The Inadequate Heir, page 31
Horror filled Keris’s stomach, his palms turning to ice, because if his brother had heard what he and Valcotta had been doing …
“Only you would have the bloody audacity to cuckold Father in his own house. Who was it?”
Cuckold … The word sent a rush of relief running through him, because his brother thought it had been one of the harem wives. He crossed his arms. “It’s hardly your business.”
“Tell me, or I’ll ask Coralyn whose window that is.”
Fuck. “Fine. It was Lestara.” The most believable of any of the women, as well as the most palatable, given she hadn’t given birth to one of his half siblings. “I hope you’ll do me the favor of keeping your mouth shut.”
Otis snorted. “For her sake, I’ll keep silent. But if you’ve got any sense in you, you’ll end it. There are countless women in Vencia who’d be happy to warm your bed without the risk of Father chopping off your most offending member.”
Thank God for small mercies, Keris thought, relief nearly causing his shoulders to sag. And large ones. “For once, you speak wisdom.” He slung his arm around his brother’s shoulders. “Care to venture out for the night? Find some women and wine and a game of cards?”
“Would that I could, but Father wishes a report on the state of Nerastis.”
“And what is the state of that shithole?”
Otis exhaled a long breath, allowing himself to be led in the direction of the tower. “Quiet as a grave. The Valcottans are sticking to their side of the Anriot, and when we raid, they defend but don’t pursue. They’re up to something, mark my words.”
“Or they recognize that antagonizing those who have their princess is an excellent way to get her killed.”
Otis’s voice was tight as he said, “I heard about your plans to negotiate your way into Father’s good graces.”
Otis’s anger wasn’t unexpected. His brother wasn’t interested in negotiating with Valcottans, only slaughtering them. “The situation with Ithicana is dire, Otis. Father has bankrupted himself, including running up an enormous debt with Amarid, in order to secure a bridge that is making almost no money. We need Valcotta to resume trade at Southwatch, and this negotiation could achieve that.”
Otis snorted. “It won’t work, you know. Valcotta is wealthy—just for spite, the Empress will sacrifice a hundred ships to the Tempest Seas rather than pay us a cent.”
Keris did know, but admitting so was counterproductive. “The Empress is beholden to her people. I don’t think they’ll be willing to sacrifice so much for the sake of pride.”
Silence.
“It’s never the simple path forward for you, is it?” Otis said bitterly. “I say cut off the Valcottan bitch’s head and stake it on the gates.”
The threat sent anger twisting through him, but Keris forced himself to laugh as the guards opened the doors for them. “The Empress would retaliate, and with Father embroiled with holding Ithicana, he wouldn’t be able to send reinforcements. I’d lose Nerastis, which I’m fairly certain would see my head spiked on a gate.” Casting a sideways glance at his brother, he added, “You allow your hatred for Valcottans to cloud your judgment, Otis.”
He instantly regretted the comment as Otis scowled. “Easy for you to say, given you don’t seem to hate them at all.”
This was dangerous ground. The Valcottans had killed Otis’s wife when they sank the ship she sailed upon, so for his brother, this was no political grudge. It was every bit as personal as Valcotta’s, and Otis hadn’t half her empathy for those who were harmed in his path for vengeance. “I know this is a bitter tonic for you, brother, but I can’t afford to allow my senses to be muddled with emotion right now.”
They climbed the stairs, Otis silent and Keris’s thoughts twisting over how close he’d come to being caught. His brother would hold his tongue—the consequences of doing otherwise were far too high, for both Keris and Lestara. But it meant that he needed to keep his distance from Valcotta at least until his brother departed, which would hopefully be soon. Otis knew his habits too well, knew him too well, which meant he wouldn’t be fooled for long.
Reaching the door to his room, Keris paused. “Do you want me to come with you to meet with him?”
Otis leaned against the stone of the stairwell. “No, it’s better you don’t. I’ve not your mastery of composure, and I hate listening to his mockery of you, which I know is inevitable.”
Guilt soured Keris’s guts, because his brother was so cursedly loyal. Even when Keris didn’t deserve it. “When you’re through, seek me out. We’ll go find some entertainment in the city.”
“I’d settle with wine and a well-padded sofa. My ass has been too long in the saddle.”
Keris laughed. “I’ll send someone to raid the cellar and then leave my door unlocked. Good luck.” He watched as his brother climbed the stairs two at a time, knowing it wasn’t Otis’s luck that he needed to worry about.
ZARRAH WAITED UNTIL it was nearly the tenth hour, then eased her bed away from the wall, revealing the block she’d pushed partially outward. It would be loud when it fell, so she needed to time this just right.
She tucked the nail into her bodice, then braced her heels against the block of stone and waited.
Her heart beat like a drum in her chest, her palms clammy, sweat beading on her brow. From fear, yes, but also from anticipation. Tonight, she’d regain the honor she’d lost in capture. Tonight, she’d have vengeance. For her mother. For Yrina. For herself.
Bong.
The first of ten tolls of the clock, and she shoved her heels against the stone, hands braced against the floor. It made a grinding noise as it shifted, then stuck.
“Come on!” She shoved harder as the clock tolled a second, third, and fourth time. But it wouldn’t move. The cursed thing was wedged tight.
Bong!
“Stupid piece of shit!” She tried with her hands, slamming them against the block, but it wouldn’t move.
Bong!
She switched back to using her feet, sweat drenching her skin as she pushed and shoved, the seventh and eighth and ninth tolls rolling through the inner sanctum.
“You can do this!” She slammed her feet one last time.
The block shifted, sliding forward and falling, her feet slipping through the opening in the wall. Heart in her throat, Zarrah clenched her teeth, waiting for the crunch of it hitting the brush below.
Bong!
By fate or luck or intervention of a higher power, the block landed right as the tenth toll sounded, the rolling echo drowning out most of the noise. Still, she held her breath, waiting to see if anyone came to investigate.
But no one did.
There is no going back now.
Checking to ensure she had everything she needed, Zarrah tossed her velvet cloak down. Then she rolled on her belly and stuck her legs through the opening, shimmying backward, swearing as her ass wedged in the opening. Pushing with her palms, she ground her teeth and forcefully pushed her body through, angling her shoulders and allowing her weight to pull her down until she was hanging from the opening by her hands.
She climbed lower, fingers and toes finding all the tiny cracks and grooves Keris used, then easing herself into the bushes. Retrieving the cloak, she ensured the hood was pulled forward. Then she strode onto the pathway, moving with total confidence toward the tower.
Anyone who saw her would believe her a wife summoned to attend the king, but her heart was still in her throat as she passed one guard, then another, both nodding respectfully at her. Instead of going to the entrance, as Zarrah rounded between topiaries, she cut left, keeping to the shadows and making her way to the base of the tower.
Pulling off her cloak, she wrapped it in a bundle that she tied to her waist. Taking a deep breath, Zarrah started climbing.
Time and weather had eroded the mortar between blocks of stone, and in places, pieces of rock had cracked off, giving her endless choices of handholds, but by the time she’d climbed thirty feet, her arms trembled with exhaustion.
And she was not yet halfway to Silas’s window.
Keep climbing, she screamed at herself, for, excluding the risk of falling, her greatest worry was that the guards manning the inner walls would see her shadow on the tower. If that happened, not only was her chance at killing Silas lost, but she’d also get an arrow in her back for her troubles.
This high up, the stink of the corpses on the inner walls was fainter, the smell of the coming rain filling her nose. Yet it was no mercy, because it was carried by a fierce breeze that buffeted her body, threatening to pull her from her perch.
Keep climbing.
Glancing up, she determined herself more than halfway, and so she risked a backward glance. Soldiers moved along the top of the inner wall, their eyes on the well-lit base. More stood in the turrets on the corners, eyes equally watchful. But they were all looking down, their concern for someone trying to escape, not for someone trying to climb into the belly of the beast.
The stone she gripped with her right hand abruptly gave way.
A gasp of terror tore from Zarrah’s lips as she dropped, the fingers of her left hand screaming as she dangled from them, her toeholds lost.
She scrabbled for another handhold, her breath desperate gasps until she managed to shove her fingers in a gap, her toes finding holds.
But below, she heard voices. Sensed motion. Men approached the base of the tower, obviously drawn by the sound of the piece of rock striking the bushes.
Climb, she screamed at herself. Hurry!
Ignoring the shuddering pain in her fingers, Zarrah worked her way higher, reaching a window, on the top of which she perched for a moment’s rest.
Keris’s window.
Guilt filled her stomach, because he was the one who’d pay for her actions tonight. He’d be the one who’d have to order her executed for murdering his father, and who’d have to manage the Empress’s subsequent retaliation. But there was no other way: Silas Veliant needed to die.
Keep going.
Stretching tall, Zarrah found another fingerhold, moving higher and higher until she was beneath the king’s open window. Catching hold of the edge, she pulled herself up, listening.
But there was only silence.
Easing inward, she cautiously slipped behind the billowing curtain, pressing her back against the wall. Then she inched sideways and peeked around the heavy fabric.
The room was dimly lit, the lamps turned down low, but it was enough to see that it was full of heavy furniture and dark fabric, the artwork gracing the walls depicting scenes of battle, many of them decidedly gory.
Her ears picked up a rhythmic thumping from behind the closed door of the adjoining room, along with male grunts, which grew louder with each passing second. A woman’s sounds of pleasure, probably feigned, merged with the grunting, and Zarrah cringed at exactly what was going on in the bedchamber.
It’s of no matter, she told herself. It isn’t as though the wife is likely to linger.
Then the door to the stairwell opened, and the Magpie appeared. He hesitated, listening to the activities going on in the bedroom, then sighed and took a seat on one of the sofas, pouring himself a glass of wine.
Zarrah wasn’t certain if she wanted to scream in frustration or crow in delight. Because while Serin’s presence made this a greater challenge, it also meant she might kill two birds with one stone.
Breathing slowly, Zarrah flexed her fingers and toes before extracting the nail and slipping it between her knuckles.
The bedroom door slammed outward, Silas calling over his shoulder, “Stay on your back, woman. If this doesn’t take, I’ll be returning you to your homeland and revoking our trade agreement. I didn’t bargain for a barren wife.” Then his eyes fixed on Serin. “Well? Did it work?”
The spymaster sighed. “I think it too soon to say, Your Majesty. We need to allow time for the ambassadors to spread the word to the people that Aren is not only alive, but well. By tomorrow, I’ll know more.”
“I know you disliked this plan. But I can’t help but think that it has more to do with who proposed it than the plan itself.”
The Magpie inclined his head. “I seek only the success of your ventures, Majesty. But … I’d be wary of any ideas that come from the prince’s lips: Keris is meddling, and his eyes are on the crown.”
“And it’s about goddamned time.”
Zarrah blinked in surprise, watching as Silas strode across the room and threw himself down on the sofa opposite his spymaster before leveling a finger at the man. “I’ve told you, Serin. I’ve always told you: my son will be neither pushed nor led. Not through any amount of force. He has to decide to do something himself, needs to make the idea his own, at which point, he’s intractable. And now that he’s decided he wants to live, wants to be heir, he will become everything I dreamed of and more.”
“With respect, Your Grace, I don’t agree. Maridrinian kings are warriors and generals, which Keris is decidedly not. He’s bookish. He can’t even wield a sword.”
Silas laughed. “You mistake can’t for won’t, Serin. Keris drew a line in the sand to spite me over the death of his mother, but he’s too logical to spite a corpse. Once I’m in the grave, he’ll embrace his bloodline and become the man he is meant to be.”
“By then, it might be too late.” Serin filled a cup of wine and handed it to his master. “The people make mockery of him, but more than that, the soldiers have no respect for him, and he will need them to rule this kingdom. Your Grace is yet in the prime of life: Think how much further in their graces he’ll slip in another five years? Another ten? Whereas someone like Prince Otis already commands their respect. He’s a man they’d gladly follow.”
Silas waved a hand. “Otis is a fine boy, but he lacks vision. Lacks the intelligence to raise Maridrina up high.”
“Keris will burn your legacy to the ground.” Anger flared in the Magpie’s eyes, and he slammed his glass down on the table. “He will take all that you’ve fought to achieve and set it aside for the sake of his principles. Surely you see that in the way he attempts to negotiate with Valcotta rather than warring with them.”
Silence hung in the room, and Zarrah held her breath. Every moment she tarried risked her absence from her bedroom being discovered. Risked alarms being raised. But she felt compelled to hear the end of this disagreement before she took the choice out of both of their hands.
“Which is why I must allow him the opportunity to see that his principles only function on the page, not in reality,” Silas answered. “Petra will refuse his attempts to negotiate. We know this. Keris will be forced to recognize reality, and necessity will drive him to embrace the Veliant way of ruling. But he needs to come to that realization himself.”
Ice filled Zarrah’s belly. What reason did Silas have to be so certain that her aunt would refuse to negotiate? The closeness of their relationship was well known, which meant he had to be aware of what she meant to the Empress.
“I dislike this,” Serin said. “I cannot set aside the knowledge that he is of identical blood to Lara, who betrayed you in favor of her husband. They are both of the womb of that woman who shamed you so, Majesty.”
Silas’s face darkened, and he leaned across the table. “Lara is your mistake, Serin. You may have made her a weapon, but you failed to instill in her a true sense of loyalty, which allowed her to be swayed in a way that Keris never will be. For all his failings, for all his faults, Keris is loyal to his family and to Maridrina. And if you so much as—”
A sharp knock at the door caused him to break off, and Zarrah’s heart sped with the certainty her escape had been discovered. That she’d lost her chance.
“Come.”
The door swung open, but instead of a guard stepping inside to bring warning, a young man entered.
Keris’s brother, Otis.
He bowed low. “You summoned me, Your Grace?”
The king cast a sour glare in Serin’s direction, suggesting that it had been the spymaster who’d done the summoning, but then he rose and embraced Otis. “It warms my heart to see you, my son. How fares Nerastis?”
“Quiet, Your Grace, but—”
The bedroom door opened, and Lestara stepped out. “I would take my leave, Your Majesty,” she said, bobbing a curtsey.
“I told you to stay where I left you, woman,” Silas snapped, rising to his feet. “Get back in that room!”
Except it wasn’t Silas’s reaction to Lestara that drew Zarrah’s eye, but Otis’s.
The color drained from his face, and he stared at Lestara as though she were a ghost. Serin noticed the reaction, too, his brow furrowing as his eyes skipped between Lestara and the prince.
Silas pushed Lestara back into the bedroom, following her in even as he berated her carelessness. But instead of listening to his father’s tirade, Otis strode to the window.
Adrenaline pumping through her veins, Zarrah pressed herself against the wall, holding the corner of the curtain with her fingers to keep the wind from revealing her as Otis looked out.
“Serin,” he said, “Who sleeps in that room there? The one in the shadows.”
Zarrah held her breath as Serin approached, joining the prince at the window. “Which one, Highness?”
“There. You can’t see it in the darkness, but there is a window.”
The Magpie was silent, and her mind raced, wondering which window the prince was pointing at. Wondering why the sight of Lestara had provoked this line of questions.
“That room is where Zarrah Anaphora is kept, Highness, as it is the one with the bars. It is quite secure, if that is your concern. For all her faults, Coralyn shows every caution when it comes to the harem’s safety.”
“So it’s not Lestara’s room?” Otis’s voice was stilted. Breathy, and Zarrah’s mind raced as she tried to puzzle out what he was thinking.
Serin huffed out an amused breath. “Certainly not, Highness. Lestara is favored and has rooms next to Coralyn’s. There.” He hesitated, then said, “Why do you ask?”
