Read The Silent Dragon: Children of The Dragon Nimbus #1 for Free Online

absolute stillness of the watchers, and of Marcelle. Something had gone terribly wrong.
    Suddenly Marcelle raised his sword in salute, raised his helm and bowed deeply from the waist.
    Darville straightened, raising his own helm. “
S’murghit,
what just happened?” he yelled at one and all.
    Two accidents in the same day. He was having trouble convincing himself they were accidents.
    “Something weakened your blade, your Grace. We will attend to it.” Marcelle bowed again and took one step backward.
    Not an accident. Tempered steel did not “weaken” on its own.
    “I thought I’d find you here,” Queen Rossemikka said from behind him. A hint of laughter colored her voice.
    Slowly, Darville turned, fully aware of his sweaty body and gritty face, strands of loose hair plastered across his brow. He cast aside his broken sword, making sure it landed near his squire’s feet. “Your Grace,” Darville said formally, bowing. When he stood straight again, he let her smile fill his world. He responded in kind, despite the ringing anvil inside his bruised head.
    “We must talk,” she said simply, with less delight, brushing his face free of wayward strands of hair.
    Darville looked around. All of his men had retreated a nominal step or two to grant them an illusion of privacy. An illusion only.
    “What brings you out of doors, so far from your sick bed?” he asked quietly, noting how the sun glistened in her red/brown/gold hair, but not as vibrantly as it had in their youth.
    “I have spent far too many weeks of my life recovering in that bed. I need fresh air, sunshine, glimpses of life instead of constant reminders of all that we have lost,” she replied grimly. Her eyes strayed to the sword lying on the ground, the ragged break as dangerous as the sharpened edged or piercing point.
    Darville pursed his lips. A good sword, his favorite practice weapon reserved for him and him alone, should not have broken so easily. Someone had tampered with it.
    He released his sudden flare of anger, nodding toward the blade so that his squire, Jensen, a good boy of thirteen, knew to stay with the blade through General Marcelle’s investigation. Marcelle hurried to the boy’s side and took custody. His toe nudged the stray piece in the sawdust of the practice field.
    Deliberately, the king turned his frown into the smile he reserved for his queen. He raised her hand to his lips, all the while studying her face for signs of weakness. A little pale yet, far too thin, with that hesitant forward stance of guarding her belly. A gaggle of ladies stood behind her, more concerned with keeping their skirts out of the churned mud and sawdust than with the health of their queen.
    “Then come, my dear. Let us sit in the rose garden a while.” He stripped off the padded tunic and breeches to reveal his own simple dark clothing beneath. Divested of the outward reminders of his weapons practice, he tucked her hand in the crook of his elbow and led her back toward a postern gate in the palace walls.
    With the garden and its inviting benches in sight he dismissed the trailing ladies with a wave of his hand. Only one of them paused, a protest halted on her lips.
    “I shall not need you, Lady Anya,” Mikka said lightly. “I am with my husband after all.”
    The good lady retreated with her companions.
    Mikka leaned more heavily on his arm.
    “You should not have challenged your strength so soon,” Darville whispered, guiding her to the nearest bench and helping her sit without collapsing into a weak puddle.
    “I heard about the Council’s demands, and about your slip on the stairs,” she said as soon as she settled with his arm behind her back. Weakly, she leaned her head against his shoulder. “Now your broken sword,” she sighed heavily. “Two accidents in one day could have been a deliberate attempt to shorten your life.”
    “Or perhaps just a warning that I am not immortal and need to address the question of an heir.” He tried