Honour or Reason - Book 1# in the Burning Prince Chronicles

Chapter Sixteen

Conlaed sat at his Uncle's feet again, scowling. Courtiers pranced about below, yet there was no sign of Aglaesha. When she had fled from the library, he had considered her madder than he. Until he remembered he had to kill the new king to have Fey bring his father back from wherever he was imprisoned. So instead of running after her, he headed to the court gathering. After seeing Brilyn injured, watching his mother marry his uncle and being almost drowned by a Wraith, Con had believed nothing could be worse. He had been wrong. Very, very wrong. It turned out that sitting through a court gathering as his Uncle's god-anointed son was far worse.

Hanrick had seated him insultingly at his stinking feet, refusing to bring his nephew a seat no matter how much Queen Tenna urged him. Conlaed did not care for it. He was to kill Hanrick soon. He would not have to sit at his new King's feet for much longer. In fact, sitting at a court gathering was a perfect place to plan Hanrick's murder. All the anger built up from being near the revolting man channelled the path for countless murderous ideas. Burning oil, poison, strangling, drowning, suffocating, stabbing...numerous efficient options. While Hanrick had been prattling on at him about something involving his love for his new 'son', Conlaed hatched a plan to cover his Uncle in oil while he slept, then set it alight.

"Sweet Conlaed, why did you sit here so idle?"

Queen Tenna's voice was anxious as she placed a gentle hand upon his shoulder. Her son hissed and shrugged it off. "I sit here because your new husband refused to bring me a chair. I am idle because I have none to dance with."

"You do not have to dance," his mother replied, "Why do you not converse with Denross and Keptelle? They are jolly fellows, are they not?"

"Why should I go to them? I am the Crown Prince - they can come here."

Since speaking to Zoysia, Conlaed had tried to avoid the two knights. He no longer trusted them. After being raised in court, Con had no struggle identifying who was playing him. He had no doubt the knights worked for Hanrick. He had seen their eyes watching him more than once. They never had been good at playing the game of snakes.

Hanrick laughed heartily and patted the prince's shoulder. "Just like your father, you are!!" Conlaed didn't answer, afraid that the 'father' his Uncle referred to was himself. If that were the case, he would surely drive a knife through his heart. He could not risk that sort of recklessness. He had no way to know if the Fey would deliver his father instantly or if the Fey's word was true. Even though he felt it in his bones, one could not trust mere instinct. Conlaed had to be precise and efficient. If he did not succeed in murdering Hanrick he would be in grave danger. Con had to calculate the best way to kill him - otherwise it would be his head on the chopping block, or someone else's.

It was a terrible effort to control the rage building up within him. Every word Hanrick spoke was a knife to his ears. Sitting in his presence nauseated Conlaed; being so close to a traitorous weakling was almost unbearable. His fury worsened when his mother tried to coax him into talking with her. Queen Tenna - the most dishonourable woman in the Quartered Realm.

At that moment he felt the familiar burn and simmer of anger beneath his skin. It lingered there, boiling, waiting to erupt from him like a firestorm. When he was a child, his father called his fight against fury the 'silent wrath'. Conlaed never loosed the fury that resided within himself. His father had taught him to hone it in, lock it tight enough that it could never be released. Con remembered his surges of rage as a child not as an emotion, but a burning pain that rushed through him in waves and left him gasping on the floor. He was old enough that the pain he'd felt had never been real, the water his father splashed over him only a tool Maxum had used to calm his writhing son down.

He felt the silent wrath moving through his veins, forming a lump in his throat. It still held the burning sensation, although it no longer pained him like before. He knew his mind was only toying with him. Conlaed focused his energy on pressing the rage down, down, down. It lashed against his willpower like an enraged Fire Drake, snapping its jaws at the unsettling calm that soon replaced it. Con relaxed a little as he felt the coolness of control flowing through his veins, smothering the fires. He could almost hear his father's soothing words as the rage was reined in slowly. "Breathe, Conlaed. You cannot let the rage overcome you. Breathe, my son. You're alright. You can breathe now."