Page 53 of The Sun King's Noon

“Yes!” she declared. “Yes, I will dance with you, Sir Kaelen, and it shall be the finest dance anyone has ever seen, and if anyone laughs, we shall have them thrown in the dungeons!”

“Absolutely, Princess.” Kaelen led her to the floor. As the violins stirred, they began to dance—both as clumsily as each other, with Briony stepping on Kaelen’s boots and him windmilling her during a spin.

But Briony didn’t seem to mind. Her laugh scrunched her nose, and she shot smug glances in Isolde and Godwyn’s direction.

Richard watched and felt as if his corset had decided to squeeze his chest tight, crushing his lungs and mangling his heart. As Kaelen lifted a squealing Briony high, Richard’s eyes burned.

Oh.

“My lady,” Richard whispered. “He is so very lovely.”

Selwyn stiffened beside him.

“Lovely, is he? Well then”—she tapped Richard’s nose with a frown—“perhaps you ought to tell him so.”

“No.” Richard swallowed hard. “He—he rather despises me now.”

“Have sense, boy,” Selwyn snapped. “In my son’s eyes, you are a rose in full bloom.”

“Then, I fear he is finding the rose has sharp thorns.”

“No matter,” Selwyn said briskly. “My son has thick skin?—”

Shimmering purple barriers erupted across every door—magical shields that hummed. Dianara stood by the main doors, their staff held high and brows narrowed.

“There is a witch in attendance!” Their voice was magnified by magic. “A witch infused with Rot-magic! I feel their presence!”

The music paused, followed swiftly by shrieks and a clatter of footsteps towards the sealed exits.

Richard’s breath caught, his hand flying to his sword.

Briony.

He was relieved to see Kaelen and Dain already on the girl, forming a ring with two Crownsguards. Elara, too, was shoving through the crush to reach her.

Safe, then. So where was the witch?

At the platform’s edge, one of the violinists had risen. A tall woman with an eerie grin and blackened fingernails. Her bow hung loose in her hand.

The replacement. The violinist Byrom had hired after the second harpist took ill.

This was a trap.

The woman threw back her head and screamed, setting Richard’s teeth on edge. Her eyes filled entirely with black.

“Children of Ardenia! You will reap the vengeance of Gloamvarn for your defiance!” The witch pointed her bow at Richard. “Your king leads you to slaughter! Gloamvarn offers mercy to those wise enough to kneel!”

Richard broke into a run. He shoved past a frozen duke, ducked under the arm of a fleeing baroness, and vaulted over an upturned chair. The stage was thirty paces away. Twenty. He could see soldiers cutting through the crowd, running, blades drawn.

But the witch was faster. She pressed the bow to her throat. Its horsehair glinted, sharp enough to draw a bead of blood.

“DO NOT LET HER DIE!” Richard roared.

Infused with Rot magic, Dianara had said. On death, such magic would disperse into the air, leaving a trail—a trail that would easily be followed by?—

Richard sprinted faster. Fifteen paces away, twelve, ten?—

The witch made the slice. Blood spurted, and her body crumpled lifelessly.