The Inadequate Heir, page 18
What did he intend? What did he plan to do with her?
The men surrounding them clearly were wondering the same thing, all of them staring at their prince. “What do you want to do with her, then?” Otis demanded.
Keris shrugged. “She’s collateral we can use in negotiations with the Valcottans. With her, we might see an end to the blockades on Southwatch, but the Empress won’t negotiate for the return of a corpse.”
Gods, no. Zarrah blanched at the thought of being used in such a manner, and the other princeling appeared equally horrified as he blurted out, “But—”
Keris leveled a finger at his brother. “I am in command here, Otis, which means she is my prize. If I personally deliver her to Father in Vencia and she proves as valuable as I believe, it will be me he thanks.”
The princeling’s jaw tightened. “He’s only going to kill her. This is a waste of time.”
“Perhaps, but that’s his decision to make, not yours. And to that end, from this moment forward, I want her treated with the utmost care and consideration. The last thing I need is one of you heavy-handed pricks accidentally killing her and ruining my chance to win my father’s favor.”
It had all been lies. If he wanted Silas Veliant’s favor, every single thing he’d said to her had been a lie. Blood boiling, she lunged at him. “You fucking Maridrinian bastard!”
The men caught her shoulders, slamming her into the ground with enough force that her eyes glazed.
“Enough!” Keris ordered. “Stand down!”
But instead of listening, one of the men kicked her several times in the ribs, each blow drawing a gasp of pain from her lips. It only ended when Keris snarled, “Did I or did I not just give an order that she was not to be harmed?”
“But Your Highness—”
“Did I or did I not give you an order?”
The man swallowed hard. “You did, my lord.”
“I don’t give you lot many orders.” His tone was frigid. “But when I do, I expect to be obeyed. And there are consequences to doing otherwise. Otis, have him whipped.”
The princeling’s jaw tightened, but he nodded. “How many lashes?”
“How should I know?” Keris straightened his coat. “Keep count, and when he stops breathing, bring me the number.”
Zarrah stared at him in horror, unable to reconcile the man she’d fallen for with this creature. With this monster.
“Keris—”
“I want this win,” he interrupted. “See it done. And then put the woman somewhere safe and keep her under close guard. If anything happens to her, the man responsible will consider this one’s fate”—he jerked his chin at the pale-faced soldier—“merciful. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m in need of both bath and breakfast.”
And then Keris turned on his heels and walked away.
Everything was blurry and distant, though whether it was because the blow to her head had concussed her or she was in shock, Zarrah couldn’t have said as she watched Keris disappear down the corridor.
“You heard him,” Otis snarled. “Put her in one of the cells, and for the love of God, don’t let anything happen to her. Veliant blood runs through Keris’s veins, and not one of you should ever forget what that means.”
The blood of her mother’s murderer ran through his veins, and she’d just seen proof of it. She’d slept with a monster. Given herself to a monster.
Otis turned to the soldier who’d been sentenced to die. “Do you submit yourself to your fate willingly?”
The soldier was blanched of color, clearly terrified, but he nodded before turning his gaze on her. “My only regret is not aiming for your face, you Valcottan bitch.”
“I’d say next time,” she forced a smirk onto her face, “but it doesn’t look like that’s in the cards.”
Fury flashed in the man’s gaze, but Otis hauled him backward, voice cool as he said, “I’d temper your optimism, General. Just because His Highness believes your life holds value does not mean His Majesty will agree. And when our father hands you over to Serin to see what secrets that pretty little head of yours holds, you’ll be cursing Keris’s name for not handing you over to me.”
Serin. The Magpie. Zarrah’s blood chilled. The Maridrinian spymaster was infamous for his skill at torture, and many of her countrymen had died from his ministrations after telling him everything he wished to know. As trained as she was, Zarrah doubted she’d fare any better. “I already curse your brother’s name.”
The expression on Otis’s face as he led the condemned man away suggested she wasn’t alone.
Two soldiers caught her under the arms, hauling her upward, but the motion was more than her rattled brain could take, and she vomited on the floor, barely hearing their muttered curses of disgust. The corridor swirled around her, a blur of color, and Zarrah struggled to remain conscious as they dragged her forward.
I curse you. She silently sent the words to where she imagined Keris bathed and dined in all the luxury befitting his station. But the true words, the ones in her heart, were, How could you?
Because he’s an honorless Maridrinian and a monster, just like his father, a cruel voice answered. And you’re a fool for having ever trusted him.
It was the last thought Zarrah had before she slipped from consciousness.
WALKING AWAY FROM her was the hardest thing he’d ever done in his life.
But he had no choice.
Not when getting her out of this alive depended on him playing his part to perfection, which meant behaving exactly as everyone expected him to.
As much as he could.
Never in his life had he ordered someone whipped, much less ordered an execution. Yet he’d seen the desire for revenge in the eyes of his soldiers and known that if he didn’t make the consequences of harming Zarrah clear, one would kill her and then claim it an accident.
The necessity of it did nothing to ease the roiling in his stomach, which, despite being empty, was threatening to heave itself up his throat as he rose the stairs two at a time, whistling cheerfully. “Draw me a bath,” he said to one of the servants he passed. “And get me some breakfast. With water, not wine. I need a clear head.”
“Right away, my lord.” The woman curtseyed, but Keris was already spiraling up the last flight of stairs, taking them three at a time now, his mouth sour.
Shoving open the door to his room, he sprinted across, barely making it to the water closet before his stomach heaved. Over and over, he vomited, his ears filling with the imagined sound of a whip cracking against flesh, his eyes with the blood that would follow. Otis would make it quick, of that he was certain, but the soldier’s death was still on his hands.
In more ways than anyone knew.
Ribs aching, Keris pushed himself up and returned to his bedchamber, draining a glass of water and trying not to think about Valcotta—about Zarrah—broken and bleeding in the prison cells below. Yet for all his efforts, visions of her in increasingly worsening circumstances rolled through his thoughts, and a cold sweat rose to his skin.
There was no other path he could have taken, no other choice that he could’ve made. At least, not one that wouldn’t have seen them both dead.
Not even he had the power to give the order to release her—especially not given who she was. Even before her rise to command, she’d been an infamous warrior on the battlefield, responsible for countless Maridrinian deaths, including—if the rumors were true—the death of his elder brother Rask. And while Keris might raise a glass to her for that particular death, Rask had been revered by the soldiers in Nerastis.
He could spout orders until he was blue in the face. Order dozens of men whipped for defiance—they’d still refuse, because their loyalty to him was a paltry thing compared to their desire for revenge.
There was only one person with the power to spare her. Only one person the soldiers respected and feared enough to set aside their need to execute Valcotta.
The King of Maridrina.
The thought of relying on his father made his stomach twist, but in the seconds he’d had to think of a plan, he’d seen no other solution. The soldiers would allow her to live because they feared his father. And because they believed what he’d do to Valcotta would be far worse than anything they’d come up with.
They were probably right.
Servants entered the room, bobbing curtseys at him before carrying buckets of steaming water to warm the bathing pool, the air soon filling with scented oil as sconces were lit.
I need to go to her, his conscience screamed. I need to make certain she’s safe.
Instead, Keris pulled off his clothes, then headed into the bathing chamber, barely seeing the large pool circled by candles or the rose petals scattered across the surface of the water. If he showed any sign of empathy for Valcotta, he risked losing what authority he had.
Slipping into the tepid depths, he leaned back against the curved stone basin, shutting his eyes and reaching blindly for a glass of water, then draining it.
This plan had only bought him time; the idea that his father would use her as a bargaining chip in negotiations with the Empress was a fool’s hope, it being far more likely that he’d execute her as entertainment for the masses. Which meant Keris had to get her free before they reached Vencia.
Think, he ordered himself. Come up with a solution!
Yet every time he blinked, Keris heard the sound of her skull bouncing off the tile. Saw her eyes glazing. She could be dying in a cell. Could already be dead while he was up in his tower soaking in the bath.
If she is, there is nothing you can do to help her, he told himself even as a tremor ran through him. Believe that she is alive, and turn your head to keeping her that way.
The first step was getting her out of Nerastis. Otis would push to transport her by ship to Vencia, which would not only make an escape more difficult but also cut the time he’d have to orchestrate it by more than half. It had to be by land, which would necessitate a heavy escort.
Think.
Even on the road, finding an opportunity for escape would be nearly impossible. He’d need assistance, either in the form of someone breaking into camp to free her by force or providing a sufficient distraction that he could set her free himself. But he had exactly zero allies in this. Being an enemy soldier was bad enough, but Valcotta was also the future Empress. Was the woman who’d fought against these men time and again, killing their friends, their loved ones, their commanders. Help wouldn’t come from Maridrinians.
Then who?
Mercenaries? They certainly could be bought, but likely not in so short a time period that they’d be of any use. He needed help that was already here, already available.
The Valcottans?
He sat up straight in the bath, water sloshing everywhere. The Valcottans would be desperate to get her back. If they knew she was alive and traveling by road, they’d inevitably try to rescue her.
A plan formed in his mind, and he picked up a bar of soap and set to scrubbing the sweat from his body, refusing to consider how it had gotten there. Except memories forced their way through. The devilish smile on her lips as she’d tormented him. The taste of her on his tongue as he explored her every curve. The vision of her above him, back arched and head thrown back as she climaxed.
He’d slept with Zarrah Anaphora. Heir to the Empire his own kingdom had warred against for generations.
Would he have done it if he had known the truth of who she was?
Would she?
Even as the question arose in his thoughts, he shoved it away, remembering the horror in her eyes when she’d realized who he was.
Zarrah Anaphora hated him, and nothing he did would change that.
The truth caused hot pain to lance through him, his hands to ball into fists, and a scream of anger and frustration and grief to rise up his throat. But Keris clenched his teeth down to silence it. No matter how she felt about him, he cared for her. Deeply. And he’d cut his own throat before he’d allow any more harm to befall her. Would do whatever it took to protect her, no matter the cost.
But for there to be any chance of his plan working, he needed General Zarrah Anaphora to trust him.
And that might be the most impossible task of all.
ZARRAH WOKE WITH a start, the scent of smelling salts heavy in her nose and a stranger bent over her.
She recoiled from his reaching hand. “Don’t touch me!”
“I am a physician to the royal family.” His tone was cool. “Stay still while I examine you, or I shall have these men hold you down. His Highness has made it quite clear that he wishes for you to survive long enough to be judged by the king, and I’ve no desire to tempt his wrath.”
His Highness. Keris. The fog in Zarrah’s brain cleared, and memories came crashing through, echoes of the Maridrinian espousing the virtues of peace juxtaposed with those of the prince ordering a man whipped to death for disobedience, her mind refusing to see them as one and the same.
Except they were.
Had it all been an elaborate ruse to capture her? Had he known who she was this entire time? Had everything he’d said been a lie?
The last was somehow the worst of all. God help her, but she’d felt alive in those moments when she’d believed she might make a difference. In those moments when she’d believed that, together, they might change the nature of this war.
In those foolish moments when she thought that it might be possible to end the fighting altogether. When her hate for her enemies had paled beneath the glow of passion she’d felt at the Maridrinian’s words. At his touch. At what he’d inspired within her.
Not the Maridrinian, a hateful voice whispered at her. Prince Keris Veliant, the son of your mother’s murderer!
Pain and nausea filled her, and Zarrah submitted to the physician’s examination even as she clawed aside her emotions in favor of thought for her path forward. For escape. Because it would be better to die trying to escape than to allow them to execute her. Better for her to die with honor than to allow them to use her against her people.
“How do you feel?” the man asked, frowning at the wound on her arm where the stitches had broken open. It ached nearly as badly as her skull, the skin around it blanched where it wasn’t streaked with blood.
“Dizzy,” she mumbled. “My head throbs.”
He hesitated, then said, “A bad concussion,” before picking up a needle and restitching her arm, then covering it with a pungent poultice and a thick bandage. When he’d finished, he said to the guards, “She needs to be kept awake, and if that isn’t possible, woken every hour. I’d say fetch me if she won’t rouse, but if that happens, nothing I can do will save her. Fresh water only, no wine. And get her cleaned up. She smells of sweat and soldier.”
He departed, and a few moments later, a servant—little more than a child—appeared with a washbasin and what looked like a dress, her eyes wide with trepidation. “I’m to help you wash, miss.”
“I don’t need help,” Zarrah answered, unwilling to admit weakness. But the soldiers ignored her words and pushed the girl inside, locking the door. With their arms crossed, they stood watching with faint smiles on their faces until the girl said, “Please turn your backs. His Highness gave orders she was to be treated with courtesy.”
“She’s dangerous, girl. There is no chance of us turning our backs to her.”
The girl’s face tightened, and reaching for the blanket at the foot of the bed, she held it up to form a screen.
A small act of kindness, though it was no doubt motivated by fear. Either way, it was the most privacy she could expect, and Zarrah grudgingly pulled off her clothes, using the cloth to clean her body, which ached from head to toe with bruises.
When she was as clean as could be managed without a bath, Zarrah eyed her own garments, which were splattered with blood and vomit, then pulled the Maridrinian dress over her head, the thin wool rough against her skin, which was used to silk and leather. The cut left her arms and a large portion of her back bare, and she shivered as a draft struck her. The act of washing had rendered her exhausted, and she slumped down on the cot, her heart racing, the world swimming in and out of focus.
Where is he? she found herself wondering. Is he sitting in his tower, gloating over my capture? Or does he truly care so little that he is, as he alluded, asleep in his bed, with not a thought for me at all?
The girl departed with her soiled garments, returning with a tin cup of water and a crust of bread. The water Zarrah guzzled gratefully, but her stomach revolted at the thought of food, and she left the bread sitting on her cot.
Yrina would be out searching for her by now. Would have raised the alarm, and Zarrah wondered what her friend had told the garrison. Whether she’d given the whole truth, hoping it would aid in the hunt, or if she protected Zarrah’s secret still. Once word of her capture on this side of the Anriot reached Yrina’s ears, her friend would suspect the truth—that Zarrah had been with a Maridrinian. That Zarrah had lied to her.
Shame burned over her skin, briefly chasing away the chill, then footfalls echoed down the corridor, the draft carrying a familiar spicy scent and the voice that had once inspired her dreams. “Please tell me she’s still alive, preferably in one piece.”
“Yes, Your Highness,” one of the guards answered. A heartbeat later, Keris appeared in front of her cell, freshly bathed and dressed immaculately in a deep-blue coat that matched his eyes, trousers pressed, and his boots so polished they reflected the lamplight.
Rising on wobbly knees, Zarrah gripped the bars and faced him. She wanted to scream, How could you? Wanted to hammer her fists against the bars with all the rage in her chest, all the hurt in her heart, if for no other reason than to get a reaction from him. Yet she clung to her composure. “Come to preen?”
Keris shrugged, then brushed a fleck of lint off one shoulder. “Tempting, but better to wait until you’re safely delivered to Vencia. Accidents happen, after all, and I wouldn’t care to embarrass myself by celebrating too soon.” He gave her a weighted look that her battered brain couldn’t process, then waved a hand at one of the guards. “Go. I wish to speak to General Anaphora, and she’s more likely to speak freely without you staring daggers at her.”
