The Inadequate Heir, page 26
“Shall we carry on?” Zarrah asked. “Your mother will wonder where you have gone off to.”
“Sara!”
Zarrah straightened at the distant call, not a female voice, but male.
“It’s my brother!” The little princess tugged on Zarrah’s arm so that she walked faster. “Let’s find him!”
Her heart skittered in her chest at the sound of boots against the pathway, her skin prickling with anticipation. She saw him before he saw her, and not for the first time, Zarrah felt her chest tighten into breathlessness at the sight of him. Sun reflected off his honey-blond locks, which were pulled behind his head as he’d always worn it during the nights in Nerastis. It revealed the square lines of his jaw and the high planes of his cheekbones, utterly beautiful and yet so profoundly masculine that her toes curled. Her body didn’t care that he was her enemy or that he was the son of the man who’d murdered her mother. It didn’t even care that she didn’t wholly trust him—it only cared for the unchecked lust coursing through her veins. She wasn’t sure if it was better or worse that she knew exactly what it felt like to have his tongue in her mouth, his hands on her breasts, and his cock buried deep inside of her.
What she did know was that her body wanted all those things again.
Keris lifted his face and their eyes met, and what looked almost like panic filled his expression. “Lady Zarrah.” He inclined his head, eyes fixing on the ground before her.
“Your Highness.”
His throat moved as he swallowed, looking everywhere but at her. “Do you wish to go riding, Sara?”
The girl went still. “Truly? Auntie Coralyn will allow it?”
“I don’t intend to ask. Here, I’ve smuggled out all the things you’ll need.”
He stepped to his sister’s side, fastening a black cloak over her dress, and as he did, the spicy scent of his cologne filled the air. His sleeve brushed Zarrah’s bare arm as he straightened, sending a shiver running over her skin. She knew she should move, but the chance it might happen again kept her rooted in place. “Is there word from the Empress?”
Keris stiffened, and a flutter of unease filled Zarrah’s chest. Had something happened? Had her aunt given the Maridrinians reason to believe she wouldn’t negotiate? But he only said, “The Harendellians won’t even have reached Nerastis yet, much less—”
“What have you been doing these past days?” Sara interrupted. “Auntie Coralyn says that you are a two-copper courtesan as you sleep all day.”
Instead of laughing, Keris frowned, still avoiding Zarrah’s gaze. “I haven’t been sleeping. I’ve been occupied.” He dropped to his knees and pulled off her delicate slippers.
“With what?”
Zarrah could have kissed the girl, for that was precisely what she wished to ask but couldn’t. Not with the guards within earshot.
“Unpacking my books.” He pulled tiny boots on her feet, jaw tight as he fastened the laces.
“But it’s been days since I’ve seen you.” The princess crossed her arms. “And we’ve servants for such things so that you might spend your time with me.”
“I’ve more important things to do than to keep you company!” he snapped.
Zarrah started in surprise, the harsh response unexpected and out of character.
The child stared at him with wide eyes full of hurt, and guilt immediately flooded Keris’s blue gaze. “That was a wretched thing for me to say, and I’m sorry for it.” Rising to his feet, he picked her up, kissing her cheek. “If it were my choice, I’d climb down from the tower and spend all my hours with you. But there would be consequences to doing so, so prudence demands I spend my time elsewhere.”
With visible effort, he lifted his head to meet Zarrah’s gaze. “When we receive your aunt’s response, you will be the first to know. Good day to you, my lady.” With Sara in his arms, he turned on his heel and walked away.
Something had changed. His tension. His temper. His inability to look her in the eye …
There was something he didn’t want to tell her, and that was why he was avoiding her.
Zarrah started to stride after them, not entirely certain what she intended to do, only that she could not be complacent, but her feet caught in Sara’s slippers, sending her stumbling. Catching herself against the wall of the tower, she held on to a gap between the stones while she righted her sandal on her foot.
Then she froze, Keris’s words repeating in her ears. I’d climb down from the tower …
She looked up, eyes picking out the innumerable hand- and toeholds where time and weather had eroded the masonry. An idea formed in her head, difficult enough to verge on impossible, which meant it was nothing any of them would expect.
Keris might not be willing to climb down.
But that didn’t mean Zarrah couldn’t climb up.
“YOU’VE HAD NO RESPONSE from Petra, I take it?”
The question was inevitable. It had been weeks since Keris sent his letter south to Valcotta, but thus far, the only response was silence. And given what Yrina had told him, silence was the best he could hope for.
Keris shifted his weight in the chair, ever unnerved by his father’s eyes, which were currently fixed on him. “No. But the winds have been southerly, so the Harendellians might well be delayed in returning with the Empress’s response.” An excuse that would only satisfy for another handful of days, but Keris made it anyway.
“You’ve put all your eggs in one basket,” his father said. “And I fear you’re destined to find them all broken.”
He had. But the basket was not the Empress of Valcotta but rather the King of Ithicana. He only said, “It’s rumored the Valcottans lost another three merchant vessels to the Tempest Seas, so the Empress may be feeling pressure to ease her restrictions on using your bridge. It’s not only goods lost, but lives. Her own people will insist she lift the embargo. Perhaps Serin has heard whispers of that already.”
The Magpie made a face. “Of course, but she’s also doing an admirable job of fueling the fires of hate toward Maridrina using her niece’s imprisonment. They are willing to suffer for the sake of harming our revenues with the continued embargo.”
His father gave a soft snort. “More likely they know how their Empress handles dissent, especially dissent against the Endless War. Those who speak against it soon speak no more.”
Again, Keris was struck by the incongruity between the Empress’s reputation and how his father spoke of her. Rising to his feet, he went to the window and looked out over the city. “There’s another fire. Looks to be in the Warf Market.”
Cursing, his father rose and joined him, his face darkening. “Malcontents. Nothing suits them. They demanded food and I got it for them. For my troubles, they burn my city. I should let them starve for their spite.”
Serin coughed, and Keris had to fight to curb a smile as the spymaster said, “That is not the source of their discontent, Your Grace. It’s that they believe you’ve executed Aren Kertell, and they are demanding proof he is still alive.”
They believed that because Keris had been out gambling and drinking every night, subtly sowing rumors that Aren was being tortured for information. His goal was to incite the Ithicanians enough to keep up their rescue attempts. The unintended side effect was that he’d also incited his own people. All of Maridrina was in a frenzy over their king’s perceived behavior toward the man who’d saved them from starvation, and thanks to an expensive bottle of wine, a pretty courtesan, and a memorable night for the Harendellian ambassador’s manservant, the ambassador himself was now demanding proof that the Ithicanian king’s heart still beat.
“Tell them he’s very much alive.”
In the reflection of the glass, Keris watched Serin’s jaw tighten. Probably because he’d love to see Aren Kertell killed in the most gruesome of manners. The spymaster’s lust for blood was part of what kept Keris up all night. If Serin accidentally killed Aren, Keris’s plan to free Valcotta would be ruined, and it was not lost on him that it was only his father’s insistence that Aren remain alive that kept him so.
“I have my people giving assurances that Aren is alive and well, Your Grace,” Serin answered. “Unfortunately, the people seem … uninclined to believe our assurances.”
They didn’t believe them because Keris had also started a rumor that Aren’s death had been an accident that the King of Maridrina was desperate to keep silent. “You could always tour Aren about Vencia and give them proof.”
“Don’t be a damned fool,” his father snapped. “I’ll not pander to those who dare to call me liar, never mind that this is Ithicana’s doing. They’re starting rumors to incite the masses. Have the malcontents thrown in prison and we shall see the end to it.”
Keris shrugged. “Was only a suggestion.”
“With respect, Your Grace,” Serin said. “Perhaps we might pursue a different approach. One that would silence the malcontents without giving them the sense they hold any power. If we were to invite the Harendellian ambassador, who is a neutral party, to see that Aren Kertell is well, he might then provide comfort to the people.”
“The bastard has been demanding a meeting for weeks,” his father snarled. “I’ll no more pander to Harendell than to the people. Already, they squawk over terms on the bridge. We cannot show any sign of weakness.”
“Then arrange it under the guise of something else,” Keris suggested, gently guiding his father’s thoughts. “And don’t include only the Harendellian; include all others in the city of note, most especially the ambassador from Amarid, because that will truly grind the Harendellian’s nerves.”
“You propose a social engagement?”
“You know how the Harendellians love pomp. And entertainment.”
His father rubbed his chin. “True. This has merit.”
“I mislike this idea, Your Grace,” Serin said, his voice grinding at Keris’s nerves. “Within the sanctum, we have total control. The moment we bring Aren outside of it, we risk—”
“Then we host it within the sanctum. Tonight, so no one has the time to conspire.” His father smiled. “Have Coralyn arrange it. The old hag understands pomp, if nothing else. And it will give the harem something to do other than complain. See it done, Serin.”
“As you wish, Your Grace.” Serin bowed, the spymaster’s irritation palpable as he shuffled from the room, though whether it was over the king ignoring his counsel or whether he sensed a plot not his own was afoot, Keris wasn’t certain. There was little to be done other than to press forward.
Keris had done his part to ensure all the key players would be at the same table, and now it was up to Coralyn to make the most of it. “I’m sure whatever she arranges will be a roaring success. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve—”
“You will attend as well, Keris. I grow weary of your aunts’ complaints about your whoremongering in the city. And bring the Valcottan—might as well strike two birds with one stone and ensure Petra knows we aren’t negotiating with a corpse.”
Keris couldn’t help but stiffen. Since Yrina’s death, he’d done his best to avoid Valcotta, their one encounter proof that he couldn’t control himself around her. Telling her the truth would be a disaster, but he was unable to look her in the eye with deception in his heart. And instead of each day growing easier, it had felt like every passing hour, he swallowed another mouthful of poison. That the deception was for the sake of her freedom, for the sake of her life, was no balm, because he knew she wouldn’t see it that way. All she’d see was a murderer.
Swallowing the sourness in his mouth, Keris said, “I’d rather not. I have some new books that need to be shelved.”
“It wasn’t a request,” his father answered. “Be there, or I’ll burn every last volume to teach you a lesson.”
A sacrifice Keris would’ve gladly made, but given the same threat had been used successfully against him dozens of times before, he needed to allow it to work now or raise suspicions. Grinding his teeth, Keris left the room, ignoring the guards as he went down flight after flight of stairs before reaching the door to his chambers. Unlocking it, he went inside, twisting the bolt behind him.
Everything depended on Aren Kertell. Without an alliance with the Ithicanians, there would be no rescue, which meant Keris had to do whatever it took to make this meeting between Coralyn and Aren come to pass. Even if it meant sitting next to Valcotta through dinner and lying through his teeth that everything was as it should be.
Going to the window, he ripped aside the drapes and swung open the pane, then immediately regretted it as a wave of stink slapped him in the face. Clenching his teeth, Keris searched the paths for her, but the harem was notably absent.
The reason for which became apparent as his eyes lighted upon Aren.
The King of Ithicana was chained to his bench, staring at his rotting countrymen dangling from the wall. How he personally felt about the man, Keris wasn’t entirely sure. Once, before he’d met him, he’d been disgusted by how Aren ruled his kingdom, keeping his people locked inside like prisoners. Then he’d been disgusted by the man’s stupidity for trusting Lara, for loving the woman who was more Silas Veliant’s progeny than any other. But now …
Now he felt equal parts pity and admiration for the king. For Keris knew the pain of this particular torture, and it had been visited upon Aren eighteenfold. Yet despite his obvious grief, the Ithicanian remained defiant. Time and again, he tried to escape, using guile and strength and skill. But though he had successfully killed two guards and injured several more, a prisoner Aren remained.
“I’ll get you out,” Keris muttered. “Just don’t get yourself killed before I do it.”
There were too many risks to the man’s life.
Serin taking things too far.
A guard accidentally killing him.
Yet as he watched Aren straighten, expression grim, Keris realized there was a third threat to the King of Ithicana’s life that he hadn’t considered: the man himself.
A look of determination filled Aren’s face, every muscle in the man’s body tense as though in preparation for action. “Don’t you fucking dare.” Panic rose in Keris’s chest because he needed the king alive. “Don’t you dare take your piece off my board!”
He had to do something. Had to find a way to give Aren a reason to keep his heart beating until Coralyn could speak to him at dinner.
Everything depended on it.
Except Serin or his lackeys would be watching, which meant Keris had to do it in a way that wouldn’t burn his plans to the ground by revealing his allegiances.
Think! he screamed at himself. A clue! Something, anything, that will give him a reason to hold on a few more hours.
But there was nothing.
Then a gust of wind whistled past. The corpses swayed and danced, scattering the carrion birds that had been pecking at them.
Birds.
Rushing to his shelves, he tore into them, searching for a particular volume.
There.
He flung it open, flipping through the pages until he found the familiar illustration of a magpie, his eyes dancing over the words, opportunistic, they will feed on the chicks of songbirds.
Slamming it shut, Keris tucked the volume under his arms and left the room, struggling not to take the stairs two at a time. A pair of guards opened the doors at the base, and he strolled out into the gardens, schooling his face to blankness.
Please don’t let me be too late.
His heart pounded as he wove through the paths, then stuttered as his eyes latched on the still-living Ithicanian king.
Aren’s whole body was tense, his eyes full of the resigned determination of a man ready to end his life because he saw no other path forward. He leaned, readying to dash his own skull against the hard stone of the table, and it was all Keris could do not to throw himself at the man to restrain him.
But Serin was always watching, and he dared not give himself away.
Aren closed his eyes and took a breath, and Keris clenched his teeth to keep from screaming, “Don’t do it!”
Step. Step. Step. He put weight into his stride, hoping the noise would cause the man to look up, but Aren only gripped the table with his manacled hands, knuckles turning white, the resolve in his expression so great that Keris wondered if stopping him was even possible.
But he had to try, so he said loudly, “The wives are starting to complain about the smell. Can’t say that I blame them.”
The King of Ithicana twitched hard enough that his chains rattled against the table, his bloodshot eyes fixing on Keris, recognition filling them.
“It’s a terrible practice.” Keris squinted at the bodies lining the walls, their putrefying flesh crawling with insects, drawing old, painful memories to the forefront. “Never mind the smell; it invites flies and other vermin. Spreads disease.” Feeling his stomach twist, he looked back to Aren. “Though I expect it’s far worse for you given that you know them, Your Grace. Especially given they died trying to break you free.”
Aren’s hazel eyes darkened, and it seemed he hadn’t noticed Keris’s use of his title despite it being forbidden. “You are …?”
“Keris.”
“Ah.” Aren’s tone was flat. “The inadequate heir.”
Given you’ve proven yourself to be a particularly inadequate king, that seems a tad self-righteous, Keris wanted to say, but he hadn’t come here to needle the other man. He’d come to facilitate an alliance and achieve an end, which meant every word needed to be chosen with care. Setting the book on the table, he said, “Eight older brothers who fit the mold, all dead, and now my father is stuck trying to weasel his way out of naming me heir without breaking one of his own laws. I’d wish him luck in the endeavor if not for the fact that his and Serin’s weaseling is likely to see me in a grave next to my siblings.”
The king leaned back in his chair, the chains on his manacles rattling, reminding Keris that the man was dangerous, even when restrained. “No desire to rule?”
“It’s a thankless burden,” Keris replied, knowing it was no answer.
