Moonblood (Tales of Goldstone Wood Book #3) by Anne Elisabeth Stengl

would serve our king to the utmost of our strength—”
    “But?” Lionheart’s voice was a low growl. “Would you serve me to the same capacity? Tell me, captain. Did you follow the Prince?”
    “Your Highness—”
    “Did you?”
    Catspaw set his teeth. “That man led us by ways no mortal man should walk. Unnatural Paths! Down into the Wilderlands, and when we came up again at the day’s end, we had crossed not only all of Southlands but the Chiara Bay itself without so much as wetting our feet! We were in the hinterlands of Shippening before the sun had set. Shippening!”
    Lionheart heard terror in the man’s voice as he recounted his tale. He could almost feel sorry for him. He himself had once walked a Faerie Path as a boy. It had not been a pleasant experience.
    “Then,” the captain continued, “he stood there on the edge of the Red Desert—the heart of dragon country—and he bade us follow him. Right down the Dragon’s throat!”
    “And?” Lionheart asked coldly.
    “Have we not had enough of dragons already, Your Highness? We, all of us, have looked into the Dragon’s eyes and seen our deaths. And we were powerless against him! Who of us did not count himself blessed beyond belief when the Dragon left and he found himself still living? Yet this man, not even a Southlander, asked us to follow him back into that poison. That fire. What did you expect us to do?”
    “I expected you to obey me. I expect you to obey your prince.”
    In his anger and fear, Catspaw seemed to have forgotten to whom he spoke, and he shook his head violently. “You did not know those five years of enslavement.”
    “Cowards!” Lionheart snarled, leaping from his chair, his fists clenched. “What do you know of the Dragon? What do you know of those five years and how I spent them? All of you make me sick!”
    Catspaw paled before Lionheart’s fury and backed away into the cluster of men. But his voice was belligerent when he said, “Forgive us, Your Highness. We did our best, but we could not—”
    “Could not?” Lionheart cried, advancing on them as though he would strike them. They backed all the way to the door. “Would not, you mean. Has the honor of Southlands no claim on your hearts? I promised Prince Aethelbald the help of twelve loyal men, and this is how you serve me?”
    “Please, Your Highness—”
    “Out of my sight!” the prince roared and all but chased them from the room. “Don’t let me see your faces again! Out!”
    They scurried away, some muttering, others silent as shadows, and the door shut behind them. A second later it crashed open again as Lionheart himself burst forth and stormed down the hall. Household folk scrambled out of his way at one glimpse of his face, and he, in his rage, saw none of them. He came to his private chambers, slamming doors open and closed.
    A chambermaid stood with a handful of cuttings, arranging them in a vase. A plain girl with a snub nose, whose eyes nearly popped from her head at the sight of her enraged prince.
    Lionheart stared at her. She stared back, trembling, not knowing what he saw when he looked at her face.
    “Out,” he said.
    She scurried from the room as quick as a mouse.
    Lionheart drew the heavy curtains shut, reducing the room to a darkness almost as complete as night with only a small fire to alleviate the gloom. He drew a chair up to it, gazing at the dancing flames as they slowly consumed the kindling and wood.
    “Cowards,” he growled. Then he leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees, gazing still more deeply into the fire. How long he sat there he did not know, but the flames were beginning to die, leaving the room as black as pitch.
    Shameful, those men. The ever-present Lady wrapped her arms around his consciousness. You should punish them. Rid yourself of those who will not serve you as they should.
    “I should rid myself of those weasels,” Lionheart muttered.
    You cannot afford to keep them in your service, my prince.