Free The Deer Prince's Murder: Book Two of 'Fantasy & Forensics' (Fantasy & Forensics 2) by Michael Angel Page B

The ‘royal share’ was a poetic reference to the base tax rate everyone paid to the king, which was a fifth of any earned sum of money. So a fifth of a furlong came out to thirty-two yards, which in turn meant…
    My stomach did a little flip-flop over the number that popped into my head. Balaur would have been around one-hundred feet long. That equaled the length of three double-decker busses, or five fully grown Great White sharks. My brain refused to really consider that as an accurate number. In my world, gravity put a definite limit on a land-based creature’s size. That was the reason elephants topped out where they did.
    “Galen…didn’t the Fayleene call Sirrahon an ‘ancient’ stone dragon?”
    He face took on a dour expression. “I’m afraid that they did.”
    I turned away from the table and began to pace. “Then this dragon could be serious trouble. Do we have any news from Liam, or Shaw?”
    “The Heir to the Protector has sent word that he’s on his way with news of the dragon’s current locale. Shaw sent me a similar message. If their estimates are correct, they should both be here within the next hour.”
    “That’s something, then.”
    “Perhaps. Or perhaps not.” Galen studied me curiously. “Given how the odds in our favor appear to be diminishing with astonishing rapidity, should we not go to King Fitzwilliam and ask for this boon you spoke of earlier?”
    That stopped me in mid-pace. I bit my lip as I considered the distasteful option ahead of me. I didn’t like this from the start, and it only got worse. As far as I knew, the Fayleene weren’t a major power like Fitzwilliam’s realm or the Centaur Kingdom. So if power wasn’t the motive, who would have a vendetta against Liam? Specifically, who would hold a need for vengeance that was so intense, so all-consuming, that they would murder the Protector of the Forest in order to put Liam in danger?
    My mind kept leading me back to one possibility. That it was one of the people who had benefited from the Good King Benedict’s murder. And of those, the main ones had been put into the palace dungeon. Could one of them be issuing orders from their cell? Or could one of their followers be on the loose?
    Either way, it sent prickles down my back. And it made what I was going to ask even more gut-churning difficult. But Galen deserved an answer.
    “Yes, we’ll go speak to the King,” I stated. “As court wizard, would you mind conveying me into his presence? I think your word might have more weight than mine.”
    The centaur bowed modestly, but I suspected that he beamed a little inside at the compliment. He led the way at his high-stepping trot, only ducking slightly as we went through a doorway’s narrow pointed arch. Galen had been originally sent to the Good King Benedict’s court as a gesture of goodwill and peace. Given his evident magical talent and even-tempered nature, he’d been promptly appointed to the position of court wizard by Benedict himself.
    This trusted position allowed us to pass by the red and black suited guards and enter the throne room without too much of a challenge. The chamber was huge, framed by a series of ice blue marble-lined alcoves. Each alcove held a skinny window of stained glass which let in lots of light and a rainbow of bright colors.
    All of which provided an interesting contrast to the man who sat upon the throne.
    No one could doubt that the Good King Benedict’s genes had been successfully passed on. Fitzwilliam had a carbon copy of his father’s aquiline nose, high-domed forehead, and a mane of shoulder-length blond hair salted at the temples with a dash of white. His clean-shaven lantern jaw gave his face a drawn appearance, but it served to frame a masculine mouth that could twitch at one end into a catlike grin.
    He wore a loose-bodied gray robe trimmed with fur from some silvery-pelted animal and studded with freshwater pearls. A heavy gold belt wrapped securely about his waist. The