Page 38 of Rise of the Phoenix King (Crown and Crest 4)

“You hide it well.”

“What choice do I have?”

What choice does any of us have? This is…horrific. But we can either work past it or hide in a corner. I’ve never been one to cower at Camellia’s feet, and I don’t intend to start now—even if she’s become a true monster.

But that doesn’t mean I’ll be able to sleep tonight, and I doubt Lawrence will either.

10

HENRIK

“You’re coming too?”I ask Ayan as he joins the small party of men I’ve gathered for the arrest, his horse already saddled.

“I don’t have anything better to do,” the elf says. “If Pranmore gets to join you, I don’t see why I can’t.”

Does he think this is a hunting trip I’ve arranged for bored adolescents?

“Pranmore can use wards,” Bartholomew points out. “And you…”

My squire shrugs.

“I can summonfirein the palm of my hand,” Ayan argues.

“Sometimes.” I tighten my horse’s girth strap. “As long as a ralnauth isn’t trying to bite off my leg.”

Ayan tilts his head, studying me with a vague smile. “I feel you may be harboring some resentment toward me, Henrik. Should we talk about it?”

“No.”

The annoying elf laughs. “I outrank you all—I’m going.”

Pranmore is silent throughout the entire exchange. The appearance of the golems unnerved him, but the situation with Camellia threw him into an abyss. He hasn’t even been working on his poetry. He just broods.

“Why are we taking horses when the necromancer lives inside the city?” Bartholomew asks. “Wouldn’t it be easier to arrest him on foot?”

“He might run,” I say. “We must be prepared.”

“He’s already run,” Ayan says.

I make a noise of agreement. “I’ll be surprised if he didn’t. Let’s go.”

There are ten of us—Bartholomew, Pranmore, Ayan, six soldiers, and me. All but Pranmore ride through the streets. The Woodmore walks by our side, the situation not warranting the use of a horse in his opinion.

When we near our quarry, I instruct the men to circle around the shop, blocking exits along the surrounding streets as we make our way to the front. But it’s apparent as soon as we arrive that the necromancer is gone. Even though it’s the middle of the day, the shutters are locked, and a piece of parchment is tacked to the door.

I dismount, climbing the steps to read the notice.

“What’s it say?” Bartholomew asks, joining me.

“He left on urgent business,” I answer, walking down the entry and passing the herb garden. My eyes land on an old man sitting on a porch on the opposite side of the street.

“How long has the apothecary been away?” I call, crossing to him.

The man eyes me and the others. “Since the sham of a royal wedding.”

“He left that night?”

The man nods, and his eyes slide to my arm pennant and medallion. “Seemed like he was in a bit of a hurry.”

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