Scout- The Complete Scout Box Set, page 29
part #1 of Scout Series
The open-air corridors are as empty as the courtyard was, the servants few. A maid scurries about to place fresh-cut pine branches into vases plainly designed for summer flowers, and the fireplace in our sitting room has clearly been dormant for some time. “I’ll have your dinner brought up,” the maid says, showing herself out.
“No welcoming banquet, it seems,” says Wil dryly, sitting down on a woven chair.
I sweep the rooms, a set of three bedrooms adjoining a common room that the six of us—the extent of the Dansil royal court, with the exception of Violet—now occupy. More woven furniture stares back at me, dusty with disuse and bearing thin flower-embroidered cushions. Plainly, we’ve not traveled to where King Owain happened to be when he received word of our presence, but rather to a place he specifically relocated to.
“Why are we here, do you think?” I ask, walking back into the common room.
Calvin moves closer to the fire, holding his weathered hands near the flames. “A more accurate question is: Why are we not elsewhere?” he says, rubbing his lip. “What does this River Manor offer that is not available at, say, the royal palace?”
A knock at the door heralds a servant with a tray of bread, cheese, fruit, and mulled wine. She sets it on the table and departs with a bow. Somewhere along the road to Everett, I painted our arrival as a loud, energetic achievement. A solution. I might as well have dreamt of touching clouds.
I sniff the bread. It isn’t stale, but it isn’t freshly baked either. As if it was brought to River Manor, not baked here. “Expediency and discretion would be my guess, Master Calvin.”
The man nods. “Discretion about what?” he says, turning his palms to the flames. “That Prince William is seeking an audience?”
“I see no need for discretion on that account,” says Wil.
A corner of Calvin’s mouth twitches, pleased with the answer.
“You’ve worked this out, haven’t you, Master Calvin?” I say, raising a brow. “You are asking questions to which you already know the answers.”
He shrugs. “Perhaps. I do find it better to know the answer before the question. Professional habits are difficult to break.”
By the next morning, Wil has nearly worn a hole in the rug from pacing.
We eat breakfast in tense silence, and right when I’m worried that the prince might do something rash, there’s a light knock on the door. Wil leaps up to answer it, finding a servant on the other side. “His Majesty King Owain requests the pleasure of your company, Prince William,” the servant says.
My heart stutters. This is it, the capstone of the only chance we have. The hope that’s kept us moving farther from Dansil every day will either flower or die in the next hour. I imagined that more flair would accompany this moment. A grand throne room, fancy clothes, grave-faced guards.
I imagined Rune standing beside us.
Wil holds his hand out to me. “If you will join me, cousin,” he says formally for the servant’s sake. “I feel that both representatives of Dansil royal blood should attend His Majesty.” The servant, who knows protocol when he hears it, bows politely and motions for us to follow.
I memorize the layout of the manor as I walk beside Wil toward a downstairs room, each step filled with increasing tension. More woven chairs line our passage, and large windows with sheer curtains. Even with a fire burning in every hearth, the halls are too cold for comfort, especially in my low-necked dress.
The prince’s pounding heart echoes through the hand I rest on his elbow. My own pulse keeps pace with his.
The servant stops before a half-closed door and opens it onto an empty sitting room. Warm air escapes from inside. “Please make yourselves comfortable.” He makes no effort to hide just how little our comfort truly concerns him or anyone else. “His Majesty will join you shortly.” The door shuts behind us with a sharp click.
17
Kali
Wil spins around, whistling at the painted walls and carefully arranged furniture. As with the other rooms in River Manor, the style is lighter than the heavy chairs and velvet curtains of the Delta palace. The tall arched windows that bathe the room in bright sunlight also let in a cool draft. At least there is a fireplace—even if it’s blazing up such a storm that, unlike every other place in the manor, the furious flames manage to make the room too warm.
I almost miss the slight movement at the far end of the room. My back stiffens, my eyes surveying the furniture anew. Wil takes a step toward me, his brows knitted in question. I shake my head and put my finger to my lips. Stepping slowly as to keep the floor from creaking, I move along the bookcases lining the wall. Stars, what I wouldn’t give to have my knives back. The magic rumbles inside my chest.
Another breath of movement and a gentle whine of the floorboards. One person. Large. Standing in the small, blind space formed between the end of the bookshelf and the wall with the windows. My hand closes around a metal letter opener that I palm from a shelf. I pause, take a breath, spin around the bookcase—
And stop cold. “Why in the bloody hells are you hiding here?”
Rune flicks a brow at the letter opener in my fist. He is no longer wearing a uniform but is dressed in the Everett colors nonetheless, with forest-green pants and a heavy black coat that looks absurd in the warm room. “I am hardly hiding. It’s the only decent piece of wall to lean against.”
His eyes brush my silhouette, making me all too aware of the curves the dress accents perfectly.
I want to ask how his meeting with his parents went. I want him to ask after me. I cross my arms over my chest. “Don’t let me intrude upon your resting spot, Your Highness. I’d hate for the boring business of Dansil’s survival to be a bother.”
“Kali—” Wil starts to say, but I hold up my hand.
Something about Rune’s appearance bothers me. Something I can’t quite put my finger on, like an itch deep between the shoulder blades. Perhaps it’s his damn coat, or the too-rigid stance, or the look in his eye that is so void of emotion, even I cannot see beyond the mask. “What do you know?” I ask. “Has Owain made a decision already, without even hearing Wil out?”
“I do not know,” Rune says evenly. The muscles beneath his clothes are coiled hard, even beyond the usual solidness that I remember excruciatingly well.
“You are his son. You’ve spent hours with him, and a week talking with his general and riding with his troops. You know something.” I let my arms drop, my voice doing the same. “I understand that you are the prince of Everett, Rune. I understand that you can’t or won’t have me in your life. Whether it’s been a game all along—”
“Kal—”
I put up a hand, not letting him speak. Not yet. The words are too difficult to be voicing twice. “Or whether circumstances just changed,” I continue, “it doesn’t matter. I don’t matter. What matters is that you’ve spent years protecting King Firehorn and his son, spent years smuggling whisperers from Bahir’s grasp. You’ve put both your life and honor on the line. For the sake of all that effort, give us something to work with. Tell us what Owain is thinking, how we can best speak to him.” My jaw clenches at Rune’s silence, my blood simmering. “You know the importance of this meeting to us. Is helping us prepare for it so against Everett’s best interests that you will not dare risk it?”
Rune’s eyes flash. He tips his head down toward me, his perfect face and dark eyes a storm. “I don’t know my father’s mind about Dansil.” He enunciates each word as one might to someone hard of hearing or simple of mind, and then he strides forward several steps, gaining a moment to nod his hello to Wil before the doors to the sitting room swing open again.
We all turn.
As silly as it is, my first thought upon seeing King Owain and Queen Maria up close is how much Rune takes after his parents. Owain and Rune are of a height, and the prince’s jawbone is cut the same way as his father’s. Queen Maria is plainly responsible for Rune’s high cheekbones and Raza’s ethereal beauty. Maria’s eyes, a dazzling shade of emerald, echo in the pale green dress that flows behind her like the wings of a butterfly. Tall and lithe, she seems almost fragile next to Owain’s steel eyes and Rune’s deadly grace.
Owain halts a few steps into the room, far enough to force us all to come to him. Rune is the last to move, but when he does, he strides all the way forward and drops to one knee before his father. I think of Lord Gapral, who wielded formality as a tool. Or a weapon. Neither good nor bad, just tactical.
Wil throws me a glance, as if asking my opinion on how to best greet the royal.
My gut tells me the glance is a mistake. Any sign of weakness is. Despite having all the power of Everett behind him, Owain has come to play hard. He’ll exploit any possible advantage, even over a young prince finding his stride in a royal visit.
Then again, we’ve come as beggars. Perhaps it little matters after all.
Wil finally settles on a bow. I curtsy, staying with my skirts spread until the queen bids me to rise. Rune receives no such courtesy.
Wil clears his throat. “Thank you for granting me an audience on such . . . short notice hardly seems the right phrase.” His boyish voice strives for gravity but surrenders to its casual cadence within a few words. He sticks his hands in his pockets.
“Shall we sit?” Owain says darkly, an ill-hidden attempt to minimize Wil’s further assault on protocol.
Wil nods, steps back toward the sofa without looking, and trips on the carpet. Catching himself on the sofa’s armrest, he controls his descent enough to land his backside on the seat instead of the floor. I let out a very slow breath.
“My condolences for the loss of your father, Prince William,” King Owain says finally, apparently determined to battle impotence with formality. “How might I be of service to his son?” Wil waits until Maria and I have found our seats. When Rune stays kneeling, his black coat glistening in sunlit patches, Wil frowns questioningly at him. “Prince William,” Owain enunciates sharply, “how might I be of service to the Dansil throne?”
Wil’s attention snaps back to King Owain, and he raises his chin. A surge of energy rattles through me. This is it, the reason we’ve come, the last hope for Dansil. For Leaf.
Wil swallows. “Before my father’s death, he and Envoy Jajack negotiated a peace agreement between our kingdoms. The official surrender of Sylthia lands to Everett and a peacekeeping force from your kingdom to support Dansil’s throne. I come asking you for those troops.”
Such plain, simple words. My breath stills as our future hangs silent in air crackling with judgment. Wil’s hand grips his knee, his knuckles bloodless. My lungs burn. The tick-tock of a clock’s pendulum is the only sign that time still moves. Slow. Heavy. Laden with the life and death of a kingdom.
Finally, slowly, King Owain tilts his head to the side. “I believe the situation in Dansil has somewhat altered since those negotiations took place.”
My stomach sinks.
Wil’s eyes dart to me, his head shaking in denial of the words, begging me to have heard something that he did not.
King Owain begins to rise.
“Yes, Your Majesty, it has changed.” I hear my own voice before I make the decision to use it. I lean forward, my elbows digging into my thighs. Not a lady, but a scout. A very good scout. One determined to fight until the bitter end. “It’s become worse for us all. Especially for Everett. Because the one poisonous dagger that the Dansil war has held against your kingdom’s side—the terror mongers of Viva Sylthia—is now a country-backed, fully stocked force.”
A tiny flinch of surprise flashes in Owain’s dark eyes. He sits back down.
I press the assault. “Dansil has posed no true threat to Everett for years, Your Majesty. It was Viva Sylthia’s attacks that destroyed the living-crystal mines Everett had built up in Sylthia. The mines that Everett could competently protect are long dry, and the moderate-risk ones have crystals enough for perhaps a year. Likely less, given Everett’s gluttony for living crystals. That, sir, is why you entered the ceasefire talks to begin with.” I pause, meeting his eyes. “Bishop Bahir is the leader of Viva Sylthia. Is that who you want on the Dansil throne?”
Owain cocks a brow. “Fighting words, Lady Kalianna. But how am I to believe them? What evidence have you that the Goddess-loving Bishop is, in fact, the mastermind behind Viva’s terror?”
“You have the evidence of my observations. I imagine my background as a scout is a poorly kept secret by now.” I straighten my spine, my heart pounding, blood coursing fire through my veins. My ears ring with the music of war. “Additionally, our two young whisperers were Bahir’s prisoners, and Questioner Calvin has interrogated a member of Bishop Bahir’s scarlet guard—they can all offer their testimonies of the facts. Finally, there is the word of your own son, the prince of Everett, who has spent the past two years spying on the Dansil throne. Ask him.”
Those last words spark a flash of pleasure in Owain’s eyes. As if the trap he set had finally sprung. My chest tightens.
“Ah, yes, the boy.” Owain looks over at Rune, who’s still kneeling on the floor. “Lady Kalianna seems to believe you have something to say. Get up, then; take off that stifling coat and join the conversation.”
Rune’s face rises, his eyes blazing. “No.”
“I insist.” Owain’s voice sends a shiver down my spine. “I’ll have the fire stoked if you are cold. Unless you prefer that I—”
Rune comes smoothly to his feet and begins to work the buttons. Owain nods in pleased approval. Rune’s dark eyes belie nothing, but the shine of dull fabric catches my attention again. Rune isn’t cold; he’s sweating. I can’t help but draw a breath, curious as to whether Rune’s familiar musky scent will cross the several paces of air between us. A stupid, odd curiosity in the middle of such a meeting. I look away quickly.
The scent does reach me. Not musk and sweat, but copper. My head snaps back to where Rune is folding his coat neatly over his arm. The back of his white linen shirt drips with bright red blood.
18
Kali
Nausea grips my throat, forging slowly into hatred. Owain knew—he knew what happened to Rune five years ago. What it did to him. And Owain had him whipped anyway. To make a point. To us, to Rune, to himself.
My mind jumps back to finding Rune hidden when we arrived. He wasn’t trying to deceive us or eavesdrop, but to grasp a moment of privacy to collect himself. To button a heavy coat over a ruthlessly timed beating.
The only decent piece of wall to lean against, he said. He never said he was leaning against it with his back.
Owain pours himself a goblet of chilled wine. “Do not keep our guests in suspense, boy. Tell them what you were punished for.”
My fingers curl into fists, my body going still as a poised viper. The magic stirs inside me, growling its rage and hate. It presses against me from the inside, pulsating with latent power.
Rune’s eyes widen and focus on me, the first sign he gives of being aware of my presence. He holds my gaze now, his face a desperate warning to calm myself. “I received six lashes for failing to protect Princess Raza,” he says evenly, the words uttered for his father, the tone kept gentle for me. It’s all right, his tone lies. I don’t mind very much. Don’t do something stupid. Not over this. “Another dozen for impersonating the crown prince of Everett.”
My jaw clenches, but I yank my magic back hard. Calvin’s question comes back to me. Why aren’t we at the royal palace?
Because with enough distance from the throne, this meeting can be made to never have happened.
King Owain straightens his tunic. “Prince Rune of Everett is dead,” he says with a final, dismissive shrug. “But to your point, Lady Kalianna, I suspect your assessment of Bishop Bahir is accurate enough, though outdated.” He smiles without humor. “Not that it greatly matters, but he did not take the throne directly following the coup. He actually placed Princess Violet atop it. If my scouts’ reports are accurate, that is.” Wil draws a hard breath. Owain smiles. “A minor detail, really. No one imagines Princess Violet to be anything but a puppet. Would Your Highness agree?”
Wil clenches his hands in his lap but nods.
“Well then, young prince,” King Owain passes a goblet of wine to Wil and crosses his legs, “shall we discuss the final card you hold? Do not tell me the matter has failed to occur to you.”
Wil scratches the back of his head. “Your pardon, sir, but there are so many things that have failed to occur to me in the past months that narrowing them down to find the one you wish to discuss is more challenging than it appears.”
“Quite understandable.” Owain leans forward, a predator moving in for the kill. “Given the trying times for our nations, Your Highness will surely forgive the direct words for the sake of clarity. Princess Raza was permitted to travel to Dansil for one reason only: to introduce King Firehorn to his future daughter-in-law.”
For an instant, I’m certain I’ve misheard Owain, or at the very least misunderstood. But Wil’s eyes are wide, and even Rune stiffens, which is a feat for someone already still as stone.
“I was unaware of this arrangement or negotiation,” Wil says finally, wisely avoiding offering an explanation for his ignorance. Whether he knew nothing because Firehorn kept it secret or because Owain just made it up now is of little consequence.
“I’m quite aware that the bride’s recent injury decreases her attractiveness, but Dansil’s situation has changed as well.” Owain smiles coolly. “Everett is not in the business of taking allies on charity, especially not the nation that murdered so many of my kingdom’s sons. If you wish to secure Everett’s assistance in reclaiming the throne, you shall bring something to the table more valuable than a sad handful of loyal servants.”
“You want me to marry Princess Raza,” Wil repeats dumbly.
No, everything inside me screams.
