Curse of Kings (The Trials of Oland Born, Book 1) by Alex Barclay Page A

like you—”
    â€œToo busy trying to be the next Archivist Whatever-his-name-is, that’s your problem,” said Croft. “Sitting about all day, making up stories…”
    â€œAult was his name,” said Wickham. “Samuel Ault. He wrote facts. Anyone can write down facts. King Micah did this, King Micah did that. I have an imagination. I see things that no one else can see.”
    â€œThat’s how Roxleigh ended up being carted away,” said Croft. His laugh was a carnival of grunts.
    Wickham stood with his arms on his narrow hips, swallowed into the heavy fabric of his long cloak. He looked child-sized beside Croft.
    â€œIt’s rumoured,” said Croft, “that the Ault son, Tristan, might be out there somewhere. You’d be no match for him. He’s no pale little fellow like you, that’s what I heard,” said Croft. “He’s built like a warrior, has the dark skin, the dark hair…”
    â€œYou sound enchanted,” said Wickham.
    Croft spun towards him, his fists raised. Wickham pushed him hard in the chest. The breath rushed from Croft’s lungs. In a short terrible moment, both men teetered on the ledge. Croft fell first, but Wickham followed, their cries dissolving into the roar of the churning water below.

ELPHI SAT, SHAKING, IN THE CORNER OF THE CAVE. Oland walked over to the ledge and looked out over the cliffs. He saw tiny black dots disappearing into the raging white foam.
    He felt a twinge of sadness at the death of Wickham. He remembered sitting beside him at the kitchen table, and Wickham running his finger under the words of a picture book called The Boy Who Had Never Enough . Even though Oland had been just four at the time, he remembered thinking that the book would be about him, because he had nothing. He was disappointed to find out that the book was, in fact, about a boy who had everything and who still wasn’t happy. And Oland had found the story fascinating… and inexplicable.
    Now it was Villius Ren’s grief that was inexplicable. Every encounter he had with his master was a deeply unpleasant one, even the ones that outwardly could appear civil. Was it the absence of a slave that troubled him? The idea that, until he trained another in his peculiar ways, he would be forced to fend for himself?
    Lost in his confusion, it took some time for Oland to realise that Delphi was crying.
    â€œDelphi,” he said.
    She didn’t reply.
    â€œDelphi,” said Oland. “Are you all right? I—”
    She bowed her head. “That’s where you live?” she said.
    â€œPardon?” said Oland.
    â€œThey’re the people you live with?” she said, looking up.
    Oland frowned. “The people I was forced to serve,” he said.
    â€œI don’t know how you could have done that,” said Delphi.
    â€œI am nothing like them,” said Oland, struggling to stay calm.
    Delphi paused before she spoke. “How do you know that?”
    â€œDo you think I’m like them?” said Oland. “Have I given you some reason to think that I’m lying or treacherous or capable of—”
    â€œNo,” said Delphi. “I’m sorry. I…” She started to sob. She wiped her eyes. “I know… I know… I don’t even know you. But… I have no one now, and—”
    â€œWhat do you mean you have no one?” said Oland.
    â€œChancey the Gold,” said Delphi. “He’s… he’s my father. He made me swear not to tell anyone.” She turned and looked directly into Oland’s eyes, and he saw, again, how black they were. But, when she spoke, her voice was soft. “Please don’t ever tell anyone. For years, I thought he was simply my guardian. He told me that when I was a baby I was left at the entrance to The Straits, and that he took me in.”
    â€œAnd your mother?” said Oland.
    â€œHe has never spoken