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Authors: Diane Stanley
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the dining porch, which she hadn’t even noticed before, was ablaze with little lamps—the light glinting off the gold frames of the dining couches, casting its warm glow over the ancient frescoes on the walls, picking up the sheen of purple silk cushions, and spilling out onto the walkway beyond, right to the garden’s edge.
Suddenly Alaric came to a halt and froze in a defensive posture: leaning forward, his hands slightly raised and away from his sides as if ready to draw a sword that wasn’t there. At the same moment, Molly felt his fear pass over her like an icy draft from an open door. What had he seen that had caused him such alarm?
She squinted intently at the room—searching, searching—but nothing seemed the least bit threatening. The other six diners were already there, sitting on the benchlike couches: three and three, across from one another. And a few servants were bustling about, making last-minute preparations. But that was all.
Then something told her to look at the diners themselves.
From left to right she scanned the faces. First couch: a young boy, next to him King Gonzalo, and then the princess. Middle couch: empty, waiting for them. Third couch: older boy, vaguely familiar . . .
And then, for the second time that night, she felt the little hairs rise all over her skin. Because the next face she came to was more than vaguely familiar. It belonged to King Reynard of Austlind.
Tobias had spotted him too. He gasped and grabbed Molly’s arm.
“I know,” she whispered. Her mind was racing now, trying to put all the pieces together but finding that they didn’t quite fit. Because if Alaric was wrong and the two kings really were colluding to murder him—maybe the plan was to split Westria between them—why show their hand so openly? It was careless and sloppy. And that didn’t sound like Reynard.
Unless he had insisted on being there so he could watch his cousin die. Now, that Molly could believe. Because Alaric had been the innocent cause of the most shameful, humiliating failure of King Reynard’s life.
It had been some time after the night of the wolves. The royal family of Westria had all been slain—except for Alaric, who had disappeared and was presumed to have drowned in the course of his escape. So Reynard had declared the prince dead, claimed the throne on legitimate grounds, and was already planning his coronation when along came Alaric, very much alive, riding down that hill to the walls of Dethemere Castle, followed by half the kingdom. And there he’d stood—just a boy, really, all of sixteen, with unkempt hair and slept-in clothes, his handsome face glowing like the sun—calling up to his cousin on the ramparts, asking Reynard to open the gates and acknowledge him as the rightful king of Westria.
Reynard had laughed.
It was Molly who’d given Alaric the idea that had sent his cousin packing. It had been clever, and it had worked. But that victory had come at a heavy price because Reynard, like any wounded animal, was far more dangerous now. For a proud man to have been bested by a boy young enough to be his own son, to have been frightened away by some story about a family curse so that he’d run home to Austlind with his tail between his legs—oh, how that must have chafed at his spirit this past eighteen months and more. How deep and bitter must his hatred have grown!
Yes, Reynard would want to be there to see the knife go in. He might even wish to do the deed himself.
“Your Grace?” It was one of the slaves, who didn’t understand why they had stopped. “Please, won’t you come? My lord King Gonzalo is waiting.”
“Of course,” Alaric said.
As they emerged from the darkness of the garden into the light from the porch, Gonzalo leaped up from his couch and came out to greet them, his arms outstretched like a fond uncle.
“Welcome, welcome!” he cried. “Isn’t this a grand evening? Come—join the party!”
But Molly wasn’t paying
Suddenly Alaric came to a halt and froze in a defensive posture: leaning forward, his hands slightly raised and away from his sides as if ready to draw a sword that wasn’t there. At the same moment, Molly felt his fear pass over her like an icy draft from an open door. What had he seen that had caused him such alarm?
She squinted intently at the room—searching, searching—but nothing seemed the least bit threatening. The other six diners were already there, sitting on the benchlike couches: three and three, across from one another. And a few servants were bustling about, making last-minute preparations. But that was all.
Then something told her to look at the diners themselves.
From left to right she scanned the faces. First couch: a young boy, next to him King Gonzalo, and then the princess. Middle couch: empty, waiting for them. Third couch: older boy, vaguely familiar . . .
And then, for the second time that night, she felt the little hairs rise all over her skin. Because the next face she came to was more than vaguely familiar. It belonged to King Reynard of Austlind.
Tobias had spotted him too. He gasped and grabbed Molly’s arm.
“I know,” she whispered. Her mind was racing now, trying to put all the pieces together but finding that they didn’t quite fit. Because if Alaric was wrong and the two kings really were colluding to murder him—maybe the plan was to split Westria between them—why show their hand so openly? It was careless and sloppy. And that didn’t sound like Reynard.
Unless he had insisted on being there so he could watch his cousin die. Now, that Molly could believe. Because Alaric had been the innocent cause of the most shameful, humiliating failure of King Reynard’s life.
It had been some time after the night of the wolves. The royal family of Westria had all been slain—except for Alaric, who had disappeared and was presumed to have drowned in the course of his escape. So Reynard had declared the prince dead, claimed the throne on legitimate grounds, and was already planning his coronation when along came Alaric, very much alive, riding down that hill to the walls of Dethemere Castle, followed by half the kingdom. And there he’d stood—just a boy, really, all of sixteen, with unkempt hair and slept-in clothes, his handsome face glowing like the sun—calling up to his cousin on the ramparts, asking Reynard to open the gates and acknowledge him as the rightful king of Westria.
Reynard had laughed.
It was Molly who’d given Alaric the idea that had sent his cousin packing. It had been clever, and it had worked. But that victory had come at a heavy price because Reynard, like any wounded animal, was far more dangerous now. For a proud man to have been bested by a boy young enough to be his own son, to have been frightened away by some story about a family curse so that he’d run home to Austlind with his tail between his legs—oh, how that must have chafed at his spirit this past eighteen months and more. How deep and bitter must his hatred have grown!
Yes, Reynard would want to be there to see the knife go in. He might even wish to do the deed himself.
“Your Grace?” It was one of the slaves, who didn’t understand why they had stopped. “Please, won’t you come? My lord King Gonzalo is waiting.”
“Of course,” Alaric said.
As they emerged from the darkness of the garden into the light from the porch, Gonzalo leaped up from his couch and came out to greet them, his arms outstretched like a fond uncle.
“Welcome, welcome!” he cried. “Isn’t this a grand evening? Come—join the party!”
But Molly wasn’t paying
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