The Inadequate Heir, page 25
“I—”
Yrina jerked sideways, the tip of his knife sliding into her flesh like a hot blade through butter. Blood splashed over his hands, sprayed him in the face, and Yrina slumped in his arms.
“Tell Zarrah that I love her,” she whispered, and then she went still.
A tremor ran through him, and Keris sucked in breath after breath, but it didn’t feel as though any air reached his lungs. He lowered Yrina to the cell floor and clambered to his feet, falling against the door. “Open it!”
He waited for the sound of the bolt opening, for motion, for voices, but there was nothing. His father was going to leave him in here. Leave him in here to stare at the corpse of yet another woman he’d gotten killed. Panic raced through his veins, and he hammered his fists against the wood, screaming, “Open the fucking door!”
It opened.
His father stood in the opening, blocking Keris’s route to escape. Panting for breath, he tried to get past, but his father didn’t move. “She’s dead. Let me out.”
“Very dead, from the look of it.” His father’s shoulders began to shake, and he laughed. Not a chuckle, but a great belly laugh of delight, tears running down his face. “God strike me down, I didn’t think you had it in you, Keris. But it appears I underestimated your desire to survive.”
Keris’s hand tightened around the dagger he still clutched, his fingers sticky with blood, and all he could think of was how good it would feel to plunge it into his father’s chest. Not once but over and over until that laugh was silenced. Until those awful eyes glazed to lifelessness.
A shiver ran through him, because as much as he denied that violence was in his blood, it was still there. Still a part of him. And if he unleashed it, he’d be more than capable of slaughtering his father where he stood.
But then what?
He’d be executed for patricide, and Otis would become king. Though he loved his brother dearly, Keris knew that Otis would execute Valcotta without hesitation and that things would carry on as they always had, never changing.
Find another way.
Keris forced his fingers open, the knife falling to the stone at his feet with a clatter. “Was there something else you required of me, Your Grace?”
He swore he saw a flash of disappointment in his father’s eyes. “No, Keris. You can go back to negotiating with the Empress.”
THE BALANCE OF her day was a maddening combination of stilted conversation or being outright ignored by the harem, and Zarrah used her time to watch and listen. Yet as the day progressed into evening, she found herself thinking more about what Sara’s mother had said, wondering what secrets hid in the tapestry in her room, her mind conjuring thoughts of weapons woven into the threads or instructions for some secret route of escape.
By the time she’d forced another over-salted dinner down her throat, Zarrah was vibrating with anticipation, pleading exhaustion until Coralyn allowed her guards to escort her back to her room.
The second Zarrah pulled off the cursed heels that were murdering her feet, she ran silently to the tapestry, which hung floor to ceiling behind the headboard. Old and faded, it depicted two women weaving, the work mediocre and the subject dull. Frowning, Zarrah glanced at the door, then knelt next to the bed. The area where the fabric was tacked to the wall showed wear, as though it had been refastened many times. Yet it was dusty enough that she doubted it had been removed for cleaning in years.
Unfastening the corner, Zarrah pulled it away from the wall as much as the bed would allow, peering into the dark space. But she could see nothing in the dim light, so she shoved her hand behind the tapestry, the stone wall cold against her overheated skin. She was nearly at the limit her arm could reach when her fingers brushed a deep groove. Her heart racing, she traced along the groove, realizing that someone had carved away the mortar around one of the large stone blocks in the wall.
And left behind their tool.
Withdrawing her hand, Zarrah stared at the small nail, the tip dull from endless chiseling. Easing the bed away from the wall, she crawled behind it, lifting the tapestry to stare at the block, seeing a dozen names carved into the surface. A dozen women who, over the years, had all worked to create an escape from this place.
And they’d very nearly made it. Beneath the block and around the sides, the mortar was gone, and sunlight shone through. There was only the mortar along the top still holding the block in place.
Zarrah scratched her name on the block. Set the nail back in its groove. Fixed the tapestry into place. Tonight, she’d pick up work where the other women had left off, and when she succeeded where they had failed, she’d have the first step in her plan.
Going to the window, she looked up at the tower where Silas slept.
And she smiled.
HE WAS DRUNK.
Which, contrary to the rumors about him, was something Keris never allowed himself to become. It lowered his guard, loosened his lips, and risked sleep so deep that he’d never hear the assassin coming. But tonight, that was the oblivion he sought. To escape the endlessly replaying sensation of his knife siding into Yrina’s throat, hot blood spraying him in the face, and her words in his ears.
Find another way.
Except there was no other way. The sanctum was locked down, even trusted servants forbidden from exiting the inner gates, and the inner walls were thick with guards whose attention never wavered. Not with the Ithicanians ceaseless in their attempts to reach their king. And not with Yrina having killed four of their own in an effort to reach Valcotta.
Coralyn had come to see him at some point during the afternoon. She’d eyed the empty wine bottles with disapproval before moving books aside to sit on a chair. “I saw the blood. Who did your father kill?”
“He didn’t kill anyone.” Keris drained his cup and promptly uncorked another bottle. “I did.”
The silence that stretched made him sick, the anticipation of what his aunt would say making him want to shout at her to get on with it. To say what she needed to say.
“What did you think would happen, Keris? The moment you arrived in Vencia with Zarrah Anaphora in tow, you stepped into the arena. Now you have a choice: you can fight for the crown, or you can lie down and die.”
“I never wanted to be king,” he answered, staring blindly into the distance. “Ran from it all my life, because I knew I was ill-suited for the role.”
“I’m aware.” Coralyn sat on the sofa next to him. “And I’ve long done my best to support you in your flight from duty, even if I didn’t agree with it. If you’d kept your head down, you might have outlived your father and inherited, then abdicated to one of your brothers. But in showing a willingness to play the game, you’ve removed that option. Your father’s eyes are on you, but worse, the Magpie’s eyes are on you. Which means you must either bend to their power or take it from them.”
“I’d gladly carve out both their hearts, if I could manage it.”
Coralyn snorted. “I didn’t raise you to be a drunken fool, boy. You cannot murder your father, nor can you be seen as complicit in his death. The former would see you executed, and the latter would have the people label you a coward. You must find another way.”
“What other way?” he shouted, those cursed words triggering him. “There is no other way!”
She rose to her feet. “I see you are too deep in your cups and self-pity to see reason, so I’ll leave you. But when you’ve climbed out of this useless pit of morosity, we will speak again. Good evening, Keris.”
That conversation had been hours ago. Curfew had passed, the windows of the harem’s house all dark. Lured out of his rooms by the quiet and the need to be away from the bottle, Keris sat on the bench where the Ithicanian king was so often chained, rain pouring from the sky. Unlike Aren, he ignored the corpses, his eyes instead fixed on Valcotta’s window.
He needed to confess.
Except she’d hate him for it. His father had murdered her mother, and now he’d murdered her closest friend. And if he didn’t find another way to get her out of this mess, Valcotta would lose her life as well.
Find another way.
But all he could think of was apologizing to her. Of explaining that there had been no choice, or at least, no better choice. Of begging for her forgiveness.
Rising to his feet, Keris walked toward the base of the harem’s building, ignoring the sheets of rain slapping him across the face as he reached down to grab a handful of pebbles.
But his nerve failed him.
Swearing softly, he sat against the wall of the building, staring upward. “She deserves the truth,” he muttered as thunder rolled, the rain like icy pellets striking his skin. “Don’t be a coward.”
Find another way.
His eyes went to the corpses of the Ithicanians swaying in the wind, his stomach contents rising as he wondered what had been done with Yrina’s body. It was more of the same—people who’d been willing to die to rescue the person they cared for. But unlike Valcotta, Ithicana showed no sign of giving up hope. They kept coming, despite knowing they’d most likely die.
What would happen if they had help on the inside?
The thought struck him like a punch to the stomach, and Keris straightened.
The Ithicanians were working blind, none of them familiar with the interior of the palace or where Aren was being kept, which meant they were destined to fail. But what if they were given the information they needed? What if he helped them orchestrate an escape for Aren?
And what if Aren took Valcotta with him?
A thrill of excitement raced through his veins, even as the countless obstacles to such a plan shouted that it was impossible.
He had no way to get in contact with the Ithicanians, especially given that Serin would have him followed every time he left the palace. And even if he somehow managed it, the Ithicanians had no reason to listen to him. Would probably slit his throat and toss him into the sea for his trouble.
Unless their king ordered them not to.
Wheels turned in his head, pushing aside the haze of wine as Keris considered how to make such a thing happen. And then it struck him.
The enemy of my enemy is my friend.
Scrambling to his feet, Keris climbed out of the foliage and strode down a path, once again steady on his feet. Ignoring the protests of the guards at the harem’s quarters, he went inside, rising the stairs two at a time. The guard at the top said, “Highness, with respect, it is after curfew—”
Keris pushed past him. “How the hours fly.” His boots squelching, he strode down the corridor, opening the door to Coralyn’s rooms and navigating the dark room to reach her bedchamber.
A lamp burned low on a table, revealing his aunt sound asleep among piles of silken cushions. “Auntie?”
She jerked upright, blinking at him. “Keris?” Then her face hardened. “Have you lost your bloody mind, boy? You cannot be in the harem after curfew—your father will think you are carrying on with one of the women and have your head.”
“I’m too drunk to fuck, but thankfully not so drunk I can’t think. I’ve had an idea.”
“Foul-mouthed child!” She swung her legs out of the bed, reaching for a dressing gown. “What is it that you want?”
“This isn’t about what I want.” He dropped onto a chaise. “It’s about what you want.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Oh?”
“You want to know what Aren knows about my sister and her whereabouts.”
“Sisters.”
“Yes, yes.” He waved a hand at her to sit. “But he’s no reason to give us anything, much less information about the wife he foolishly still loves.”
“Keris …”
He ignored the warning in her tone. “So you will have to offer him something in exchange.”
“What are you suggesting?”
“An end to his people getting themselves killed trying to rescue him.” Her mouth opened to respond, but Keris kept going. “If you offer to facilitate communication with the Ithicanians ordering them to stand down, I think he’ll give you the information the harem wants.”
That was only the first step. He’d need to gain Aren’s trust before the man would ever agree to an organized rescue attempt. And Keris needed time to convince Coralyn that the harem should risk their own lives to help a foreign king.
His aunt’s brow furrowed, then she shook her head. “If I suggest as much, he’ll believe me a pawn in one of Serin’s tricks to try to catch the Ithicanians who are undoubtedly in Vencia. He’s no fool.”
“Debatable,” Keris answered. “But in any case, that’s why you aren’t going to offer him anything—you’re going to wait for him to ask for it, which he will.”
“Why? He has no reason to trust us and many reasons not to.”
“Because you’re going to give him certainty with the knowledge you have a common enemy.”
She stared at him for a long moment. “The Magpie.” At his nod, she cocked her head. “And what, pray tell, is in this for you?”
Possibly nothing. Possibly an alliance that would see Valcotta freed of this place. “I’m merely fulfilling my half of our agreement. This was what you wanted in exchange for keeping Zarrah Anaphora under your wing while I negotiated with the Empress.”
“Bullshit, boy. You weren’t sitting out in the rain fretting about your deal with me. What are you up to?”
Rising to his feet, Keris held his arms wide. “Playing the game, Auntie.” And without another word, he left the room.
ZARRAH TRIED NOT to scowl as the servants gathered the cutlery used for the garden lunch, one of the guards carefully counting each piece before following the servant to the kitchens, where everything was washed and locked up for the next meal. It was the same for glassware and every other mundane object the harem might require that could potentially be used as a weapon: kept under lock and key and strictly accounted for. And though she’d been here for days, she’d hadn’t been able to steal so much as a spoon without them noticing.
It’s no matter, she reminded herself. A length of fabric torn from a sheet is a weapon. The clasp on a broach is a weapon. A pillow is a weapon.
I am a weapon.
Seated next to her, Sara shifted restlessly, eyeing a plate of desserts at the center of the table, of which she’d already had three. Zarrah asked, “Would you walk with me?”
The little princess looked to Coralyn, who gave a slight nod, and then said, “Gladly, Zarrah. But only if you tell me more stories of battles.”
Smiling, Zarrah rose and helped the child to her feet. What the girl needed was a cane, but that was another thing Silas apparently considered a weapon. It made Zarrah sick how little regard he showed his own children, but Sara seemed unconcerned, gripping Zarrah’s arm to steady herself as they moved slowly down the path.
“Let us walk around the tower and then back.” Zarrah knew the limits of the child’s endurance well, for Sara had been her constant—and only—companion. The harem still kept their distance, and Keris … Keris, she hadn’t seen since their walk in the garden on her first morning in Vencia.
She wasn’t the only one who’d noticed his absence.
“Boy keeps the hours of a two-copper courtesan,” she’d heard Coralyn complaining earlier to Lestara, a rare beauty who, despite not being Maridrinian by birth, seemed to hold the greatest grievance against Zarrah. “Out all night and then sleeps all day. It’s insufferable.”
Lestara had only shrugged. “Can you blame him? There’s little to entertain him within these walls. Once he inherits, I think you’ll find we can scarcely get rid of him. Not that I’d want to get rid of him.”
“Mind your words, girl,” Coralyn had snapped. “If Silas hears talk like that, you’ll suffer. As will Keris, despite him showing no more interest in you than he does Elouise.”
The wife Elouise was the eldest in the harem, wrinkled, deaf, and smelling of prune juice. Zarrah had struggled not to laugh at the look the comparison brought to Lestara’s face, although she could hardly blame the woman. Silas was old, smelly, and sadistic, whereas Keris was young, handsome, and charming. The woman probably prayed nightly that her husband died in his sleep and wept every morning to discover he had not.
But regardless of Lestara’s dreams for her future, she was right in one thing: Keris had been notably absent. And not knowing the reason why was driving her to madness.
“Tell me a battle story, Zarrah,” Sara said, interrupting her thoughts. “One from long ago when you were young.”
“As opposed to recent battles, where I am old and feeble?” Smiling, Zarrah dug into her memories, bringing forth a tale the princess would find worthy. The words flowed from her lips even as her eyes went to the tower, and the guards standing at the entrance of the base, both armed and deadly. More patrolled the bridges linking the tower to the buildings, leaving every entrance under guard. And the men never abandoned their posts.
She circled the base of the tower, pausing when she heard the child’s breathing begin to labor. “Rest here.”
They sat together on a bench, the tower blocking them from the harem’s sight, though Zarrah’s pair of guards stood nearby, expressions bored.
“I will be leaving the palace soon,” Sara said, toying with the fabric of her dress. “My father is sending me away.” Twin tears rolled down the girl’s face. “I don’t want to leave.”
Your life will be better away from this place, away from your father, Zarrah wanted to say, but instead asked, “Have you ever been outside of Vencia? It is a very beautiful country.”
Sara looked up at her with red eyes. “I’ve never been outside of the palace.”
Sickness filled Zarrah, for Silas didn’t just treat his wives like prisoners; he treated his children that way as well. Born and raised in captivity, and now liberty was in Sara’s grasp, but it felt like punishment. “To be a warrior, one must be willing to venture beyond the walls and face one’s fears. And though no one has given you a weapon, you are still a warrior, Sara.”
Sara frowned, but then nodded, wiping away her tears.
