Protect the Prince (Crown of Shards #2)(25)

“Jarl,” my mother said in a soft, chiding voice. “You know that Evie has to finish her lessons before she goes gallivanting off with you.”

Ansel stepped up beside my mother. “Oh, I think that Evie can skip tomorrow’s lesson.”

I blinked at his unexpected generosity. Sometimes, I thought that Ansel would have lectured me around the clock, if he could have.

My mother smiled, then laid her hand on his arm. “Thank you, Ansel. That’s very kind.”

He stared down at her hand, then cleared his throat and shifted away from her. “You’re welcome, my lady.”

Before I could chime in and thank him, Ansel stepped forward and held out the glass of wine in his hand to my father. “Here, Sir Jarl. You look like you could use a drink.”

“Indeed, I do.” My father winked at the other man, then grabbed the glass and took a large gulp of wine.

To my surprise, a thin smile creased Ansel’s face, and he seemed almost . . . happy. Strange. Nothing ever seemed to make my serious, stoic tutor happy.

“Good,” my father said. “It’s settled. Evie and I will leave for the mine first thing in the morning—”

He turned his head and let out a loud cough. My father cleared his throat and opened his mouth, but all that came out was another cough.

My nose twitched. I hadn’t noticed it before, but a foul, sulphuric stench was floating through the air, growing stronger and stronger, despite the fresh tang of the pine trees in the room. I drew in a breath, trying to figure out where the stench was coming from.

My father kept coughing, each sound louder, longer, and harsher than the last.

Concern creased my mother’s face. “Jarl? Are you okay?”

My father tried to smile, but he started coughing again. And this time, he didn’t stop.

He coughed so violently that the glass slipped from his hand and shattered on the floor. That foul, sulphuric stench rose up again, even stronger than before. It took me a moment to realize that the harsh aroma was coming from the spilled wine and exactly what it was, but sick understanding quickly filled me.

Poison—my father had been poisoned.

I sucked in a breath to scream out the words, but my father collapsed.

“Jarl!” my mother yelled, and fell to her knees beside him. “Jarl!”

He looked up at her. He coughed again, and blood bubbled out of his lips and trickled down his face. And that was just the beginning. More blood streamed out of the corners of his eyes, his nose, even his fingernails. The coppery stench of it drowned out the poison. All around us, people yelled and rushed forward, trying to figure out what was wrong.

“Get the bone master!” my mother screamed.

But it was too late. My father coughed a final time, and then his head lolled to the side. He stared up at me and tried to smile, but his lips turned down instead of up, and even more blood oozed out of his nose and trickled down his face. His blue eyes were still fixed on me, but they were wide and glassy now, and he wasn’t seeing me anymore.

My father was dead.

My stomach roiled, and I clapped my hands over my mouth to keep from vomiting.

“Jarl!” my mother screamed again, shaking his shoulder. “Jarl!”

She opened her mouth to scream again when a loud boom rang out, along with a violent tremor that shook the manor house and sent me stumbling against the side of the fireplace.

The noise and the tremor vanished an instant later, and a tense, heavy silence dropped over the dining hall.

“What was that?” someone whispered.

As if in answer, footsteps pounded in the hallway outside, growing louder and closer. Screams rang out as well, along with the clash-clash-clash of swords banging together.

“Mortans,” my mother whispered, fear crackling through her voice. “The Mortan bastards have come for us.”

Men and women carrying swords and shields rushed into the dining hall. They let out wild screams and yells and charged forward, swinging their weapons at every single person they could reach.

Behind them, a woman wearing a midnight-purple cloak and clutching a ball of swirling purple lightning in her hand glided forward. Instead of having a hot, electric burn, her lightning seemed bitterly cold, like it would freeze you on the spot.

The woman waved her hand, and what looked like purple hailstones shot out from her fingertips, growing in size, even as their rough edges sharpened into thick, daggerlike points. The hailstones punch-punch-punched into the chest of the closest guard like frozen throwing stars, killing him.

I staggered back as though I were the one who’d been hit, and the horrible reality of what was happening slammed into my mind.

Winterwind was under attack . . .





My eyes snapped open, and I sucked in a breath. For a moment, I could still feel the weather magier’s frigid power, and I could still smell the sharp, coppery tang of my father’s blood. But then the warm, summery air washed over me, while the softer, more pleasant aroma of the vanilla candles crowded together on the nightstand filled my nose. Another welcome gift from one of the nobles.

I scrubbed my hands over my face. This wasn’t the first time I’d woken up from a nightmare. Ever since the massacre, my sleep had been more restless and troubled than not, with all sorts of dark, shapeless things trying to murder me as well as my friends. Just last night I’d dreamed that Maeven had burned Sullivan to ash right in front of me.