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Authors: J. Keller Ford
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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
“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
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