The Inadequate Heir, page 33
“God in heaven, what has happened?” Coralyn dropped to her knees next to him, his father’s physician arriving a heartbeat later, though the man almost instantly withdrew to be replaced by more women, who pushed Keris back, tears running down their faces. The gardens filled with a chorus of their wailing, servants looking on in horror.
Keris took one step back. Then another, before colliding with something solid. He twisted to find his father behind him.
His father crossed his arms, looking Keris up and down before saying, “You did what you had to do.”
“It was an accident.” His tongue was thick in his mouth. “I didn’t mean for him to fall.”
The corner of his father’s mouth twisted up. “I saw the state of your room when I came down. It was you or him, I’m sure, although I think it a shock to all that it’s you who is still breathing. I’m impressed.”
Keris’s stomach heaved, forcing him to clench his teeth and swallow vomit, the alternative to spew on his father’s boots.
“Get used to it, Keris,” his father said. “When you are heir, you are the target of all. You can expect no loyalty from your brothers, and all but the cowards will come for you at one point or another. If you live to inherit, they’ll come for your sons.” His smile grew. “It is the way of it, and it is also the reason you have no uncles still living. Do you understand me?”
How many had his father murdered, first to get the crown and then to keep it? How much blood was on his hands? The questions circled Keris’s head, but he only gave a tight nod. “I understand.”
“Good.” His father pushed past him, shouting, “Quit your wailing, women! The fool picked the fight and lost it, which means he deserves his fate.” Then to the servants, he ordered, “Clean up this mess and make the arrangements.”
Keris stood in silence, watching as the weeping women dispersed. As the guards lifted his brother’s body and took it away. As the servants mopped up the blood.
Then his skin abruptly prickled with a sixth sense that he was being watched, and Keris turned to find Serin standing in the shadows. “My condolences,” the spymaster said. “I know you and your brother were once close.”
Keris’s hands fisted, the need to rain violence down upon the man causing him to see red. Except while his father might forgive Otis’s death as part of the life of an heir, the murder of his most trusted advisor was an entirely different matter. “I didn’t mean for Otis to lose his life. Whereas I think your intentions for the encounter were far different, Magpie.”
“Your death would please me, it’s true.” Serin rubbed his chin. “But it would be foolish to make an attempt on your life while you are in your father’s good graces, and I am no fool, Highness. Far better to wait for your inevitable fall from favor that will come when these negotiations fail. And they’d fail far sooner if Zarrah Anaphora were to meet her tragic end. When Otis enquired which room was hers in the harem, then departed in such a rage, I thought he’d make my hopes reality by slaughtering the woman.”
Keris’s heart skittered, dread filling his stomach.
“Yet it wasn’t her room he went to, but yours. It wasn’t her life he attempted to take, but yours.” Serin smiled, revealing his discolored teeth. “One can’t help but wonder why.”
“He wanted me to kill her.” Keris met the man’s stare, letting him see the truth staring out. “Said it was a matter of loyalty.”
“Why did you refuse? Surely your brother is worth more to you than some Valcottan woman.”
Keris needed to be away from this conversation, from this line of questioning, because his nerves were too rattled to spar with this man. But walking away would be just as damning as saying the wrong thing. “As you said, Magpie, my longevity is dependent on remaining in my father’s graces, and to accede to Otis’s demands would turn those good graces to ash. I did what I had to.”
“Chose your plans, and your own life, over your loyalty to your dearest brother? Over his life? That seems a deviation in character, Your Highness. A darker side of you that I find quite shocking.”
“It is rich indeed for you to cast judgment on anyone’s principles, Magpie, for you are devoid of them.”
“No judgment, Highness. My shock comes only from learning that you are more like your sister than I’d ever imagined.”
Like Lara, who’d destroyed a nation and the man she ostensibly loved for the sake of her plans. “I am nothing like Lara. If I wish to stab a man, it will be in the chest, not the back.”
Serin smiled again, smoothing his robes. “And thus my point stands. Good night, Your Highness. I hope you find pursuits that bring you peace.” Without another word, the spymaster walked away.
HEART IN HER throat, Zarrah hurried through the garden paths, then ducked into the shadows beneath her window, crouching low in the brush. She held her breath, waiting for any indication that the guards had realized she was not Lestara.
You left him.
Sickening guilt filled her core, making her want to double over as Keris’s face filled her mind’s eye. Shock. Horror. Grief. He’d loved his brother, and now Otis was dead. Not because he deserved such a fate, but because his grief over his wife had been manipulated by that monster of a spymaster.
Though Serin was not alone at fault. Otis’s wife was a casualty of the Endless War. But rather than comfort him, those around Otis had used his grief to fuel his hatred, for it was as keen a weapon as any sword. They didn’t want him to heal, didn’t want him to move past his grief and anger, because then he’d no longer be a pawn they could use to achieve their ends. He’d believed himself righteous—the master of his own destiny—never once seeing that he was a pawn in a war between rulers.
They’d been manipulated in the same way, she and Otis, their grief weaponized to fight a war where the only people who died were those who didn’t deserve to.
As she’d stared at his body, broken and bloody on the ground, the scream that had torn from her lips had not been feigned, the horror slicing through her soul visceral and cutting and cruel, for it wielded the truth.
A female shriek pierced the night, coming from the direction of the tower, jolting Zarrah into action.
She shoved the stone block into the deepest part of the brush, as there was no way for her to replace it, then swiftly scaled the wall. Again, her hips got stuck climbing through the opening, but with a dozen silent curses, she toppled into her room.
Which was exactly how she’d left it, no sign that her absence had been noted.
Though her body was exhausted and aching from the blows Otis had landed, Zarrah swiftly put the room back in order.
Only then did she go to the window.
Topiaries blocked her view of the base of the tower, but light spilled outward from the scene. She didn’t need to see it to imagine it, only prayed for Otis’s sake that his end had come swiftly. Prayed that Keris wasn’t holding himself to blame.
The former was far more likely than the latter.
Her adrenaline faded, leaving her weary and hollow, but Zarrah didn’t move from her place at the window. Through the walls, she heard the wailing of women, felt the pain and grief of a son lost falling over the palace like a pall. But eventually the light around the tower faded, servants and guards retreating until all was still. Silent.
A knock sounded.
Zarrah jerked, turning as the bolts on the door unlatched. Coralyn stepped through with a lamp in hand, shutting the door behind her. Her eyes were red and swollen, but her voice was steady as she said, “I believed you the trump up my sleeve, Zarrah, and I’m rarely wrong about these things.”
An icy chill spread across Zarrah’s skin. For it was not just empresses and kings who used rage and grief as a weapon.
It was also harem wives.
“Why didn’t you do it?” Coralyn set the lamp down on a table, crossing her arms. “You made it to his room. I watched you climb through his window. I gave you the opportunity to see him dead, and yet Silas breathes while another of our sons does not.”
If Coralyn believed she’d killed Otis, Zarrah suspected she’d already be dead. “I had nothing to do with him falling.”
“I never said that you did.”
Zarrah met the woman’s cold stare, her mind racing. Coralyn learning she’d been with Keris would be nearly as catastrophic as Silas learning the truth, which meant she needed to tread carefully. Especially given that her story needed to align with what Lestara had likely revealed. “I made it to his room when he was still with Lestara and erred in hesitating to kill him while he was in bed with her. Serin arrived, then Otis soon after, and there was no good opportunity.”
“Lestara was attempting to provide you a distraction, you fool.”
Zarrah forced her face to darken with feigned anger. “We might have gotten further if you’d been more forthright about your intentions.”
“I needed proof of those intentions, first. Now I have it, and here we are. What happened next?”
Zarrah debated what course to take and settled on replying, “What difference does it make?”
“Given Otis is dead by Keris’s hand, what happened in the tower tonight makes every difference.”
What had Keris told Coralyn? What reason did he give for the accident? Not knowing meant that Zarrah was walking forward blind, and if she blundered in what she told Coralyn, she might inadvertently step over a cliff edge. “Otis spoke with Serin and then left. After that, I very nearly had the opportunity to kill Silas when he sat down to eat, but then—” A gesture out the window finished the explanation with appropriate vagueness. “You’re a clever one, Coralyn. I didn’t think you’d stoop to using a Valcottan to assassinate your husband.”
The old woman didn’t so much as blink. “What did you overhear? Specifically, what did they say to Otis?”
Rising to her feet, Zarrah took a sip from the water glass next to her bed. “Why would I tell you anything? What’s in it for me?”
“You need me to hide the evidence of your escape.” Coralyn cocked her head, giving Zarrah a considering stare. “And because you need me to facilitate another opportunity to take your vengeance.”
There was no denying it. For one, if the old woman decided Zarrah wasn’t a tool she could use, she would probably find a way to kill her. And two, working with Coralyn was likely the only way she’d get another chance to kill Silas. “Silas went to chastise Lestara, leaving Otis and Serin alone.” She repeated the conversation word for word, finishing with, “I thought he’d left to come here to kill me.”
“But he went to Keris’s room instead?”
Zarrah shrugged. “Of that, you know more than I do. I used the commotion caused by his death to get back here undetected.”
There were holes in her story. Inconsistencies that Coralyn undoubtedly noticed, but as long as she didn’t arrive at the truth, that was all that mattered.
Silence.
Coralyn finally said, “If I give you another opportunity, will you take it?”
She didn’t trust Coralyn as far as she could throw her, but they did have the same goal: Silas’s death. With the woman’s help, it was possible she might achieve her goal and get out alive, but that meant showing Coralyn that she wasn’t going to tolerate being used. Giving Coralyn a considering look, Zarrah drained her water. “Maybe I negotiate my freedom instead by offering Silas information about which of his wives is trying to have him murdered.”
Coralyn snorted. “If my death is worth so much to you, then by all means. But it won’t earn you your freedom.”
A fact of which Zarrah was well aware, but if Coralyn believed Zarrah would do her dirty work without something in exchange, she had another thing coming for her. “I’ll kill Silas, Coralyn. But only if you find a way for me to escape afterward.”
“That’s not possible.”
Maybe it wasn’t. Keris hadn’t found a route for escape. Neither had Aren. But Zarrah’s instincts told her that Coralyn had the cunning to achieve what the men had not. “Put your mind to it, my lady. Until then, I’ll continue to enjoy your hospitality.”
The old woman’s eyes darkened with fury, her hands fisting. It was the first time Zarrah had ever seen Coralyn’s control fracture, and she wasn’t certain whether to feel triumphant or worried. Probably the latter.
“I will think on it, Zarrah. But in the meantime, you will remain confined to this room at all times.”
Not ideal, but better than dead, which might well be the alternative.
Coralyn retrieved her lamp, then held out her hand. “Give me the nail.”
Zarrah didn’t want to give it up. Tiny as it was, it was still the only weapon she had. But if she wanted Coralyn to believe her a willing ally, she needed to provide some proof. So Zarrah handed it over.
Coralyn gave her a cool smile. “Let’s hope I find reason to give it back to you in the future. But until then, I hope you continue to enjoy my hospitality.”
HE NEEDED TO get out of the palace. Away from the endless stink of corpse, the judgmental eyes of the wives and servants, away from the goddamned silence. Because in the silence, he heard the same noise over and over.
Thud.
The sickening wet thump of his brother hitting the ground replayed through his head, his eyes filling with the sight of crimson pooling around Otis’s body. Of the look of betrayal in his eyes.
Thud.
Keris flinched, glancing to his right, where men tossed heavy sacks onto a cart, rainwater splattering with each impact. His stomach roiled, and he looked back to the slick cobbles ahead of him, swallowing the sourness. What he needed was somewhere loud. Somewhere busy. Somewhere his face wasn’t known. Somewhere he could be someone other than who he was.
You’re a goddamned coward.
He should’ve stayed in the palace. Valcotta was in a precarious position, for if it were discovered she’d gotten out of her room, his father might kill her for the infraction. But he just couldn’t stay. Couldn’t be there. Couldn’t spend the night cleaning up the mess created by the fight, endlessly replaying his final words with his brother.
Thud.
Keris pressed his hands to his ears, trying to drown out the sound. Rain soaked through his cloak, but he still looked to the sky, allowing it to hammer against his face. Wishing it could wash away his mistakes.
A scuff of a boot against stone caught his attention, but Keris didn’t turn. It was one of Serin’s minions, tasked, as always, to follow him through the city. He knew their faces—knew how to lose them—but as he glanced down a dark alleyway that would allow him access to the rooftops of Vencia, a wave of vertigo nearly caused him to stumble.
Thud.
He didn’t want to climb. Climbing meant being up high. Being up high meant risking falling, and with the way he was feeling, it would almost be inevitable.
And maybe he deserved it.
Instead, Keris pushed open the door to a loud alehouse with a sign above it reading The One-Eyed Parrot. A wave of heat rushed over him, carrying with it the scent of spilled booze, sweat, and cooking, his ears filling with the raucous shouts of drunks and music played by a drummer with middling talent.
Spying a table with a group of men playing cards, he approached. “Room for another?”
Eyes flicked up, and Keris waited for them to recognize him. But Vencia knew Prince Keris as one always dressed in flamboyant attire, his hair perfectly coifed, and with an escort on his heels. Not a sodden man in shirtsleeves and a plain cloak, hair pulled back in a messy knot. “You got silver?” one of them, a thick man with a receding hairline that he made up for with a dense beard, asked. “We don’t play for coppers.”
Keris debated pointing out that the pot in the center was more copper than not, but instead said, “Yes.”
“Then sit. We’ll deal you in next round.”
Keris settled in the chair, motioning to the barmaid to bring him a glass of wine. From the corner of his eye, he saw Serin’s man take a seat at the bar, watching him in the tarnished mirror that sat behind the row of bottles. When the girl brought Keris his wine, he lifted it and smirked at the man, who only cast his eyes upward and took a drink from his own glass.
The bearded man won the hand, scooping the pile toward him. The skinny one sitting across from him shuffled and swiftly dealt. Keris glanced at his hand, then met the bet the bearded man placed, which was a single copper. “Don’t think your luck will hold another round?”
The bearded man spit on the floor. “Got nothing to do with my luck. Fault lies with the king and his taxes. If I don’t come home with the coin I left with, my wife will chop off my parts and sell them to feed our children.”
A complaint about his father that Keris had heard many times before, and he gave a sympathetic nod as he watched the other players for tells. Not because he cared about winning, but because he needed to keep his mind busy.
Thud.
He covered his flinch by drinking deeply from his glass, forcing himself to focus on the game and not the feel of his brother’s boot slipping through his grasp.
“Bastard will see us all starved and in the streets before conceding he’s bit off more than he can chew with that cursed bridge he stole from Ithicana.”
The other men nodded their agreement, the skinny one adding his own glob of spit to the floor as he muttered, “Back-stabbing Veliant thief.”
Keris had fueled this anger in the people with his rumors about Aren, and old habits died hard. “To the victor go the spoils, in cards and in war.”
He’d kept his voice light, but that seemed not to matter, for the faces of all three darkened, the bearded man saying, “This was no war. A war is fought face-to-face with weapons in hand, not by sending a princess with a pretty face and nice tits to stab a man in the back. Not only was there no honor in it, our beloved king has nothing to show for it but snake-infested islands and empty pockets.”
“And a royal prisoner,” Keris added. “You wouldn’t want to forget that.”
“He brings shame upon Maridrina,” the skinny man said. “The Ithicanian king treated us as true allies, and this was how he was repaid.”
