Free The Pretender's Crown by C. E. Murphy Page A

harmed his family and would ruin his people.
    “Explore it how? Would you have me march out to a hayfield and see if I can murder straw men, like a youth new to the bow or sword? Men
understand
the blade, uncle. They would not understand this.”
    “But that's precisely what we must do. In secret, yes, I'll grant you that. There are unused halls in the palace—”
    “And what if I bring them down around my ears?”
    “Then you'd best hope your shielding is strong.” Rodrigo's voice is wry, but he means what he says. Then curiosity seizes him and he takes up his wineglass. Drains it, because it
is
a fine vintage, and then without further warning flings it toward the young king of Gallin.
    Silver flares and glass shatters, both so sudden that Javier flinches. Then outrage darkens his cheeks and he springs to his feet again. “What—?!”
    “A test,” Rodrigo says, mildly. “Have you always reacted thus when an object flew your way, Javier? That must have been inconvenient, playing games in the gardens.”
    “No.” Javier is sullen now, not at all a nice aspect for a king. Hesinks into his chair like a kicked dog, lip thrust in a pout. “I only learned it in playing witchpower games with Beatrice. I didn't know it had become instinct.”
    Beatrice
, Rodrigo notes: the boy has corrected himself in the past, but this time lets it slip. The Aulunian witchbreed girl he saved is still “Beatrice” in Javier's mind, and that could prove dangerous. It will be worth watching, as well worth watching as his unholy magic. “You're born to power, Javier. Wielding it, even if it comes in this strange form, should be natural to you. Did you and she play at explosives, as well?”
    Javier slides him a look that suggests he thinks he's being mocked, but he finds no teasing in Rodrigo's face, and relaxes. “Only once. It's noisy, but I learnt I could do it.”
    “As can she?” At the second hard look from his nephew, Rodrigo raises an eyebrow and a hand. “I'm not looking to raise uncomfortable memories or to ridicule you. Belinda Primrose is alive and our enemy, and we must know what we can about her.” He hesitates, facing a question he doesn't want to ask, but makes himself do so on a long exhalation. “Might she have managed Sandalia's death through her power?”
    Javier pinches the bridge of his nose, a gesture that makes him look older than he is. “Belinda,” and now, reminded, he emphasises the name, “is different than I. She has extraordinary willpower, enough to stand a while against me, but she falls beneath an onslaught. She calls it ‘stillness,’ an internal gift,” he mutters, bitterness in the words, “as benefits a woman.”
    Silence reigns a few long moments as Javier stares into his own palm, before he breathes a curse and continues. “She said she used the stillness to hide in shadows once, so she went entirely unseen, but that she had forgotten how. That was before she and I woke the witchpower in her, though, and so I would say she might have managed Mother's death by witchpower, yes, but not in the way you mean. Marius says Mother was poisoned.” The words came raw from his throat, as though in voicing them he finally made the terrible and impossible real. A quaver, barely steadied, accompanied what he said next: “If Belinda used the kind of power I've shown, lashing out… it wouldn't look like poison. She has the ability to dowhat I've done, but she's a snake, uncle. Slithering into our friendships, into my bed, into the palace. Poison suits her better than blasting. She might have slithered into Mother's chambers and set the trap, perhaps by hiding within her stillness.”
    Rodrigo swallows the implications and refuses himself the luxury of expressing his thoughts. But Javier makes it unnecessary, looking up with grey eyes turned orange by the firelight. “I woke the power in her. I gave her the ability to murder my own mother. I
am
damned. I cannot do this, uncle. I can't follow this