The Dragon Nimbus Novels: Volume II

Quinnault and Bessel. He pushed his way between the guards who followed the king everywhere. The men stepped away, hands on the hilts of their swords, eyes wary.
    “This is none of your concern, Lord Konnaught. Return to your lessons at once.” Quinnault stood firmly in place, refusing to move any closer to Piedro’s cell until the boy had left. With a flick of his head upward he gestured for the guards to remove the pest.
    “But I must know how this is done when I am king.” Konnaught glared at him, mimicking his hands on hips posture.
    “I have no intention of dying prematurely so that you can be king. Tell me, did you arrange this assassination so that I would?” Quinnault grabbed the boy by the neck of his tunic. He wanted to shake the brat but restrained himself, as a king must.
    “I’d be more direct, if I were to do something so stupid. And I’d hire a more intelligent assassin,” Konnaught snarled back, not intimidated by Quinnault’s superior size or his barely restrained anger.
    “Then why are you here?” Quinnault asked. He kept his eyes focused on the stone steps behind him rather than the boy who incited such anger in him.
    “Because I want to watch the Rover-scum squirm under torture.”
    “Did you ever watch your father beat his lovers until their faces were bloody pulps and they bled from the inside?” Quinnault bared his teeth as he moved his face closer to Konnaught’s, maintaining his fierce grip on his collar.
    Konnaught shook his head. He closed his eyes and gulped.
    “What about the times your father pillaged and burned entire villages for no reason other than to soothe his temper? Did you watch then as innocent men and women burned alive? Did you enjoy watching their skin melt away and their hair becoming torches as their lungs clogged with smoke?” Renewed anger at the depredations of his now deceased rival burned within Quinnault. In this moment he put aside his regret that he had wielded the sword that killed Kammeryl d’Astrismos, Konnaught’s father.
    “No—no, Your Grace,” Konnaught stammered and sagged within Quinnault’s grip. Then he stiffened. “But they were peasants. . . .”
    “They were innocent people . I refuse to argue with you anymore, or put up with your insolence and your idolization of your father’s evil. Pack your possessions. You sail at dawn for the Monastic School in Sollthrie.”
    “You don’t dare exile me. I—I’m your only heir. I—I hold the allegiance of three other lords who think your view of government is stupid. And I think you are stupid,” Konnaught blustered. But his chin quivered as he spoke.
    “Then you must learn to think differently. I know of no better place to do that than Sollthrie.”
    “But . . . but there’s nothing there!”
    “There is the finest school in all of Kardia Hodos.”
    “But no one ever leaves there. They . . . they stay and become celibate priests.”
    “Precisely. I should have sent you there last spring, but I was too kind and expected too much from you. Guard, take him back to his room and supervise his packing. He won’t need much.”
    The guard on the left took Konnaught’s elbow, somewhat more gently than Quinnault had grabbed his collar, and led him back up the stairs.
    “Now, Bessel, let us see what this Rover knows.” Only a tiny bit of regret niggled at Quinnault’s brain. He’d failed with teaching Konnaught responsibility, justice, and concern for others. Maybe the boy was incapable of learning such concepts. Mostly he felt a tremendous relief at having made a decision.
    He turned to face the sealed prison door.
    “I’m afraid we are too late, Your Grace,” Bessel said, peering through the slitted window of the heavy wooden cell door.
    “What do you mean?” Quinnault shouldered the young journeyman aside to look himself. The cell appeared empty. “He was here this morning. His guards reported him screaming to let him out not an hour ago.”
    “He’s gone, Your Grace. The Rover has escaped and left my seal and the mundane locks in place.”
     
    Powwell nearly jumped out of his skin at Moncriith’s words. He’d been so preoccupied with his own misery he hadn’t watched his steps until he nearly stepped on the Bloodmage.
    “Where’s Kalen?” he blurted without thought.
    “Silence, demon spawn!” Moncriith intoned, raising his hands in the same gesture priests used to denote a benediction.
    Blood dripped from Moncriith’s fingers and a gash across his