“What’s the matter?” Sestian asked, taking a bite of bread. “Not hungry?”
Eric shook his head. “I can’t eat.”
Sestian’s eyes narrowed with concern. “Why not?”
“I found out about an hour ago Trog, and I are heading to Avaleen tomorrow.”
Sestian’s gaze fixed upon Eric. “What? Why?”
Eric folded his arms on the table and spoke just above a whisper. “I’m to spend the next twelve days in combat training with the mages.”
Sestian sputtered, almost choking on his food. “What?” he whispered back, his eyes wide with disbelief. He put down his napkin. “No one our age trains with the mages!”
“You sound almost jealous,” Eric said. “I’ll be more than happy to let you go in my place.”
“No, no, that’s not what I meant. This is incredible! Who will be your master?”
Eric kept his expression bland. “Mangus Grythorn.”
Sestian caught his breath for a moment and let it go. “The general of the mage army? Jared’s right arm?”
“One and the same.” Eric swallowed his wine in one gulp.
“B-but. That man is a lethal weapon, more so than Trog!”
“Thanks, Sestian. You’re doing a fine job making me feel better.” Eric sat back, his arms folded tight to his chest.
“This is insane,” said Sestian. “That man has the power to kill you with a look. Why would Jared hand over his top advisor and right-hand man to train you?”
“Do you have to say it like that?”
“You know what I meant. I wonder if it has something to do with the paladin.”
“I doubt it. I think Trog feels he’s taught me all he can.”
“That’s a load of dragon dung, and you know it,” Sestian said. “You could spend a lifetime with Trog and never learn all he knows. No. There’s something more to this. They must have hand-picked you for something.”
“Like what? An early death?”
Sestian patted Eric’s back. “You’re going to be fine. I’m sure Trog won’t let him scar up that pretty face of yours too bad.” An infectious grin spread across his face.
Eric smiled despite himself. “I’ll show off my battle wounds when I return.”
“I’d expect nothing less. Now eat. You’re going to need it.”
***
The festivities continued in the adjoining ballroom where the royal couple initiated the first dance of the evening. Eric leaned against a marble column and watched, thankful to be a spectator. His contentment was short-lived when Trog arrived with Lady Emelia on his arm.
“Eric, I think you have met Lady Emelia, Lord Cameron’s daughter.” He gestured to the center of the room. “Why don’t you take her for a dance?”
Lady Emelia smirked as she twirled a red ringlet around her finger. “Hello, Eric.” She linked her gloved arm in his. “Shall we?”
Eric’s insides boiled as he moved onto the dance floor. “I see you used your position to once again get what you want.”
She laughed in his ear. “I always get what I want, haven’t you noticed?”
“You won’t get me.”
“Ahh, but I have you now, don’t I?” Her words brushed across his ear like a warm summer breeze laced with slivers of glass.
Unfortunately.
The music ended, and everyone clapped.
Eric bowed and escorted Lady Emelia to her father and exchanged a few moments of necessary pleasantries. Afterward, he returned to the dais where he bid goodnight to the royal couple. Trog caught up with him in the courtyard.
“I don’t recall giving you permission to leave.”
Eric continued walking, his temper ready to explode. “I didn’t think I needed your permission. I excused myself from the king and queen, as is proper etiquette.”
“But it is not proper protocol. You know what I require of you.”
Eric whipped around. “And am I required to be your pawn to move around at will, forced to do what you wish?”
“You were disrespectful to Lady Emelia at the festival.”
“Me? Disrespectful to her? That spoiled cat?”
“Regardless of your personal feelings toward her, she is still a lady of this court.”
“She’s a snobbish tart,” Eric snarled. “Her snout is stuck so far up in the air I’m surprised she doesn’t suffer nosebleeds. You should have seen the way she ogled me like I was some prize at a fair. She walks and dances like an ass, and her face is in a constant state of puckered haughtiness. She is impertinent and would illuminate any room simply by leaving it!”
Trog stared at him hard. “Those words are most unbefitting of a future knight.”
“I don’t care. She’s unbefitting of the title she holds.”
“You had better care, Eric. She is, after all, of the queen’s blood.”
Eric gritted his teeth. “Just because she holds some distant and unlikely title to the throne means nothing to me. I will not be forced to engage in activities with a haughty, twittering, little bird whose only purpose in life is to wed and produce more twittering canaries!”
Trog jabbed his finger into Eric’s chest. “You need to watch what you say and think. The very soul you loathe may be the one to save your hide someday.”
“I shall ponder that thought as I prepare for our trip tomorrow. Now, if you don’t mind, I’m going to bed.”
Trog’s nostrils flared like a horse’s after a taxing run. “I expect you to be ready to leave at first light.”
***
Eric retired to his chambers, his brain too busy and irritated to sleep. The day’s events monopolized all of his time and the incidents with Lady Emelia served only to twist every nerve in his body into tightly wound knots. He clenched his fists and cursed her name each time he paced by his windows. Because of her, he and Sestian had lost track of the mages. Because of her, they never found out whether the paladin arrived. Because of her, there was now a rift between Trog and him that wasn’t there before. The girl was trouble. She needed to go away. Far, far away.
Eric sat at the foot of his bed and stared at the floor. A knock at the door broke him from his thoughts. The door inched open, and King Gildore peered inside.
“You mind if I come in?”
Eric stood and bowed. “No, sire. Please.” He scurried about the room, picking up his clothes. “I’m sorry about the mess. With everything going on today, I didn’t get a chance—”
“I’m not here to lecture you on the cleanliness of your room, Eric.” Gildore’s eyes held a fatherly gentleness, his lips a warm smile. “Please, sit. I’d like to chat with you for a moment.” He sat in a high-backed upholstered chair.
Eric dropped the clothes in a basket and returned to his bed. “Have I done something wrong, Your Majesty?”
Gildore chuckled. “No, no, lad, not at all. You seemed out of sorts, even a bit angry when you said your goodnights. I thought perhaps you could use a good listening ear. Was I mistaken?”
Eric breathed a giant sigh. “No, sire, you weren’t mistaken. Does Sir Trogsdill know you’re here?”
“Would it matter if he did?”
Eric paused for a moment then shook his head, his eyes turned downward. “No, I suppose not.”
“If it makes you feel easier, I’m not in the habit of telling my knights, even those closest to me, where I go while in my own home.” He smiled as Eric’s gaze met his. “Talk to me, son.”
Eric opened his mouth, and his frustration poured out of him as he explained Trog’s infuriating hold on him, the constant pressure for Eric to be perfect in everything he did; his need to prove his worth to a man who deemed him to have none.
Gildore nodded, and when Eric finished, he said, “How well I can relate to what you say. Try not to hold it against him. He only wants what is best for you.” The man stood, walked over to Eric, and sat next to him on the bed. “He also believes you might be in some trouble
.” The king lifted an eyebrow. “Are you?”
“There are many things Sir Trogsdill believes, sire. That doesn’t make them true.”
Gildore smiled. “Agreed.”
“I’m trying to work something out on my own, that’s all,” Eric continued. “I’d like him to trust me enough to do so.”
Gildore gave Eric’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “I shall try to set his mind at ease.”
“Thank you.” Eric bowed.
“Let’s get together when you return from Avaleen,” Gildore said. “We’ll swap stories from the past year.”
“I look forward to it, my lord.”
Gildore turned and walked out of the room, closing the door behind him.
Eric undressed down to his under tunic and breeches and fell into bed. Thoughts of the upcoming trip to Avaleen left him more than anxious. Perhaps Sestian was right. Maybe there was more to this trip than Trog let on. After all, mages were trolling Hammershire. A paladin was due to arrive any day. In a few hours, he would leave for the mage city to engage in what could only be military strategic warfare training with a man whose mere presence shattered his nerves.
Eric closed his eyes and pushed the thoughts aside, forcing his mind to focus on the music and laughter floating up from the courtyard.
A brisk breeze tinged with a hint of rain wafted through the open doors of the balcony as an echoing storm rumbled to the east. Chilled, he pulled the brocade covers over his shoulders, growing drowsy as a resonating purr boiled up, distinct and separate, from the growl of thunder. His weary mind whispered of an unseen threat and cast an image of living darkness crawling along the shadowed edge of the Northern Forest, waiting. Eric squinted the vision away and buried his head under his pillow. Tomorrow, he would come face-to-face with a killer more dangerous than Trog. The last thing he needed was an overactive imagination.
Chapter 6
David tossed the sketchpad to the foot of his bed. His head throbbed. His mind struggled to sort through the chaos flying around inside. For hours, he’d sat hunched over, his fingers tapping the keyboard, searching for the location of Fallhollow and possible meanings of the tattoo and ring. Only once did he venture downstairs to collect an armful of snacks and a six-pack of Coke. From the staircase, he spotted Lily in the library, an oversized, black, leather-bound book clutched to her chest. He’d never seen it before, and her protectiveness stirred more than curiosity. He made a mental note to go back and look for it.
It wasn’t until the sky burned with a brilliant sunset that David stood and swept the dark strands from his eyes. He texted Charlotte, desperate to get out of the house, but she babbled back she was in the middle of doing chores and couldn’t talk. Bored, he logged on to his favorite fantasy game, but the medieval world with its knights and dragons did little to calm his growing apprehension.
“I’ve gotta get out of here.”
A gentle knock sent his nerves skittering.
“David, I’m going to grab a bite to eat. I’d like you to come with me.”
Lily sounded sincere. It might be productive. “Will you tell me what I want to know about my parents?”
There was a pause, not a long one, but enough to give David an answer before she did.
“I can’t, honey. Please, trust me.”
Right. Trust someone who lied to him and continued to keep the truth away.
“I’m sorry, Lily. I can’t.”
Silence.
“Okay,” she finally said. Disappointment flooded through the closed door.
David pulled his knees to his chest and buried his face in his arms. If only she would talk to him. If only she would acknowledge the betrayal.
If only his parents had never left.
His car rumbled down the drive. He jogged downstairs, desperate to feel the cold air on his face. To feel his skin freeze. That pain would be far easier to deal with than the ripping apart of his heart and soul.
He pulled down on the front door’s handle.
The door didn’t budge.
He entered the code into the security panel, but the red light stared back at him in mocking indignation.
A frustrated growl ripped from his throat. “Really, Lily? You changed the frigging code?”
He banged his fist on the door and sprinted upstairs. Back and forth he paced, clenching and unclenching his fist. It was bad enough she’d lied to him, but to keep him a prisoner in his own home?
He paused beside two black-and-white photographs on the wall, each paired with its newspaper article. The first: his father dressed in flight gear with a lopsided grin on his face, standing beside an F-18. The headline: ‘Decorated Air Force Pilot, Edward Heiland, Lost in Tragic Accident’. David knew the article by heart: a training mission in the Gulf of Mexico. Two planes collided. His father’s body never recovered.
His gaze flitted to the second frame, a photo of his mom in a floral dress, a contagious smile accentuating her sparkling eyes. The headline: ‘Havendale Mourns the Loss of Widowed Philanthropist, Jillian Ashley Day Heiland—Infant Son to Inherit Millions’. According to the article, she’d died within hours of his birth.
But it was a lie. All of it. David swallowed the raw emotion choking his throat. He fought against the anguish, desperately wanting not to feel the torment. They’d left him, abandoned him, never wishing to be found. He clutched the bedpost.
Heartache pushed its way up, twisting and turning his insides. His bottom lip trembled. Why? Why had they left him? What could have been so bad they couldn’t take him with them?
He took a breath and tried to rationalize, considering the puzzle piece by piece. Lily said they’d loved him. He knew Lily was afraid, afraid of him dying if he went where they were. If that was true, perhaps they were protecting him, but from what? He sat on the bed, the drawing of the dragon and his parents staring back at him. Enormous waves of energy and feelings crashed over him, suffocating him. Drowning him.
Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony filtered through the pool of emotions. His stomach fluttered. He closed his eyes, swam to the surface and answered his phone.
“Hey, Char.” He wiped a stray tear from his cheek.
“David! David! Oh my gosh!”
His heart leaped, almost stopped. “Charlotte, what’s wrong? Are you all right?”
She sucked in a deep breath. “David.”
Her sobs sucked years from his life. His nerves shattered. “Char, calm down. Take a deep breath and tell me what’s happened.”
Her voice lowered to a whisper, her words broken. “Mr. Loudermilk—Mrs. Fenton. They—they want to— ”
“They want to what, Char? Slow down.”
Charlotte inhaled, her breath so deep David thought for sure she’d inhale him through the phone. She paused for a moment. “Okay, okay.” She exhaled. “I was outside about to roll the garbage cans to the curb when I heard Mr. Loudermilk and Mrs. Fenton talking in her backyard. Mrs. Fenton was arguing with him, telling him she didn’t care if some guy named Bainesworth owed Mr. Loudermilk favors. She was tired and wanted to go home. Then she got all pissy. She threatened him. She told him if he betrayed her, she’d cut him from navel to nose. Then she wanted to know when they’d find out if you were the one, and how long would they have to wait to get rid of you. Mr. Loudermilk got all snarky and told her to shut up, and there would be hell to pay if she messed everything up. He said they’d know soon enough about you, at which time he would inform somebody called His Greatness, and they would go from there.”
“His Greatness.” David rubbed his forehead. “Who the heck is His Greatness?”
“Really, David? Is that all you got out of that?” Charlotte blew her nose in his ear. “Don’t you understand? They want to get rid of you.”
David stared at the floor and swallowed, hard. “Yeah. Right. That.”
“D-do you think we should call the cops?”
“And tell them what?”
“I don’t kn
ow. Maybe the truth?”
“And it would be their word against yours.”
“So, we’re going to do nothing?”
“I don’t know what we’re going to do, Char.” He washed his palm over his face.
“We’ll figure it out when I get there.”
“No!” Visions of dark shadows assaulting her swarmed in his mind. “Stay where you are. Lily changed the security codes. The house is on lockdown.”
A sigh of relief reached his ears. “Oh, good.”
“Good for who? I’m a prisoner in my home.”
“Maybe, but if you can’t get out, they can’t get in.”
She had a point. He didn’t like it, but she had a point. “Whatever,” David said. “I’m gonna go. Keep your doors locked, too. We’ll talk later.”
“Okay. Make sure you tell Lily about our neighbors. Maybe she can find out what’s going on.”
Yeah, like the Grand Betrayer would do anything to help him figure out the insanity brewing around him.
“Bye, Charlotte. Love you.” The words tumbled out without thinking, but it didn’t matter. She’d already hung up.
David tossed the phone on his bed and stared at the floor, his hands clasped behind his neck. The empty house creaked around him. The pipes gurgled. The wind moaned, and the tree branches clawed at the sides of the house. Downstairs, the grandfather clock in the parlor struck seven. David shut his eyes to the four walls of his prison and collapsed from sheer exhaustion.
Chapter 7
Eric woke to the sound of heated voices.
He stole across the room and pressed his ear to the door connecting to Trog’s room.
“Why? Why don’t you tell him the truth?” the queen said. “He is a bright boy. He deserves to know.”
“We have been over this a hundred times, my queen,” Trog said. “He must remain protected.”
In the Shadow of the Dragon King Page 6
