The Inadequate Heir, page 29
Unless Zarrah tried to stab his father with a dinner fork.
“Fuck,” he muttered, resuming his pacing, visions of her screaming in rage as she was dragged from his father’s office rolling through his mind’s eye. What were the chances she’d gained control over her grief in the intervening hours? What were the chances she was seeing clearly? What were the chances that the burning need for vengeance hadn’t consumed her entirely?
None.
The clock at the base of the tower tolled the seventh hour, the loud bong causing him to jump. A message. He needed to somehow give her a message that she’d see prior to dinner. He picked up a piece of paper, then discarded it as too risky. Swearing, he snatched up a book on economics and flipped through the pages until he found a section on the bridge. In pencil, he scribbled, Take no action until after the meeting. Then he tucked the volume under his arm and left the room.
The sky was yet clear, but in the distance, the gathering clouds suggesting an incoming storm, the breeze carrying the faint scent of rain. Servants moved through the gardens, lighting the lamps along the path, glowing lanterns already floating in circles in the fountains. And along the base of the wall, torches burned every few feet, leaving no shadows for anyone to hide in, the guards standing high above, ever vigilant.
Please let this work, he silently prayed as a guard opened the door to the harem’s building and he rose the steps to the second level where the dining room was located. Only to stop in his tracks.
Valcotta descended from the upper floor, one hand holding the skirts of her blue silk gown, the other resting on the banister. All signs of the rage she’d exhibited earlier were gone, her face serene as she walked past him. The silk was thin enough that he could see the outline of her legs, the back cut to just above the curve of her ass. He jerked his gaze from her swaying hips, only for his eyes to fix on the long column of her neck, golden clips holding her black curls at the base of her head. Unbidden, his mind drew forth the taste of her lips on his, the feel of her skin beneath his hands, her laugh in his ears. What he wouldn’t give to go back to that perfect moment in Nerastis before everything had gone to shit.
Before she’d known his name.
Blood running hot, he strode into the room and sat on the chair next to the one a servant was pushing under Valcotta, then promptly opened to the page he’d written on, pretending to read, though nothing registered. There was no chance she’d miss his message—she was too observant for that. Valcotta said nothing, but the scent of her filled his nose with every inhale, causing his cock to stiffen.
He wanted to talk to her. Wanted to touch her. But there was no chance they weren’t being watched, so he continued to scowl at his book.
Three noblemen who were long supporters of his father’s reign entered the room, but Keris barely noticed, every muscle in his body tensed as he anticipated whether she’d say something. Whether she’d do something.
But Valcotta remained silent, not so much as moving until guards trooped into the room, Aren Kertell in tow. The guards chained his manacles to the legs of the table, then took away the glassware within reach, a servant returning with a small tin cup, which was filled with wine.
As the men stepped away, Valcotta rose, and from the corner of his eye, Keris watched her press her hand to her heart in respect, not sitting until Aren gave the slightest of nods. Which meant all eyes were on her when the real player in this game had entered the room.
Coralyn took a seat at Aren’s right and immediately struck up a conversation, their voices low enough that he couldn’t hear from this end of the table.
More men filtered in, taking their assigned seats. Next to Valcotta sat the ambassador from Harendell, who was blond, with an enormous nose. Across from her sat a red-haired man with freckles who looked Amaridian. A supposition that was supported by the glowers the two men gave each other. Amarid and Harendell were not on good terms, though they tended more to embargoes and assassinations than all-out war.
“General Anaphora,” the Harendellian said. “It was with regret that we heard of your capture in Nerastis, but I’m pleased to see that Silas is keeping you in a manner befitting your name and station. One can never tell with the Maridrinians. Violent bastards, to a man, though I suppose you know that well.”
Keris gave a soft snort of annoyance. “I am sitting right here, you know.”
The man squinted at Keris, clearly poor of eyesight. “Forgive me, which one are you again? Silas has so many sons, I find myself struggling to keep track.”
“He’s Crown Prince Keris, you idiot,” the Amaridian said from across the table. “Heir to the throne and the one negotiating with the Valcottans.”
“Oh, of course. Forgive me, Your Highness. No disrespect intended. Last I heard, Prince Rask was heir.”
“He’s dead.” Keris pointedly moved his attention back to his book, staring blindly at the pages.
“Perhaps you might fill my ears with news of my homeland,” Valcotta said to the Harendellian. “How fares my aunt, the Empress?”
“My countrymen have not yet returned with word of her response to the Maridrinians, if that is your inquiry. But rumors are that she closed herself in her room and wept for a day and a night when she heard you were taken.”
A rumor quite at odds with what Yrina had told him. Was the Harendellian lying to appease Valcotta, or had the Empress created the rumors herself to keep her reputation intact? Once, Keris would have thought the former, but now he suspected it was the latter.
He heard a soft chime, and Keris closed his book and rose, watching as his father entered the room. As always, he was flanked by bodyguards and his current favorite wives, including Lestara. She went to a seat at the far end of the table, her eyes meeting Keris’s briefly.
The harem was ready.
“Do we need to find you a lighter set of chains, Aren?” his father said, and Keris looked to the far end of the table to see that the Ithicanian king remained sitting. “Perhaps we could have one of the jewelers fashion you something less burdensome?”
The heavy links joining Aren’s manacles clunked and rattled ominously against the wood of the table as he reached for his tiny tin cup of wine and drained it. Then he shrugged. “A lighter chain would make a fine garrote, but there is something more … satisfying about choking a man to death. I’d ask you if you agreed, Silas, but everyone here knows you prefer to stab men in the back.”
Keris silently cursed. If Aren got himself killed after all the work Keris had done to get him here, he was going to piss on the idiot’s grave.
Silas frowned. “You see, kind sirs? All the Ithicanians know is insults and violence. How much better now that we no longer have to deal with their ilk when conducting trade through the bridge.”
The Amaridian ambassador thumped his hand against the table in agreement, but the ambassador from Harendell only frowned and rubbed at the grey stubble on his chin. And next to him, Valcotta squared her shoulders, the silk of her dress whispering from the movement. “I’m afraid Valcotta does not concur with your sentiment, Your Grace. And until Maridrina withdraws from Ithicana and you release its king, Valcottan merchants will continue to bypass the bridge in favor of shipping routes.”
This was what he’d been afraid of. Valcotta knew nothing of Keris’s plans for tonight. Had no idea that gaining an alliance with the Ithicanian king might see her freed. And she was angry. He could feel the hate simmering off her, despite her mild expression. Fresh grief from Yrina’s death meant her heart was making her decisions, not her head.
His father gave her a withering glare. “Then your aunt best get used to losing ships to the Tempest Seas. And you would do well to remember your place and curb your tongue, girl. Your presence is only a courtesy. You should be thanking me for sparing your life, not testing my patience with your prattle. Your head would look rather nice spiked on Vencia’s gates.”
Keris’s hand tightened reflexively on the stem of his wineglass as Valcotta shifted next to him. Was she trying to pick a fight with his father? Was she trying to gain herself a chance to get close to him? For a fighter like Valcotta, everything was a weapon. A fork. A shard of broken plate. The snapped-off stem of a wineglass. And this was the first time she’d been in his father’s presence without chains binding her wrists. Keris tensed, readying himself to intervene if she tried to make a move, because it could not be her who killed his father.
From his end of the table, Aren said, “As one intimately acquainted with this issue, Silas, allow me to let you in on a little secret: An empty bridge earns no gold.”
The Amaridian ambassador cast a sideways glance at Silas. Judging from the way his father’s jaw flexed, he hadn’t missed the look. Keris’s skin crawled as he felt his father’s anger rising. Silas hated not being in control of a situation, but what he hated most of all was mockery. It would be well within his character to lash out with violence if for no reason other than to remind everyone whom they needed to fear. And Valcotta was the person he was most likely to strike.
Unless Keris drew his attention elsewhere.
He opened his mouth, readying a quip that would bring his father’s wrath down on him instead, but before he could say anything, music began to play, emanating softly from where the musician was seated behind the curtains. Keris hadn’t even been aware the individual was there.
Lestara rose to her feet and began to dance, a slow and seductive set of movements. Every male gaze in the room went to her except his father’s, who was assuring the rather distracted Amaridian that he should not believe rumors, for the bridge was indeed turning a profit. The music volume increased, and his father scowled, forced to repeat his words as the Amaridian stared at him in confusion, conversation drowned out.
Exactly as the harem had planned it to. Out of the corner of his eye, Keris watched Coralyn converse with Aren, doing a far better job at making whatever they were discussing seem like idle dinner chatter.
“Has Amarid’s partnership with Maridrina been a profitable one?” Valcotta asked the ambassador. “I can’t help but think the losses you must be taking in ships and crew far outweigh what profit you’ve gained via preferential treatment on the bridge.”
The Amaridian opened his mouth, but Keris’s father snarled, “Silence your tongue, woman. You weren’t invited to this dinner to discuss politics.”
Valcotta rested her chin on one hand and gave the Harendellian a conspiratorial smile. “I believe he wished to prove to you that I am still alive.”
“What was that, dear?” The man frowned at her. “I’m afraid I’m a touch hard of hearing.”
“I’m still alive!” Zarrah shouted, provoking a glare from his father.
“Oh, yes.” The Harendellian nodded vigorously. “There was a great deal of concern about King Aren’s well-being.”
His father’s face purpled at the use of Aren’s title, his eye flicking to the conversation between the man in question and his wife, then back to the conversation in front of him, then to the Amaridian, who was staring with undisguised lust at Lestara’s breasts as she swayed around the table, the other noblemen little better.
“Somewhat less vigor,” his father shouted at the musicians. “I can barely hear myself think!”
What he wanted to demand was for Coralyn to cease her conversation with Aren, but that would grant Aren power in the eyes of all in the room, which his father’s pride couldn’t tolerate. Keris opened his book, struggling not to smirk as sweat beaded on his father’s brow.
“Your wife is tremendously talented, Your Grace,” the Amaridian said. “I must say, Maridrinian women are famed the world over for their beauty and grace. Especially in the bedroom.”
His father clearly didn’t hear the man’s words, for he showed no reaction. And Keris had seen him kill men for lesser insults.
“The woman is clearly from Cardiff, you daft fool,” the Harendellian declared. “I can tell from the pallor. And her eyes. We’ve a saying in Harendell: beware the amber eyes of Cardiff, for if you look too long, they steal your soul.”
“Superstitions,” the Amaridian snapped. “Though I’d expect no less from you.”
The men devolved into bickering, as Keris had anticipated they would, the volume growing louder and the musician playing louder to compensate. And at the far end of the table, Coralyn smiled and laughed, though the gravity of their conversation was betrayed by the seriousness of Aren’s expression.
Take the bait, Keris silently pleaded as he stared blindly at the pages of his book, flipping them from time to time. Give us what we need.
“Enough!” his father shouted at Lestara. “Sit down!”
Lestara returned to her seat, the entire table silent as Silas rose to his feet, glaring at the ambassadors, though Keris knew his ire was for Coralyn. “I invited you here as a show of respect for your kings and nations, and you betray my hospitality by bickering and disrespecting my wife.” He rested his hands on the table. “Get the fuck out of my house.”
The Harendellian slowly rose to his feet. “With respect, Your Grace, I—”
“Out!”
The noblemen and ambassadors all silently rose and bowed before departing under the escort of guards. When they were gone, Aren said, “If I’d known your dinner parties were such lively affairs, I’d have accepted the invitation sooner.” Then he rose, his chains rattling. “I’ll take my leave for the evening.”
Keris’s father gave a tight nod at the guards, who unshackled the Ithicanian king and took him from the room. “This one, too.” He jerked his chin at Valcotta, and she shrugged and rose, departing on Aren’s heels, the female musician following after her.
“We will eat in peace,” his father declared, then sat back down, the servants soon appearing with the main course.
Peace was not the word that Keris would have used for the rest of dinner, but it was silent until the last of the dishes had been removed and his father leaned back in his chair, a glass of cognac balanced on his knee as he regarded them. “It was well done,” he finally said, his eyes on Coralyn. “What did you learn from him?”
Shock radiated through Keris as Coralyn sipped at the tea one of the servants had brought her. “Likewise, Your Grace, you played your part to perfection. Aren was entirely convinced that I was speaking to him against your will.”
Keris opened his mouth to comment, then closed it again, realizing that he was not the master of the scene he’d believed he’d orchestrated.
“He does not know where Lara is or where she might have gone,” Coralyn said. “Nor her sisters, though he told me one of them is dead.” She set her cup down and gave his father a long stare.
“Marylyn gained access to Midwatch prior to the main attack, her goal to secure Lara, kill her if necessary,” he answered, then drained his cup. “Aren, she was supposed to kill.”
Marylyn. The name was familiar, but in truth, Keris only had a vague memory of many of his half sisters who were taken into the Red Desert at the same time as Lara. His mother had always kept both him and Lara close to her, unwilling to share the burden of motherhood the way the rest of the harem did, which meant that he and Lara had bordered on inseparable before she’d been taken. He wondered if she even remembered him, or if time and distance had erased him from her memory as Marylyn had been erased from his.
“They are your daughters, Silas.” Coralyn’s voice was cold. “You should not have pit them against one another. They are family.”
All of Keris’s half brothers were family, and yet they were encouraged to murder one another to ensure the strongest inherited.
“Cast your blame at Lara’s feet,” his father snapped. “Her loyalty was supposed to be to this family. To Maridrina. And yet when faced with a handsome young husband, she forgot who she was. Where she came from. Family is everything, and she betrayed us.”
“But the others did not, yet still you allow your Magpie to hunt them. Not to bring them back to their family in Vencia, but to put them in the ground.”
A look of disgust flashed over his father’s face, and he waved a dismissive hand at her. “You think you want them, but you don’t, Coralyn. They are violent, murderous creatures.”
“Because you allowed Serin to raise them that way!”
Coralyn never shouted. Keris shifted uneasily in his chair, realizing that he’d underestimated her desire to learn his sisters’ fates. And to get them back.
“To achieve an end!” His father exploded to his feet, pacing back and forth across the room. “And it worked! Once Ithicana has fallen entirely, Maridrina will be poised to become the most powerful nation on two continents. Poised to create alliances that will allow us to drive Valcotta back so that we might reclaim the land we need to sustain our people.”
He slid to a stop, leveling a finger at her. “You know better than anyone that my father left a weak legacy. A nation dependent on others for survival—and we suffered for it. But I accomplished the impossible, which means my son will inherit a nation that is not to be trifled with. You wanted these results, Coralyn, so don’t you dare lose your spine because you mislike the manner in which I achieved them.”
His son. Not Keris, but whichever one of his half brothers managed to inherit. Nothing new, nothing unexpected, but for reasons Keris couldn’t articulate, it hurt more than Serin and his father conspiring to kill him.
“There is nothing more important than family, Silas.”
His father silently regarded Coralyn for a long moment, then asked, “Then why do you care so much for the fate of the daughter who betrayed us? Lara is the key, Cora. With her, we can break Aren and get the information we need to win this.”
Cora? Keris blinked, having never heard his father speak with such familiarity to his aunt. Always, he spoke of her with disdain. Resentment. Frustration. But there was a rhythm and comfort to this argument that suggested his father kept his aunt far deeper in his counsel than Keris had realized.
