The Inadequate Heir, page 3
“We have peace right now.”
Keris’s skin prickled and crawled, and he turned his head to see one of the men in his entourage watching him from his bedroll, the man’s eyelids easing shut under Keris’s scrutiny. “Peace is like a dance,” he said softly. “It only works if both partners are listening to the same music.”
And Maridrina only knew the drums of war.
THREE DAYS. THEY’D been walking in this endless dark tunnel for three days, and the claustrophobia of it was setting in.
As was exhaustion.
Sleep, you idiot, Keris silently ordered himself, shifting on his pallet. But it wasn’t the discomfort that was keeping him awake; it was that he couldn’t shut down his mind. Couldn’t silence the endless thoughts and fears and anxieties that circled his brain. And each time his body forced him to drift off, he’d jerk awake, heart racing in his chest.
Finally, he gave up, rolling into a seated position, blanket tangled around his ankles, the only light coming from the pair of lanterns turned down low. His entourage slept in a row along the side of the bridge, several of them snoring, and all of them stinking of wine, the ground littered with empty bottles. Farther down the bridge, the travel wagons were stopped against the wall so as to leave room for any southbound traffic they encountered—a necessity given that his entourage had begged to stop early that night, pleading exhaustion. Keris thought the Ithicanians had agreed only to silence the whining.
Glancing the other direction, Keris peered at the still form of an Ithicanian sleeping against the wall, swiftly determining it wasn’t Raina. Which meant she was on watch farther up the tunnel.
Keris rose, starting in that direction.
“Stay in camp, Your Highness,” the Ithicanian standing nearby ordered.
Turning so that he was walking backward, Keris held his arms out. “Where exactly do you think I’m going to go?”
When the man didn’t answer, Keris rounded the bend into the darkness, jumping slightly as Raina’s hand closed over his arm. “Where are you going?”
“To find you.”
She huffed out an amused breath. “Why?”
“Because you’re the only person in this cursed bridge whose presence I find tolerable.”
“Tolerable, is it, Your Highness? Such a compliment! My cheeks are burning.”
“Impossible to tell, given that mask you wear. If a blush is to be the reward for my kind words, I’ve been robbed.”
“Perhaps you should lodge a complaint. We take theft very seriously in Ithicana.”
Leaning against the wall next to her, Keris inhaled the faint scent of soap that clung to her despite the fact bathing wasn’t a possibility on the bridge, the water they transported with them reserved for drinking. So strange to be surrounded by oceans and a kingdom where it rained almost continuously, and yet inside the bridge, water was precious. “Why do you wear them?”
He had his own opinions on why the Ithicanians wore masks when dealing with outsiders, but he was curious what she’d say.
“I’m as beholden to the laws as any other, that’s why.”
Keris remained silent, waiting. Waiting. And when she cleared her throat, he smiled at the darkness.
“I suppose it’s because it makes us more intimidating in battle. Adds to the reputation that we’re not quite human.”
Her fingers brushed against his, little more than a glancing touch that might have been accidental but wasn’t. “You seem very human to me.”
Raina made a noncommittal noise. Then in a rush of words, she said, “I think it’s just another way to keep us separate—another wall between Ithicana and the outside.”
Keris was inclined to agree. “Would you take it off, if you could?”
“It’s forbidden. Just as is leaving. Just as is being anything other than a weapon whose purpose is to defend the bridge. Just as is this conversation.”
Her voice was edged with bitterness, but Keris wasn’t very good at leaving well enough alone. “That wasn’t my question.”
Silence. “Yes,” she finally whispered. “If it were my choice, I’d do all of those things.”
Pushing away from the wall, Keris faced her, lifting one hand to curve it around her cheek. And when she didn’t pull away, he slipped his thumb under the leather of her mask, easing it upward.
Her breath caught. “I can’t.”
“Can’t?” he asked. “Or won’t?”
Raina didn’t answer, but her fingers caught hold of his other hand, interlacing them. She pulled him closer so that her breasts pressed against him; their eyes locked in the faint light.
“I’ve a ship meeting me at Northwatch.” Keris leaned closer, a loose tendril of her hair brushing his cheek as he said into her ear, “You could come with me.”
It was madness to make such an offer, tempting the ire of both his father and the Ithicanian king. But Keris knew what it was like to be a prisoner to circumstance. What it felt like to want to escape.
“They’d hunt me down and execute me as a traitor.”
All for leaving. “Is Ithicana a kingdom or a prison?”
“Both.”
One of the men in his entourage let out a loud snore that echoed down the bridge, but Keris ignored it, focusing on the shadows of her face. On the way Raina gripped his hand. On the ache of desire building in him.
Then Raina reached up, and together, they drew off the mask, revealing her face. It was hard to see clearly in the gloom, but he traced his fingers over her rounded cheekbones, over the arch of one eyebrow, then bent to kiss her bow-shaped lips.
A ragged breath escaped her, then her arms were around his neck, dragging him closer, their hips pressing together as her tongue slipped into his mouth. He caught his balance against the wall of the bridge, the rock damp beneath his hand, lifting her, groaning as her long legs wrapped around his waist.
He moved from her lips to her throat, and her breath was hot against his forehead. “Take me with you,” she whispered. “I want to go with you.”
“I will.” To do so would infuriate two kings, but neither would do anything for fear of aggravating the other, so what did it matter?
He felt her tangle her fingers in his hair. The juncture of her thighs pressed hard against him as he tugged at the laces holding the neck of her tunic together, pulling the fabric down to expose her pert breasts. He kissed them reverently, then drew one peaked nipple into his mouth, satisfaction filling him as she whimpered, her hands drifting down his body to tug at his belt.
Then the sound of hooves reached them, and Raina tore her lips from his, sliding down his body to land with a thud on her feet even as her hand went to the weapon at her waist. In the distance, a pool of light appeared, revealing a donkey pulling a wagon under the escort of four masked Ithicanians.
Lifting her fingers to her mouth, Raina gave a series of whistles, then straightened her clothes.
“Your mask,” he muttered, and she jumped, swiftly retrieving the leather from where it had fallen.
But it was too late.
They’d seen.
The Ithicanian leading the donkey opened her mouth as they approached. “Aster’s going to beat you bloody if he finds out you were messing around with a Maridrinian, Raina. Especially if he hears you were doing it while on duty. Get your ass back around the corner and I might consider keeping my mouth shut about what I just saw.”
Not waiting for a response, the woman hauled on the donkey’s lead, slowly walking around the bend, none of the other Ithicanians saying a word as they followed.
“Who’s Aster?” Keris asked.
“My father.”
“All the more reason for you to get on that ship.”
Raina didn’t answer, only tugged on his arm, leading him after the wagon. Ahead, all of his entourage had sat up in their bedrolls. As Keris watched, several stood, pulling on their boots, appearing entirely more sober than they should, given the wine bottles scattered about them. And all of them were looking anywhere but at the approaching wagon.
Keris’s skin prickled. “What’s in that wagon?”
“Goods from Harendell. Steel, likely.”
Weapons.
Realization slapped Keris in the face, and he shoved Raina back the way they’d come. “Run!”
As he said the word, his countrymen leapt at the wagon, dragging the cloth off to reveal glittering steel. In a heartbeat, they’d snatched up weapons and turned on the Ithicanian guards, who were pulling their own blades free.
And instead of running, Raina only drew her own sword, racing in the direction of the battle. Most of the Ithicanians were already down, and his countrymen turned on her, lifting their weapons.
“Raina!” Keris broke into a sprint, racing after her.
She crossed blades with one man, kicking him in the knee and then gutting him, but as she turned to engage another, a shadow flitted up behind her. As the individual stepped out from behind the wagon, Keris recognized him as the man who’d disrespected her at Southwatch, his face bright with glee.
“Look out!” Keris screamed, snatching up a fallen weapon.
But it was too late.
Grinning, the man lunged and shoved his sword into Raina’s back, the tip appearing through her chest. She gasped as he jerked it back out, and Keris threw himself forward, catching her as she fell. “What are you doing? They are our allies!”
But they weren’t; Keris knew that. Or rather, he knew that his father was no ally to Ithicana.
He lowered Raina to the ground and pressed his hands against the gaping wound in her chest. Blood bubbled up between his fingers, her mouth opening and closing wordlessly as she fought to breathe. As she fought to live.
Beyond, several of his father’s soldiers were feeling along the floor of the bridge; then a stone hatch popped open on silent hinges, the fresh scent of the sea filling the air. “Right where she said it would be,” one of them muttered. “Get down and get out, and we should be right in front of Midwatch.”
She.
Lara.
Then the man who’d stabbed Raina stepped into Keris’s line of sight. “I’m afraid your trip to Harendell is to be cut short, Your Highness. Will you be a good little prince and sit here nicely while we take Ithicana, or do we need to resort to ropes?”
Keris lunged, but the soldier was ready, and in a heartbeat, three of them had him pinned, another wrapping ropes around his ankles, then around his wrists. They proceeded to arm themselves with more of the weapons from the wagon before dropping down the hatch.
Then there was nothing but the thunder of his heart and Raina’s ragged, wet breath. He met her gaze. “I didn’t know.”
A tear ran down her cheek.
“This is the last thing I want.” His eyes burned. “I’m sick of war. Tired of the endless fighting. It’s the reason I was going to Harendell—not because of the books, but because I can’t stomach any more killing. I wanted a different life.”
Wasted words.
Wasted sentiment.
Because the eyes staring back at him were still as glass.
ZARRAH DREW HER blade over the Maridrinian’s throat, then let him drop, his last gasping gurgles filling the air as she strode to where her soldiers were laying out bodies. “How many?”
Yrina, her closest friend and second-in-command, rose from where she knelt next to a farmer’s body. “Ten, we think. We’ll need to let the flames die down before we can check the ashes.”
So many. Zarrah’s stomach hollowed even as her eyes passed over the dead, all farmers. All Valcottan. All people she was sworn to protect. “Children?” It was hard to ask, but she made herself do it, swallowing a swell of sickness as she waited for a response.
Yrina shook her head. “Those who could fight managed to hold back the raiders while the children and infirm hid in the woods. A small mercy.”
Small indeed. Many of those children were now orphans of violence, much as Zarrah was herself. Like her, they’d seen the Maridrinians slaughter their parents and destroy their homes. A moment that would forever change the course of their futures, and she wondered how many would pick up weapons so as to never see themselves hurt like this again. How many of them would join the fight against their nation’s nemesis. How many of them would, like her, dedicate their lives to achieving victory in the Endless War.
“It could’ve been worse,” Yrina said. “Every member of every family could’ve been lost, but they weren’t. We got here in time to help, and they’ve you to thank for it.”
Not in time to help everyone, Zarrah thought, staring at the dead farmer, his stomach sliced open by a Maridrinian sword.
She’d taken command of the Nerastis garrison the moment they’d sailed back into the harbor, caring little when her cousin Bermin shouted and raged about being stripped of the role of general. The first thing she’d done was triple the number of scouts watching the border for raiders and double the number of patrol camps stationed up and down the countryside. Already it had paid dividends, her soldiers having intercepted several raiding parties before they had a chance to work their devilry. But the Maridrinian rats had generations of practice at this form of warfare, and they were adapting to her tactics, as today had proved.
“The horns are a mistake!” a deep voice boomed from behind her. “We’d have killed twice their numbers if we’d used stealth.”
Zarrah turned from the bodies to find Bermin riding up behind her, his massive mount splattered with blood and her cousin equally covered in gore. “It looks as though you caught more than a few fleeing rats.”
“Some.” He spit on the ground, then dismounted. “Their horses are fast, so many more will escape back across the border. An opportunity they wouldn’t have had if you hadn’t warned them we were coming.”
It was one of the many strategies they disagreed on. Bermin preferred to approach the raids with stealth so as to kill as many Maridrinians as possible, whereas she preferred to put the run on them with signal horns, thus saving as many Valcottan lives as she could. But the bigger difference between how she and Bermin worked was that Zarrah never limited her strategies to just one element.
No sooner had that thought rolled through her head did Yrina say, “Smoke,” and the group all turned to look at the crimson puffs in the distance. Zarrah smiled in satisfaction before turning back to Bermin. “Just because you didn’t kill them doesn’t mean they got away. I had archers waiting to pick them off.”
Her cousin huffed out a breath, crossing his thick arms. “You dedicate too many of our forces to defense, Zarrah. It’s been weeks since we crossed the border. Makes us look weak. Makes Valcotta look weak.”
The Maridrinians had lost more soldiers in recent weeks to Zarrah’s strategies than they had in the last year of Bermin’s, so Zarrah doubted weakness was the word the rats were spitting as they licked their wounds.
“Gather the bastards’ heads,” she ordered, taking the reins of her horse from one of her soldiers. “Burn the bodies.” She turned to Yrina, about to give the order for soldiers to remain to dig graves for the dead farmers, but motion caught her attention. Shading her eyes from the brightness of the sun, Zarrah peered at the brush. Someone was hiding. “I thought you found all the children?”
“We did,” Yrina answered, but Zarrah was already walking toward the brush, her hands up to indicate she meant no harm. The child would be terrified, and though Zarrah was one of his or her countrymen, she was still a soldier. “It’s okay,” she said softly. “You can come out now. It’s safe.”
“Zarrah!” Yrina called. “Hold back.”
Zarrah ignored her friend because she knew the fear this child was feeling. Knew the horror. And she remembered how she’d prayed to be delivered from it. “Let me help you.”
A form exploded from the brush. Not a child but a man.
A Maridrinian soldier.
“Die, you Valcottan bitch!” he screamed, then sliced at her with his sword.
Instinct took over.
Zarrah ducked under the blade, rolling across the ground and then back on her feet in a flash. Pulling loose her weapon, she held up a hand to stop Yrina and the others from attacking. “You should have run when you had the chance.”
“Better to die with your blood on my hands,” he hissed, eyes gleaming with hate.
But his hate was a paltry thing compared to hers.
She knocked the blade from his grip, then swung again, taking his legs out from under him.
The Maridrinian sprawled on the ground, but Zarrah kicked him in the ribs, flipping him over. “Pick up your weapon.”
He retrieved his sword, rising unsteadily. Then he attacked.
Zarrah’s staff was a blur of motion, blocking his swipe and then flying under his guard to slam against his arm, bone breaking. The Maridrinian screamed and dropped his weapon.
“Care to try again, or do you want to run?”
“So that your archers can shoot me in the back?” he demanded. “I heard you, Valcottan. There is no escape.”
“Maybe you’ll get lucky.” She pressed forward, the Maridrinian stumbling out of reach. “Rats are good at scuttling through small, dark spaces.”
“You’re supposed to let us retreat,” he snarled. “Those are the rules. Those have always been the rules!”
Her anger turned to blistering rage, her vision red, because this murderer didn’t deserve escape. Didn’t deserve any mercy beyond what he’d shown her people, which was none. “The rules have changed.” Then she swung her staff with all her strength.
It struck his skull with a resounding crack. He dropped like a stone, but she struck him again because she wasn’t through. Would never be through delivering vengeance upon the Maridrinians who’d orphaned the children of her people.
Until she had revenge on the Maridrinian king who’d orphaned her.
HOURS LATER, ZARRAH trotted her horse into the stable yard of her garrison, the sound of the purple banners flapping from the minarets loud in her ears. A lifetime ago, when Nerastis had been a thriving city and under Valcottan control, the palace had been the winter residence of emperors and empresses, but now it was populated only by soldiers.
