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

Chapter Nineteen

Conlaed felt sick. Boiling hot flushes constantly overcame him and sent him to his knees. It did not help having Keptelle and Denross babbling into his ears constantly. All their chatter gave him was a splitting headache. He wished Aglaesha had shooed Hanrick and his cronies away. Their presence made his condition worse. He wanted Aglaesha and the others. Not his fool of an uncle and two traitors. Did the gods truly hate him enough to send three complete imbeciles with him to the Diamond House? Most definitely.

He glanced wearily over his shoulder at his betrothed. She strode beside her father, whispering angrily. Con smiled at her. She was beautiful, even when she was furious. When she saw him grinning bleakly at her, her perfect mouth stretched into a small smile. He inclined his head toward Keptelle's mussed blue locks and mouthed "Fun night?" Aglaesha giggled and Nathair glanced between she and the prince confusedly. Conlaed glared at the lord and turned his gaze forward once more. Filthy, traitorous, power-hungry donkey head. His skin above his spine flared up into a burning agony. Con gasped and tripped forward, rasping.

Denross leaned down anxiously. "Milord, how do you fare?"

What do you think, walrus-ass? Con offered his best fake smile and gasped, "I am poorly, I fear." The red-headed knight frowned in worry and tugged the prince to his feet. A hiss escaped him suddenly. Conlaed struggled not to smirk as Denross cried, "You have a gods-damned fever! You're hot as flame, Conlaed!"

The Crown Prince batted his eyelashes innocently. "Am I?"

"Curse the Moon, you are!" Keptelle gasped, feeling Con's forehead. Sadly, his and Denross' hands had come away unscathed. Con shrugged. "I am sure it is only a weak sickness. Nothing to fear."

Despite the steadiness of his voice, fear coiled in his heart as another fearsome bite of heat appeared on the back of his neck. He winced and stumbled slightly. The knights did not notice - they were prattling about wounds they had achieved in their training. It was a desperate struggle not to strangle them both. Still, the thought was an extremely comforting distraction from the pain ricocheting through his body. It was so strange; he had never had anything like it. Conlaed had never had terrible illnesses as a child - he was healthy as could be. His mother used to boast about his wellness to her ladies-in-waiting. Tenna used to pinch his rosy cheeks and make her company watch her son bound around the gardens with the other noble children. She would scoop him up or drape an arm around his skinny shoulders and croon, "See how strong my boy is! See how fast he runs! Not a weakness in his blood - not one! He will be the next Userra, I tell you!"

Back then Con had swelled with pride from his mother's praises. He had been an arrogant idiot. Two months ago, he had believed in fairy-tale endings and happiness and valour. He had seen the world through rose-coloured spectacles. Death and sorrow had been a faraway, lost concept to him; they had not existed in Maidora. The old Conlaed had thought he would be happily married to the fairest maiden in the Quartered Realm, have heirs and rejoice in his father's wise and just rule. He had believed his uncle was just a harmless fool, that his mother was in love with his father. The old Conlaed had thought he would have children before his father passed into the darkness. He had trusted in the honour of men and the kindness of strangers, his own family. His eyes had been blindfolded to the misery around him. Then father was taken, and the blindfold was removed and I was all alone. All alone.

"We are here!" Denross practically yelled in his ear. Con nodded mutely and followed his uncle and the pair of knights inside. Grey filtered through the glass ceiling, casting the enormous room in gloomy light. No doubt rain was on its way. I hope Bri does not get cold. The thought of his friend made his heart pang. Barely an hour ago they had been planning a way to rescue him from the West Tower. Zoysia's information had dampened any hopes that he was even slightly safe. If the Guardian was truly behind Brilyn's imprisonment as he claimed, they were all in more danger than they had expected. It had not worried him as much if he had discovered Hanrick was behind Bri's capture. His Uncle was not much of a threat - Con was going to kill him soon enough. As soon as he conjured a plan, anyway. If the Guardian had locked Brilyn in that tower, they were ruined. Jarete had secrets and had frightened Bri enough that he had made Zoysia promise not to tell the rest of them the true circumstances of his capture. Not only that - the Guardian of books was a Fey and a Mage half breed. Surely that meant he had magic. Perhaps not Mages' powers - there were not particularly hereditary - but Fey magic was no less dangerous. To top it off, Brilyn suspected the Fox was going to endanger Conlaed somehow.