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At the other end, a big chair—one arm missing. And sitting in it was the male, himself. The former King Ricon II, the Mad King.
It’s true. He’s alive.
Gooseflesh rose on my skin at the very sight of him. Silver hair. Eyes like polished sea-glass—cloudy, almost transparent. With a face so young—and yet you could tell he was ancient. Wearing nothing but trousers and a simple white tunic. A thick black fur cloak over top of it all. Barefoot.
He looked like a phantom. Something from a childhood nightmare. He was giddy, rubbing his hands together in front of him, his eyes widened so I could see all the whites. A wide smile sliced across his face from ear to ear.
I couldn’t help the shiver. Or how my breath shuddered on the way out.
I knew now why they called him theMadKing. It was written in every inch of him. In every tensed, twitching muscle.
“Welcome!” he said in a raspy, low bellow, shooting from his seat into a bow. His thin arms spread wide on either side of him. His cloak giving him the illusion of wings. “I was doubting I’d ever see thisgloriousday.”
He licked his lips.
My own mouth was locked up tight. I had been so ready. I had planned what I’d say to him, but the words were lost in the face of what lie before me.
“You’re a monster,” I finally said, the words coming out weaker than I’d meant them. I swallowed back the bile fighting to rise in my throat.
The Mad King chuckled, the sound morphing into something higher pitched. A strangled cackling. “You sound just like her,” he said between fits of laughter, wiping a tear from his eye. “You know, you look like her too.”
Morgana.I looked like Morgana. His daughter. The reminder that me and this—this creatureshared a bloodline made my skin crawl.
“And now finally—finallyI can extinguish the last remaining trace of my foolish daughter.”
A shimmer caught my eye, and I saw the hilt of the blade. Belted to the Mad King’s waist. So, he’d gotten it back. I bit my cheek, stopping myself from looking at the ring I still wore on my finger. Trying not to wonder if Thana had lived. If he’d killed her himself, or if she had truly died by my own hand.
Never take it off,Morgana had said. But would I have a choice? When I was dead, he would have it. And we still didn’t even know its purpose.
A male entered from behind us, knockinghardinto my shoulder as he passed.
“You called for me, majesty,” he said. The Draconian cleared the space between where we stood and the throne. And when he turned, I recognized his face—burned almost beyond recognition. It was the one who’d tried to rape me. He was a horror to behold. Like his face was formed of clay and someone had smashed it on both sides.
Ricon nodded, “I did,” he said, and turned his attention to the male holding Aisling behind me. I had all but forgotten she was there. “Bring me the girl,” he ordered his soldier, who dutifully shoved Aisling forward. She pushed against him and he knocked her to the ground.
“Don’t touch her,” I yelled, pulling against Valin and the other male. They held me steady. I could barely move. I pulled and pulled—yankedat that place in my core where my Graces lived, but nothing answered my call.
I knew what would happen—what he would do to her. He pulled the Blessed Blade from his side.
He was after he Grace. And he would test it on the Draconian I burned after… after he killed her.
“Come now. It will only hurt for a moment,” The Mad King crooned, beckoning Aisling forward like a father would beckon his child.
Aisling rose from the ground, whimpering. She stood straight, her spine erect. “What—what are you doing to me?” she asked between shaking, quick breaths.
She stepped forward. And stepped again. Walking to the dais and the Mad King as though walking towards a friend. Ricon’s eyes glittered, an open-mouthed smile on his face. He never took his eyes from Aisling.
“Stop,” she shouted at him, “Please,” and yet she kept walking, with no prodding from the soldier following her.
And I knew right then what was happening, and it made my stomach turn. Finn had said it, but I hadn’t truly thought about what it could mean. Our Graces develop over time. His words repeated in my mind,imagine Alaric’s Grace developed—evolved—over the course of a thousand years.
No one knew what that would look like. The Grace was rare, and those blessed with it tended to die young. Whether by their own hands, or by the hands of those who don’t trust them to use their power wisely. It was a dangerous Grace to begin with.
But this—this was something else entirely. He needed no contact with the person, and could put not only an emotion, but something more like acommandinto their minds.
I could hardly breathe. Powerless to do anything but stare wide-eyed as Aisling gave herself over for slaughter.
But wait… my ring—the stone. Didn’t he need the fifth stone for the blade to do its duty? Tiernan’s look of confusion at my mention of the fifth stone’s setting made me doubt it. He had said it was an addition, and not part of the original blade.
