Happily Ever Awkward (The H.E.A. Files, #1)(12)

King Hofnar and the scribe gaped at him. Embarrassed, Paul let the man go.

“Sorry,” he mumbled. “I mean… I dropped the token. It was my fault. I’ll just enter the next drawing. Really.”

“Very well, my lord,” said the scribe, slowly pulling his hand back and massaging his wrist.

The Poxie blinked at Paul, unable to believe such kindness. Giggling, she trailed loops of flitter dust around his head, and the dust blossomed into a cloud of rainbow butterflies.

“You’re welcome,” Paul said.

The Poxie kissed his cheek and darted back to the bin.

Clearly disgusted by the entire pathetic display, King Hofnar shouldered his way to the bar. Paul hastily knelt, pretending to adjust his boot, and palmed the token. As he trailed after his father, the cheers down by the stage became louder.

The bard continued to play to the crowd, strutting back and forth across the stage. “As you all know, Princess Dainty is being ransomed by the Bandit King Delgadim, and it’s up to one of you to save her, yes? And so we invoke the sacred ritual of the Lottery.”

All the princes recited together, “One prince plus one princess equals happily ever after.”

The bard nodded and swept his arm along the length of the tapestry behind him. “In honor of Slumbering Beautiful, may the verdict come down soon. Never again will there be such a dispute! One princess in jeopardy, one prince to save her! And now, let the choice be made!”

Flipping open a door on the bin, the bard nodded and the Poxie swooped inside. As the bard spun the barrel, the Poxie, serving as the impartial, randomizing element of magic, zipped among the avalanche of tokens and blindly grabbed one. When she finally emerged, she swooped around the bard holding the token high above her tiny head.

“And the winner is…” The bard pretended to struggle reading the token, building the tension in the room with the practiced precision of a seasoned showman before he finally cried, “Prince Hardbody of Studrock!”

Explosive cheers ripped through the tavern. Clearly, Prince Hardbody was a favorite there. He jumped to his feet, pumping his muscled arms into the air and beaming his perfect smile at all his drinking buddies.

His father, the ever-regal King Studrock, stood beside his boy and threw his arm around the prince’s shoulders. “A toast!” he said. “A toast to my son and Princess Dainty!”

From his perch on a stool at the bar, Paul gazed upon the father-son embrace. His longing was obvious to anyone who cared to look, but the only one Paul cared about caring to look was busy looking at a mug of beer. Resigned, the timid prince turned to the bar and sat quietly beside his father.

The bard waved his hand over the crowd, motioning the Lottery winner forward. “Prince Hardbody! Come hither!”

The prince bounded to the platform, his back smacked by nearly everyone in the room along the way. As he climbed up beside the bard, a serving wench wheeled a small cart onto the stage. A red cloth covered whatever rested upon it.

“And now, a gift for our latest Prince Charming!” proclaimed the bard. “To aid you on your Quest, the Lottery awards you…” With another carefully rehearsed move, the bard swept the cloth away with an amazing flourish. “The Flaming Sword!”

An ornate crimson broadsword lay upon the cart. When Prince Hardbody held it aloft, the blade instantly burst into crackling orange flames and everyone gasped. The prince swept his blazing weapon back and forth, much to the crowd’s delight, before accidentally setting fire to the tapestry, much to the bard’s lack of delight.

While the bard rushed to beat out the flames, the other princes continued to cheer for their companion. Eventually sheathing his magic sword, Prince Hardbody dove from the stage and toppled into the strong arms of his friends, all of them collapsing with hoots and howls of laughter.

Paul, meanwhile, slumped on the stool beside King Hofnar, feeling alone and afraid.

“Innkeeper! A jack of ale for my son!” King Hofnar barked.

The innkeeper plunked a fresh mug on the bar. Paul eyed the frothy head of foam as it dribbled down the side of the glass. “I don’t like to drink,” he said.

“You be just like thy mother,” King Hofnar grumbled before downing the remainder of his own mug in a single gulp.





9



THE CURSE


Some time later, the span of which might be measured more meaningfully in mugs rather than minutes, King Hofnar slumped upon the bar. To be precise, he slumped behind a pile of twelve empty tankards stacked upon the bar. Blearily, he grabbed Paul’s untouched mug, hoping to add it to his pile, and he spilled lukewarm ale all over his son in the process.

“Don’ know why thou don’ like ale,” he slurred. Then his cheeks suddenly bulged and he ducked below the bar with a great, unpleasant “HURRRK!”

“It’s a mystery all right,” Paul whispered.

“Innkeeper, there’s a barbarian on the floor. Clean it up this instant.” The voice was mocking. Paul knew it well.

Turning, he found himself face to face with King Sterling and his son, Prince Savage. The two of them looked upon Paul with utter disdain. Paul had to admit that beautiful rich people got no more beautiful or rich than this pair.

Or more arrogant.

Prince Savage cocked a nasty smile in Paul’s direction. “And while you’re at it, take care of this pile on the stool as well.”