The Inadequate Heir, page 49
“No, you don’t!” Her emotions boiled over the walls she’d built to contain them. “You don’t have it in hand, because it isn’t just Nerastis she’s coming for—it’s Vencia. I know because it’s me who is supposed to sail into its harbor to sack and burn and murder. Me who is supposed to go to Silas’s palace and put every last Veliant to sword.”
Silence.
“But instead, I’m going to lie.” Tears dripped down her cheeks. “I’ll tell my soldiers that her orders are to retake Southwatch for Ithicana. We’ll drive your father out and send him back to lick his wounds in Vencia, and things will go back to the way they’ve always been.”
“No, they won’t, because you’ll be executed.” He stood right at the end now, and she cringed as rocks crumbled to fall into the water below. “This is madness, Zarrah. There are other ways. I’ll warn my father. Tell him that the Empress intends to attack while his back is turned. He won’t risk Vencia.”
“Won’t he?”
Keris’s mouth opened, but he hesitated, and Zarrah knew he was thinking of the depths of Silas’s obsession with the bridge. Knew he was seeing how this would unfold and the calamity it would bring. “There has to be another way to stop this. Just … just don’t attack. Delay until he’s done with Ithicana, and then the opportunity will be lost.”
“That’s still treason, Keris.” She wiped the tears from her face. “And if I’m to be executed, it won’t be for inaction. If I’m to die, it’s going to be righting my wrongs.”
“No! I won’t let you!” Lamplight glittered off the tears on his face. “I won’t let you die!”
“It’s not your choice.” She took a step back. Then another.
“What about Valcotta?” he shouted. “What about all the good you would do as its empress? What about the lives that would be saved if it was you who ruled?”
“A dream.” She bit her lip, grief rolling over her in violent waves. “Whereas this is reality. I love you, Keris, but you can’t stop me from doing this.” She took another step back. “My ships will set sail in a matter of hours, so don’t think there is a way to stop me, because there isn’t. I told you I need to do things that I believe are right, because that’s the only way I can honor myself.”
“Zarrah, please.” He dropped to his knees. “I’m begging you, don’t do this. Please don’t do this. I can’t lose you.”
Her heart fractured into a million pieces, but her resolve remained whole. “Goodbye, Keris. May we meet again in the Great Beyond.”
And with him screaming her name, Zarrah walked away.
“ZARRAH!”
He didn’t care if anyone heard, if all of fucking Nerastis heard, because he needed to stop her. Needed to keep her from making this decision. Needed to save her.
Even if that meant saving her from herself. Because he goddamned refused to let her die.
But she didn’t stop. Didn’t turn around. Just kept walking and walking until the glow of her lantern was out of sight and his voice was hoarse.
Go after her.
Keris backed down the dam, eyeing the gap of the spillway, the far side cast in shadows.
It’s too far.
“It’s not too far,” he snarled to himself. “You’ve jumped farther.”
And there was no other way to reach her. The river was being watched by his men, and without his horse, he’d never make it around the lake in time to stop her from boarding that ship. This was the only way. Because he wouldn’t let her die.
He broke into a sprint, gaze fixed on the far side, his lantern marking the place he needed to jump.
Thud.
The sickening sound of his brother hitting the ground filled his ears, and Keris flung his weight backward, skidding on his heels, then falling on his ass right at the edge.
He pressed his fingers to his temples, trying to force himself back to his feet. Trying to force himself to try again. But the same sound repeated over and over in his head, and he couldn’t move.
All his life he’d spent climbing, and never once had he been afraid. But now terror consumed him.
Breathe, he ordered himself, lifting his head to stare at the spillway. Breathing and breathing until logic and reason and control returned.
Think.
It was too far to jump. All he’d accomplish was plunging into the waterfall to be dashed against the rocks below. He couldn’t stop her from boarding that ship and setting sail.
But maybe there was another path.
Rising to his feet, Keris turned north. The only way to prevent Zarrah from committing treason was to eliminate the opportunity. Which meant ensuring Vencia was well defended enough to ruin the Empress’s plans to sack it, as well as withdrawing Maridrinian forces from Ithicana, which would remove Zarrah’s need to fight on Aren’s behalf.
Except Zarrah was right: His father would risk Vencia before willingly relinquishing the bridge. It was the obsession that had dominated his life, and he finally had it in his grasp. What were the lives of everyone in Vencia compared to that?
Which left only one option.
Keris’s skin crawled, his stomach twisting with nausea, because it was honorless. And unfamiliar.
But if it worked, it would save Vencia. Would stop the escalation of the Endless War in its tracks. And it would save Zarrah’s life.
“Fuck honor.”
He broke into a run toward Nerastis.
KERIS GALLOPED THROUGH the balance of the night and through the morning before trading a farmer for a fresh horse.
He’d left instructions with Philo to retain all the ships and men, warning him to be ever vigilant, as Valcotta intended to attack. He could only pray that it would be enough, if not to stop Bermin from making a move then at least to stop him from pressing north into Maridrina. There was nothing more he could do for them now.
For days, he rode, stopping only to switch horses or for a few hours of fitful sleep in the brush before pressing on. By the time Vencia’s walls came into view, Keris was so exhausted he could barely think, his clothes stained to the point of ruin and his stomach as empty as his pockets. The two men manning the gates didn’t recognize him, allowing him to pass through with all the rest of the merchant traffic heading into the city.
The harbor was dominated by naval vessels flying the Maridrinian flag, and on the docks, hundreds of soldiers waited to be loaded. Though Keris had known this was his father’s intent, he was still struck by the sight. Ithicana could not survive this without Zarrah’s help, and even with it, it would be a battle for the ages.
At the palace, new gates had been installed to replace those destroyed by Ithicanian explosives during the escape—sturdier ones that were shut despite it being midday, the walls crawling with soldiers.
“Halt,” one of them shouted at him, and Keris pulled up his shaggy mount in deference to the arrows currently leveled at his chest. “There is no entrance to the palace. Be on your way!”
Pulling back his hood, Keris looked up at the soldiers. “Open the fucking gate! And ensure someone has a drink waiting for me in the courtyard. All I can taste is dust, and my ass is never going to recover from riding this creature.” He switched his glower to the horse, which was the most mean-spirited creature he’d ever encountered. It seemed to sense his ire, turning to try to bite his foot. “I’m going to feed you to the dogs.”
He looked back up at the soldier.
The man stared at him for a heartbeat, then finally seemed to see past the filth and shaggy horse, recognition dawning in his eyes. “Your Highness?”
Patience shot, Keris only glared until the gate slowly swung open, allowing him to trot inside. Sliding off the horse, he tossed the reins to a stable boy. “Give the bastard a good rubdown and an extra helping of oats.” He swiftly rinsed his hands in the waiting basin of water. “Where’s my father?”
“In his war room, Highness.” The servant carrying the bowl hurried along next to him, water splashing. “But perhaps you’d care to bathe and change before attending him?”
“Later.” Keris cut left and then entered the building, ignoring his aching body and taking the steps two at a time to the second level. Unlike the inner sanctum, which was lavished with creature comforts, the outer palace was austere and cold, the walls devoid of art and the floors naked stone. A reminder that this building was a fortress that had repelled more than one attack during Maridrina’s tumultuous history. He made his way to the war room where his father met with his generals, his boot heels thudding from the speed of his stride.
“I need to see him,” he said to one of the guards outside the door. The man ducked inside, then reemerged and gave Keris a nod.
Taking a fortifying breath and praying his nerves wouldn’t betray him, Keris stepped into the war room.
Though he’d only been in here a handful of times in his life, the room remained almost identical to how it had been in his childhood. One wall contained a series of narrow windows set with frosted glass, the opposite wall holding a framed map of Maridrina. A heavy circular table sat in the middle of the room, surrounded by what Keris knew to be extremely uncomfortable chairs, and along the side wall was a cabinet containing bottles of liquor, each expensive enough to feed a family for a year.
His father sat at the table in the company of several officers in the Maridrinian army, judging from their uniforms, but at the sight of Keris, he waved a hand at them. “We will continue later. I would speak with my son.”
The men rose without argument, bowing to his father before abandoning their glasses of expensive drink on the table as though they expected to return to them shortly. Keris waited until they’d left and was about to speak when the skin on the back of his neck prickled. He turned in time to see Serin step out of the shadows, his robes trailing along the floor as he made his way to the table.
“You really need to cease crawling out of the corners,” he said to the spymaster. “It’s quite an off-putting behavior.”
“Only to those with something to hide.”
Keris leveled him with a long stare. “The dramatic statements are no better.”
“Enough, Keris,” his father snapped. “Instead of filling the air with useless chatter, explain where my ships and soldiers are.”
“Nerastis.”
His father was on his feet in a flash, his right hand balled in a fist. “You go too far, boy. I’ll tolerate your complaints over my plans to hold the bridge but not you actively sabotaging them.” He swore loudly, then slammed his fist down on the table, making all the glasses bounce. “Aren Kertell and your witch of a sister are rumored to be back in Ithicana and rallying forces. The Amaridian queen is withdrawing her support, and her goddamned navy, once storm season begins. Which means I have a matter of weeks to destroy what remains of the Ithicanian resistance, and your peddling to a fool’s ideals,” his volume increased to a shout, “may have ruined it!”
“This has nothing to do with ideals.” Keris watched his father warily. “The Empress has guessed your intent and plans to attack while your back is turned.”
His father’s jaw tightened, and he glanced to Serin, revealing that he’d known the risk and had demanded the soldiers anyway. “What of it? We’ve lost Nerastis before, only to take it back a year later. The bridge is worth a hundred times that pile of rubble, and now we might lose it.” He leveled a finger at Keris. “If I lose the bridge because of you, I’m going to cut out your fucking tongue.”
It wasn’t the first time he’d been threatened with the punishment, but it was the first time Keris didn’t feel afraid. “Not just Nerastis, Your Grace. Vencia is the Empress’s target.”
“I’ve heard nothing of this,” Serin snapped, even as his father snarled, “She wouldn’t dare.”
“She dares.” Keris’s pulse was a steady thud, his palms clammy. “Zarrah Anaphora returned to Nerastis and loaded three vessels with soldiers before sailing north, her intent to wait until you abandoned Vencia to attack Ithicana, then to launch an attack of her own.”
“How did you learn this?” Serin demanded.
Keris shrugged. “Spies. I’m sure your own eyes will bring the same information eventually, although if we’d relied on them, it would be too late.”
Serin’s eyes narrowed, but it was Keris’s father who spoke. “And why did you feel it necessary to deliver this information yourself?”
He had to at least try to convince him, even if doing so was a fool’s hope. “The bridge has been nothing but a curse. Is seeing Vencia destroyed and thousands of Maridrinian lives lost worth it, Father?”
Yes, was the answer in his father’s eyes, though he said, “We’ll raise the harbor chains and arm the civilians. They can defend the walls until I return.”
“Old men, women, and children against three ships full of hardened Valcottan soldiers is not a fair fight.”
His father crossed his arms. “Then we evacuate. Let Zarrah content herself with burning an empty city. We will rebuild and then have revenge against her when the time is right.”
God help him, but Keris hated that word. Would strike it from every language in the world if he could, for those motivated by it only brought ruin. “Give up the bridge, Father.”
“You want me to concede?” His father stalked around the table. “I sacrificed nearly two decades of my reign and nearly two dozen daughters to win this prize, and you just want me to give it up?”
Keris tensed, knowing what was coming. But he couldn’t stop now. “Yes. For the sake of Maridrina, you must.”
“I must do nothing! I am king!”
“Your pride will be the death of this kingdom.” Keris’s control of his temper frayed with every passing heartbeat, because his words accomplished no more than spitting into the wind. His father would never concede. “And it will be for nothing, because you aren’t capable of winning this.”
Face darkening with fury, his father struck, fist flying toward Keris’s face.
But whereas once he’d have allowed the blow to land, this time, Keris blocked it. And struck one of his own.
His father staggered, tripping over a chair and falling on his ass, cheek a livid red. But rather than fury, his expression was filled with delight that made Keris sick.
“Guards!” Serin shrieked, but the king held up one hand. “No. No guards, Serin.” He spit blood onto the carpet, and said, “You are always particular in your phrasing, Keris. You say that I cannot win. Not that it cannot be won.”
It felt like a noose was around Keris’s throat, choking back his words, because innocents were going to die. People who’d had no say in any of this and yet would lose their lives because they were pawns in the games played by kings and queens and empresses.
And princes.
So he said, “The key to victory is not attacking the limbs of our enemy but striking at its heart.”
“Attack Eranahl?” His father shook his head. “Its defenses are formidable—it would require us taking nearly every man and ship at our disposal to assail it, which would mean leaving our strongholds on the bridge undefended and ripe for the picking.”
Keris picked up a drink from the table and took a mouthful. The liquor burned down his throat to sit like a lead weight in his stomach. The weight of his father’s approval—something he’d never wanted to earn, because doing so would mean becoming something he loathed. Yet here he was. “Aren fights in the belief he is going to war against you.”
“He is going to war against me.”
“No, he is going to war against me.” Keris drained his glass. “And by the time he realizes it, it will be too late.”
His father’s eyes narrowed. “What do you propose?”
“I propose we use the bridge to withdraw all our men from Ithicana in secret, leaving only enough behind to maintain the illusion that we intend to fight to the death to keep our hold on the bridge. Once Aren commits his forces, and those of the Valcottans, to attacks on our outposts holding the bridge, we sail against Eranahl and take the city.”
His father made a face. “What good is that? Aren will hold the bridge and its defenses, and given he’ll suffer almost no losses to his army in the taking, we’ll never dig him out again.”
Even now, after all this time, his father still didn’t understand that not all rulers were like him. That not all rulers were willing to sacrifice their people for the sake of political, strategic, and financial gain. Except what made Aren Kertell a better man than Silas Veliant would ultimately be his downfall. And the end of Ithicana.
So Keris detailed the rest of the plan, a part of himself withering and dying as his father’s smile grew, pride radiating from his gaze. “You are my son after all. A true Veliant. I knew it. I’ve always known it. And I think so have you, no matter how hard you tried to fight it.”
As much as Keris wanted to deny it, he knew his father was right.
Keris gave a slight nod, and he sent out a silent plea to wherever Zarrah was on the high seas.
Forgive me.
“THE HARBOR CHAIN IS still up.”
Zarrah glanced left at the captain of the ship, who was lowering his spyglass from his assessment of Vencia. “That’s two days it’s remained up, with all merchant vessels turned away to seek berth in other harbors. And the seas are growing rougher, the winds higher. Storm season is nearly upon us.”
“Agreed.” The captain rested his elbows on the rail. “I’m afraid we may not be able to pursue the Empress’s desired course of action, General. Not with the updates we received last night.”
Zarrah had sent a longboat to shore under the cover of darkness to meet with Valcottan spies, who’d told them with no uncertainty that not only had Silas not emptied the city’s defenses to bolster his forces engaged with subduing Ithicana, he’d doubled them. Which meant attacking would be a death wish.
“Our plans must have leaked somehow,” one of her lieutenants muttered. “They’re prepared for an attack. I wouldn’t be surprised if they keep the chain up until storm season strikes.”
