The War of Six Crowns: The Vanished Knight

Quinlan

Darrion's mood went from bleak to pitch-black. It always happened when he'd been awake for forty-five consecutive hours.

He met Quin's smirk and wise-ass comment with a smile. His fingers burned to rip out Quin's careful stitches. The sight of him touching Callan had set Darrion's short patience on edge. Not because he was jealous or anything. Oh no. But because any male living thing seemed to go gooey around her.

It just...

Well...

It pissed him the hell off.

He reached into his pocket and closed his hand around the stone inside.

Callan stalked to the door, turning her black eyes on him. No faked adoration in her scrutiny. No wavering either. He tried to stare her down, but her gaze didn't falter for a second before she went out.

He pressed his bloodstained fingers against his brow bones, mood settling lower than before. Why was he still thinking about her? He looked up again, catching both Gawain and Quin staring at the door. As usual, Gawain detected Darrion's ire first and moved to Westenmere's bedside.

"Well said, Quin," Gawain quipped, sitting down on the stool Callan had vacated. "She might never talk to you now."

"I had to give you a sporting chance, didn't I?" Westenmere shot back.

Darrion snarled and kicked the other stool over.

"What's with you?" Westenmere asked, quirking his face into an infinitely annoying confused expression.

"Don't address me, cur," Darrion spat out.

Despite all the violence promised in Darrion's tone, Westenmere merely repeated the question to Gawain.

With the most awful scrape imaginable, Gawain dragged his stool closer to the bed, smiling when Westenmere cringed.

"Did that hurt your head? Never mind," Gawain said, failing to hide his smile. "Darrion thinks you had something to do with the Knight's disappearance."

Westenmere shook his head with a pitying expression. "Still getting stuck on the obvious, and missing the clear, I see. Why would I come back if I was responsible? I lost my chance at the throne the moment I lost the Knight."

He was right. It vexed Darrion even more than the bratty tone of voice. "Shouldn't you be dead?"

"But for the efforts of an angel in black," Westenmere said.

Darrion flexed his fingers around the stone in an effort to keep calm. "I can fix that."

Westenmere glanced to Gawain, who slipped a dagger from his boot and cleaned his nails with its tip.

"Should have kept your hands to yourself, mate," he muttered, giving Westenmere the eye.

Westenmere sighed. "You know you'll stop him, Gawain." He sounded bored.

Gawain stilled, lifting an eyebrow. "Do I?"

Darrion smiled, feeling like a wolf who'd been given a lamb. Maybe the day would look up after all.

"The five families won't be pleased if he kills me," Westenmere supplied, pushing himself onto his lower arms. His color faded, but he didn't lie back down.

Darrion considered that. Even checked with Gawain for an opinion.

Gawain made a wry face and shrugged. "Doesn't have the right ring to it. You lost the Knight, remember?"

Westenmere lost more color. "How about this, then? We both know Darrion won't try to attack me while I can't defend myself."

"There was nothing wrong with you seconds ago," Gawain said, resuming his ominous cleaning ritual.

Quin glowered at him. "Are you serious? I'm as strong as a kitten right now."

"Catch," Gawain ordered and tossed his dagger to Westenmere.

Westenmere's effort was notable, but the dagger passed through his sluggish fingers and clattered on the dark stone floor. Gawain pushed the injured man's shoulders back into the mattress so that he could rest.

"Shit," Darrion muttered and leaned back against the wall by the bedside table.

"Why are you here?" Westenmere demanded.

"Because the King was worried you couldn't drag your carcass to the council room," Darrion answered. "He's distraught. In case you care."

Quin glared at the ceiling, unmoved by Darrion's barely leashed fury. The brat knew Darrion held the threat of a chained dog. Darrion pressed himself up from the wall and dipped his hands into the basin.

They reddened the water, but he'd need soap to get the dried blood out from the crevices in his knuckles and palms. While Westenmere had dozed under Callan's hands, Darrion had been up to his elbows in blood and corpses—while working through the residual pain from the Oracle Stone's ordeal. What Westenmere needed was to be beaten up. Slowly and methodically.

Who would think a guardian from a family of guardians would miss a massive fucking ambush and lose one of the most important people in Nordaine? Darrion gave up on cleaning his hands and dried them on Westenmere's blanket. When the council meeting was over, he'd order a bath and soak the stains out.

"How many casualties?" Westenmere asked.

Darrion took in his pale face, the shallow rise and fall of his chest, uncertain of the answer he should give. Westenmere needed his strength to meet with the King. Westenmere's eyes didn't waver in their demand for an answer.

"Five fifty." Darrion released the blanket and dug his hands into his pockets. "Wounded."

Quin's mouth opened, slammed shut, opened again. "How many are dead?"

Darrion caressed the surface of his stone. As much as he despised Westenmere, he couldn't set about hurting someone this weak.

"Tell me," Westenmere commanded.

Gawain shook his head.

"By the Tree, just tell me!" More color drained from Westenmere's face.

Darrion swallowed an impatient sigh. "Three hundred. More than half of them died last night."

Roughly a third of Westenmere's company.

The light in Westenmere's eyes faded before he turned them away from Darrion. "When will they burn?"

His bleak voice stirred up one of the last emotions Darrion wanted to feel for him. Sympathy.

"Tonight," Gawain stated. "You should get some rest. The council—"

"I will go."

"Don't be a fool!" Gawain exclaimed, "You're barely on this side of death as it is."

Quin's hands scrunched up his blanket's edge. "I...will...go."

Darrion shook his head at Gawain, forestalling further arguments. No one could reason with Quinlan Westenmere when he wanted to be stubborn. Besides, the King might walk in any minute, and he hated to see the three candidates fight. Gawain cursed under his breath and fetched his dagger from the floor. 

Ah so the King has returned to Nordaine. Come back tomorrow, because Quin has news about the Knight. 

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