Page 132 of The Sun King's Noon

The last sound he heard before the dark folded over him was Haldric’s murmur, “I will keep you always, my boy. Always.”

CHAPTER 48

A small hand shook his shoulder hard, then half-choked him by yanking on his collar.

“Brother! Brother, wake up! Quick!”

Richard groaned and rolled onto his back. The pillow smelled of lavender—William had taken to dabbing the oil in the hopes it’d help Richard sleep better.

There was little chance of that when he had an imp of a sister.

Richard hauled the pillow over his head, but Briony wrenched it away. He groaned again and opened his eyes to sunlight pouring through the balcony on his left.

“Briony,” Richard mumbled. “If this is about Squire Isolde again?—”

“No!” Briony was half on top of him, her knee digging into his ribs and her shoes mud-caked. “Hurry, Brother!” She jerked at his arm again. “Father is going to have a fistfight with Dain, and Sister says if we are late, we shall miss the first bloody nose.”

Richard squinted. “Why are they fighting?”

“Because Father said Dain’s punch has softened with age, and Dain said Father’s as slow as a slug.” Briony bounced on her knees. “So they have agreed to prove their skills, and Sister saidshe’d officiate, and Corwin has wagered three sugared buns on Father getting the first punch?—”

“Oh, for—” Richard flung back the covers and swung off the side of the bed. “Find me my dressing gown. The blue one.” He went to the dresser for his circlet, perched atop a velvet cushion. The gold chilled his brow as he settled it into place.

Briony scampered across the rug with the dressing gown, brandishing it high. Richard shrugged it on, knotted the sash, and checked the tall mirror by the dresser.

Something about his reflection nagged at him. Wrong. The black hair looked wrong. The unblemished neck looked wrong. The crown, especially, looked wrong. A prince’s crown—too simple, too weightless?—

“Brother, hurry! Hurry!”

Briony was already in the corridor, hopping from foot to foot, her grin altogether far too excited at the thought of their father brawling, and really, Richard should have a discussion with Haldric about the sort of messages he was planting in an impressionable young teen.

“Yes, yes. I am coming.”

Morning light washed through the hallways as Briony dragged him by his sleeve. The tapestries of their great-grandparents seemed to glower with disapproval. Servants flattened themselves against the walls as Briony sprinted past, crying, “Make way! There may be murder!”

Richard followed the girl into the inner courtyard. He heard the bellowing and laughter before he saw them. Past the arched entrance, beyond the climbing roses and flagged path, stood the great oak tree. And beneath its branches—Richard sighed—an absolute disgrace was unfolding.

Haldric was bare to the waist, his tunic and crown discarded by the tree. The muscles in his arms corded strong as he rolledhis shoulders, and countless white scars decorated his back and sides—a testament to his victories.

Across from him, Dain, too, had cast aside his tunic and was cracking his knuckles. Though some flab rested around his middle, his stout chest and burly arms spoke plenty of his strength still.

Corwin stood behind Haldric, gleefully kneading their father’s shoulders, and Elara perched on the tree’s bench, one leg crossed over the other.

“—no biting, no eye-gouging, no use of any weapon,” she was declaring. “No involving the rosebeds for Gardener Hortense shall flay us all alive?—”

“What about drowning each other at the fountain?” Corwin demanded.

“The fountain is fair game?—”

“No, it most certainly is not,” Richard snapped, marching up the path.

Heads turned. The guards posted by the opposing archway, at least, looked relieved to see him. But Corwin and Elara heaved sighs, and Haldric scraped a hand down his face, muttering something under his breath. Dain rubbed his nape sheepishly, and by him, slouched against the oaken trunk, was Kaelen.

Richard’s heart thumped. The knight held Dain’s tunic and massaged his left temple with an expression of weary resignation. He sent Richard a rueful grin as if sharing the long-suffering of sons with rambunctious fathers.

Richard almost smiled back, but bit his lip and directed his frown at the two older men.

“Father.” He placed himself in between them and crossed his arms. “Dain. What do the two of you imagine you are doing?” He gestured at the servants peering from the upper balconies. “Have you no thought of how you appear? You are behaving like children.”