?” He turned his gaze on Ewan. “Aren’t you?” he added.
Iona could tell that Ewan stiffened. Leon could as well, that small smile playing on his mouth.
“Let me tell you a story about a prince who didn’t want to be king,” Leon said to the assembled crowd.
“Leon,” Ewan said. “Stop.”
But Leon wouldn’t. Swinging the sheathed sword in his hand in a practiced loop before he spread his arms wide, inviting everyone in to listen, he said, “Ewan of Rogoros dreams of becoming a carpenter. He doesn’t like the idea of having such grave responsibility placed on him. He doesn’t believe he will be able to lead as well as his father has. He wants, more than anything else, to remain free of the restraints that come with the crown. Restraints that make it harder to spend his days doing what he loves best and transforms his days into ones of endlessly ordered scheduled meetings. Does he deserve to rule when he cares so little for it?”
Ewan took a step forward, but Malcolm grabbed his arm.
“You’re simplifying truths I spoke to you in confidence,” Ewan gritted out between clenched teeth.
Leon looked at him with unmasked disdain. “You will not make a leader, Ewan, because you have not been shaped into one. Instead, your father relies on the magic of your bloodline to sort you out. Power, you see, is what it’s all about and, once you have it, your kingdom will fall in line no matter how much of a disappointment you might be in the eyes of those meant to follow you.”
“As my father has not, I doubt King Shawn has neglected Ewan’s education,” Malcolm cut in. “This all sounds like convenient fallacies for you to believe in so that you can continue on with this insane scheme of yours. Telling yourself that all we care about is the power the elemental magic affords us, when deep down, you know that being a Keeper, though it may not be chosen, is the deepest honor of our lifetime. Would you put it to the people?”
“What?” Leon asked with a slight frown.
Malcolm saw his chance and addressed the crowd with his voice raised, “Would you put it to a vote? Would you let the people choose who should wield the elemental magic?”
Leon stared at him, then his mouth twitched into a smile, finally he gave a hearty laugh. Shaking his head, he replied simply, “No.”
The sound of heavy footsteps made Iona tense and, when the soldiers came into view, she realized it was much too late. They were much too late.
Chapter 13 - Malcolm
Malcolm refused to linger by the bars of his cell. Instead, he leaned against the wall, as far away from them as possible, while Sir Patrick slowly walked down the corridor. He was surveying the prisoners, hands on his back, a smug look on his face. He stopped outside Malcolm’s cell, lingered, eyes sweeping over him before he simply walked on. Malcolm didn’t buy into the dismissal. They were watching him closely, monitoring whether the binding spell was holding.
He could feel it now that he was ever more aware of what it meant, like spider silk through his bloodstream, straining against the flow of magic still there.
He had tried to break free of it more than once, had tried to fight against it, but every time he did, that straining grew harsher and he relented. He was afraid of what might happen if he pushed too hard. Afraid of the power he could feel stirring every time he did. Was it being seduced by Leon’s presence? Was the magic turning on them?
The sound of Sir Patrick’s footfall grew fainter as he continued down the corridor, headed for the stairs.
“Mal,” Iona whispered.
“Iona,” he said, pushing away from the wall to walk up to the bars. Leaning against them, he tried to spot her, but it was to no avail. She was in the cell next to his, that much was clear, and it gave him a sliver of comfort to know she was there.
“What should we do?” she asked.
