Read Online Siege: A Borrowed Magic Novella by Shari Lambert - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Shari Lambert
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temporarily
pushed away the smell of mildew, her heart ached for all that had
been lost. For all that had been destroyed.
And yet, there was hope. She saw smiles on
the faces around her. Laughter even broke through the terrified
silence that had suffocated the kingdom over the past two and a
half years. There were repairs to be done, buildings to rebuild,
but it could be done. Things could go back to the way they
were – her thoughts strayed to the man who waited behind the closed
doors – at least most things.
Daric led the small procession to the front
of the room, took Adare’s hand in his, and smiled at the waiting
crowd. At twenty-seven, he was relatively young for a king. He
wasn’t, however, inexperienced. He’d inherited the throne of
Tredare at sixteen, after Lord Kern had murdered his father.
Daric’s first task had been to capture Kern, seal him in a tomb,
and leave him to die – or whatever it was black mages did. It had
taken two long years, after which the entire kingdom breathed a
sigh of relief. Only Kern had escaped six years later, vowing
revenge on Daric and taking the city hostage. Through it all, Maren
had watched Daric struggle to hold the kingdom together.
She looked at him now, staring out over the
crowd. Over the past three days, the worry lines around his eyes
and across his forehead had softened. They’d never be completely
gone. Some heartaches, some losses, left a permanent mark. But at
least that pain faded. Before she knew it, he’d be teasing her
again. Just like he had for years.
A footman signaled it was time, and she knew
this was her last chance to escape. It would have been the easier
decision. But Adare was right. She’d have to face him sometime.
A second later the doors at the end of the
hall opened, and two men stepped forward, one slightly in front of
the other.
Maren’s breath caught as her eyes glued to
the man in front. Philip. He walked with his shoulders straight and
head held high. His eyes never wavered from his king, apparently
unaware of the murmurs from the crowd on either side.
He’d chosen to wear black, the silver sword
hanging comfortably at his side the only exception. His dark hair
was shorter, his features older, more defined, but his eyes were as
brown as she remembered – like rich soil after the rain. Even his
walk was familiar, the firm, confident stride of a soldier. He was
the handsomest man she’d ever met. Three years had only emphasized
that. He was no longer an adolescent bordering on adulthood. He was
a man. Twenty-three years old and hero of a nation.
Her heart lodged somewhere in her throat and
she forced herself not to flee. Instead she took a step back and
lowered her head, hoping to go unnoticed as long as possible.
Philip reached the end of the carpet and
bowed low. Then he drew his sword, knelt, and presented it to
Daric. “I offer you my allegiance, My King.”
She closed her eyes as a wave of nostalgia
overcame her. His voice evoked too many memories, and even the good
ones brought pain. She mentally shook herself. Today wasn’t about
her. It was about a kingdom that had every reason to celebrate.
Daric took the sword from Philip’s
outstretched hand before presenting it back to him, hilt first. “I
accept your allegiance, Lord Philip, and offer you the gra—”
“How do we know we can trust him?!”
The crowd looked around in confusion,
searching for the person who dared interrupt the king.
He stood on the base of a pillar at the back
of the room. His hair was unruly and stuck out in all directions.
His face was as dirty as his clothing, and there was a slightly
unbalanced look in his eye.
“How do we know Kern is really dead?” The man
pointed an accusing finger at Philip. “That he , Kern’s own
son, really killed him? He doesn’t have magic. How could he do what
no one else could?”
She’d wondered the same thing over the past
few days, but Maren’s immediate reaction was to defend Philip –
even
pushed away the smell of mildew, her heart ached for all that had
been lost. For all that had been destroyed.
And yet, there was hope. She saw smiles on
the faces around her. Laughter even broke through the terrified
silence that had suffocated the kingdom over the past two and a
half years. There were repairs to be done, buildings to rebuild,
but it could be done. Things could go back to the way they
were – her thoughts strayed to the man who waited behind the closed
doors – at least most things.
Daric led the small procession to the front
of the room, took Adare’s hand in his, and smiled at the waiting
crowd. At twenty-seven, he was relatively young for a king. He
wasn’t, however, inexperienced. He’d inherited the throne of
Tredare at sixteen, after Lord Kern had murdered his father.
Daric’s first task had been to capture Kern, seal him in a tomb,
and leave him to die – or whatever it was black mages did. It had
taken two long years, after which the entire kingdom breathed a
sigh of relief. Only Kern had escaped six years later, vowing
revenge on Daric and taking the city hostage. Through it all, Maren
had watched Daric struggle to hold the kingdom together.
She looked at him now, staring out over the
crowd. Over the past three days, the worry lines around his eyes
and across his forehead had softened. They’d never be completely
gone. Some heartaches, some losses, left a permanent mark. But at
least that pain faded. Before she knew it, he’d be teasing her
again. Just like he had for years.
A footman signaled it was time, and she knew
this was her last chance to escape. It would have been the easier
decision. But Adare was right. She’d have to face him sometime.
A second later the doors at the end of the
hall opened, and two men stepped forward, one slightly in front of
the other.
Maren’s breath caught as her eyes glued to
the man in front. Philip. He walked with his shoulders straight and
head held high. His eyes never wavered from his king, apparently
unaware of the murmurs from the crowd on either side.
He’d chosen to wear black, the silver sword
hanging comfortably at his side the only exception. His dark hair
was shorter, his features older, more defined, but his eyes were as
brown as she remembered – like rich soil after the rain. Even his
walk was familiar, the firm, confident stride of a soldier. He was
the handsomest man she’d ever met. Three years had only emphasized
that. He was no longer an adolescent bordering on adulthood. He was
a man. Twenty-three years old and hero of a nation.
Her heart lodged somewhere in her throat and
she forced herself not to flee. Instead she took a step back and
lowered her head, hoping to go unnoticed as long as possible.
Philip reached the end of the carpet and
bowed low. Then he drew his sword, knelt, and presented it to
Daric. “I offer you my allegiance, My King.”
She closed her eyes as a wave of nostalgia
overcame her. His voice evoked too many memories, and even the good
ones brought pain. She mentally shook herself. Today wasn’t about
her. It was about a kingdom that had every reason to celebrate.
Daric took the sword from Philip’s
outstretched hand before presenting it back to him, hilt first. “I
accept your allegiance, Lord Philip, and offer you the gra—”
“How do we know we can trust him?!”
The crowd looked around in confusion,
searching for the person who dared interrupt the king.
He stood on the base of a pillar at the back
of the room. His hair was unruly and stuck out in all directions.
His face was as dirty as his clothing, and there was a slightly
unbalanced look in his eye.
“How do we know Kern is really dead?” The man
pointed an accusing finger at Philip. “That he , Kern’s own
son, really killed him? He doesn’t have magic. How could he do what
no one else could?”
She’d wondered the same thing over the past
few days, but Maren’s immediate reaction was to defend Philip –
even
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