If I sprinted all the way to Shaylis to be king, why aren’t we in the castle? Melshek wondered from his seat at the tavern.
Granted, after the long run and the friendly spar with Kaltor’s friends, he did need rest. But why did the woman order him back to the poorest part of town, next to the prisons, to drink some ale and flirt with a barmaid, instead of going straight to Prince Tyran and being crowned king? Everything seemed blurrier than before, too, but he assured himself it was simply the quality ale taking effect.
Again the soothing voice of his Queen whispered in his mind. Her tone was firmer this time, impatient. "We must start with the people," she said. "Once the people are on our side, we will greet your friends and Prince Tyran himself with warm smiles at your coronation. Then we will go to the capital and demonstrate this power to your father. Won’t he be proud?"
Melshek smiled, taking a deep swig from his pint.
After years of treatment as the littlest pup of the royal litter, standing before his father with the kingdom on its knees before them— the thought made his skin tingle with excitement like a thousand insects crawling across his skin.