The Inadequate Heir, page 8
WITH NIGHT DRAWING to a close, Nerastis was finally quieting down for a few hours of respite, for which Keris was profoundly grateful as he trudged through the streets.
Everything hurt.
Countless scrapes and bruises, but it was his shoulder that had him gritting his teeth. He’d barely made it across the spillway in time to catch her, but the angle had been bad, and muscles had torn. Climbing anything higher than his own bed would be near to impossible, and already he could feel the walls of circumstance closing in on him. Without his ability to scale walls and secret his way in and out of the palace, he’d be stuck with an escort if he so much as wanted to peek his head outside the walls.
As it was, his favored route was currently ash, the Valcottan having decimated the construction scaffolding he typically used. He could only pray that none of the burning embers had found their way onto anything important in his rooms. Many of his books were irreplaceable, but then again, so were the letters in the inner pocket of his coat.
Striding through the open gates with enough authority that no one contested his presence, Keris unfastened the tie holding his hair back as he entered the palace, sweaty locks falling around his face. Servants and soldiers were running every which way, and above the din, he heard his brother shout, “I don’t want a stone in this city left unturned until we find my brother. There isn’t a chance they got him across the Anriot, which means they have him hidden somewhere in Nerastis.”
Shit.
“We must entertain the real possibility that Prince Keris is dead, Highness,” another voice answered, Keris recognizing it as that of a captain named Philo.
“If they’d only cared about killing him, they’d have slit his cursed throat,” Otis shouted. “He’s alive, but we need to find him before they decide to cut their losses.”
“Good morning, gentlemen.” Keris stepped up to their conversation.
His brother’s eyes widened, then narrowed with growing anger. “Where have you been?”
“With a lovely pair of ladies at the Pink Rose,” he answered, naming the most expensive courtesan house in Nerastis—and one infamous for its discretion. “What happened to my palace?”
“Without an escort?” Otis’s ears turned red. “Have you lost your bloody mind, Keris? This isn’t Vencia. You can’t just go gallivanting around by yourself.”
“I just told you I wasn’t by myself.”
“Keris—”
His exhaustion had eaten away his patience for being treated like a wayward child, so he interrupted Otis. “Was there a fire?”
“Yes, the Valcottans managed to torch the repair scaffolding. No significant damage but—”
He’d had enough of this conversation. Injecting panic into his voice, he shouted, “My books!” Keris broke into a sprint, taking the steps two at a time as he circled to the top level, finding the door to his rooms kicked open, likely courtesy of Otis, and the space filled with servant women sweeping ash off the floor. His gaze went immediately to the chest where he kept his most precious possessions, but it appeared unscathed. “Thank God for small mercies.”
Otis appeared behind him, breathing hard. His brother caught him by the arm and dragged him into the bathing chamber, slamming the door shut behind them. “I thought they’d taken you,” he said in a low voice. “That they’d scaled the scaffolding and stolen you out of this fool’s choice of a bedroom right from under our very noses. But the Valcottans had nothing to do with it, did they? You climbed down of your own volition so that you could go fraternize with the masses as someone other than yourself. Was the fire just a way to cause a distraction so you could get out the gates, then?”
“I—”
“You could’ve gotten someone killed, you know. Several of our men have burns from falling debris, never mind that it’s going to take at least a week to rebuild the scaffolding.”
Guilt bit at Keris’s stomach, for despite not having been the one who’d set the fire, he was responsible for allowing the Valcottan woman close enough to do so.
“I’m tired of this, Keris. I’ve only been back in Nerastis for a day, and I’m already tired of your childish methods of showing your displeasure over your circumstances.” Otis scrubbed his hand through his hair. “I know how much you hate fighting. How much you abhor killing. How much you are against our invasion of Ithicana and our war with Valcotta, but what I don’t understand is why you can’t accept that this is the hand you’ve been dealt. War is in the blood of our people, and you’re heir to the throne, so you need to either become the man this kingdom needs or accept that your life will be a short one.”
Keris crossed his arms. “I have accepted my lot, Otis. It is you who continues to struggle.”
Silence stretched between them, so tense that he wondered if it would come to blows, as quarrels between Veliant brothers often did. Except usually, it was Otis delivering blows on his behalf.
But Otis only stepped back. “There are days I hate you, Keris. And today is one of them. But since I know you’re not going to do a damn thing but go back to being the useless bastard you always are, I’ll go clean up your mess. And then I’ll organize a raid across the Anriot, because it is a far better thing that our men believe a Valcottan got past our defenses than that their crown prince was stupid enough to set his own palace on fire.”
And without giving Keris time to muster a retort, his brother flung open the door and left the room.
Leaning against the wall, Keris balled his hands into fists, forcing himself to take deep, measured breaths, wondering if it wouldn’t be better to just concede. To go down to the war room and plan raids across the border. To ride out with the men and coat his blade with enemy blood for the glory of Maridrina. To be the heir his father wanted.
To do what it took to ensure his own survival.
Go after him, a voice inside his head whispered. Apologize. Promise to change. But his body didn’t move, and as seconds turned to minutes, his heart ceased its pounding, and the angry sweat that had risen to his skin slowly cooled.
Stepping out of the open door, he nodded at the servants before exiting the room, heading down two flights of stairs to the floor containing Otis’s room. The corridor was empty, so there were no eyes to see him pick the lock on the door and swiftly shut it behind him. His brother had clearly not had an opportunity to come back, his uniform jacket still slung over the chair as it had been the night before.
Smoothing the sheets, Keris then extracted the package of letters from his pocket, examining them in the sunlight to ensure there was no obvious damage. He’d seen them in Otis’s hands enough times to know them well, and in his mind’s eye, he could see his brother’s thumb running over the edges of the twelve precious letters that were all he had left of his wife. His eyes skipped over an official missive from his father, which was likely what had inspired Valcotta to steal the package in the first place. Yet as Keris ran his own thumb over the edges of the love letters, counting, his stomach dropped when he reached only eleven. He swiftly recounted, but the number was the same.
One of them was missing.
“Shit!” he snarled. “She kept one!”
Then the memory of the Valcottan woman’s voice filled his ears. All of them. On my honor!
And there was nothing more important to a Valcottan than her word. Which meant one thing for certain: Keris hadn’t seen the last of the beautiful thief.
JUST AFTER DAWN, Zarrah limped inside the gates of the Valcottan palace, several of her soldiers racing to her side.
“It’s nothing,” she said. “A bar fight that I found myself in the middle of.” Then she made her way up to her rooms and collapsed on her bed in exhaustion.
A second later, the door opened.
“I’m feeling hurt, Zar,” Yrina said. “It appears as though you went out for a bit of fun without me.”
“It wasn’t fun.” Zarrah kept her eyes closed, feeling the press of the Maridrinian’s chest against her back. The heat of his breath against her cheek. “A good reminder of why I don’t go drinking with soldiers.”
Her friend made a noise that was simultaneously pity and amusement, then Zarrah felt the bed sink and heard Yrina’s soft intake of breath. “God, woman. Did you run through a field of broken glass?”
“Is it that bad?”
“It’s not good. Where is your other boot?”
Probably in a gator’s belly was the answer, but Zarrah said, “Lost it in the fight.”
Yrina whistled between her teeth. “You really were out for some fun.”
The bed shifted. Water splashed. Zarrah clenched her teeth as Yrina immersed her battered foot in a basin, washing it clean before she began picking debris out of Zarrah’s flesh with a pair of tweezers. The smell of alcohol filled the air, and Zarrah had only a second to bury her face in her pillow to muffle her scream as Yrina doused her foot, cleaning the rest of the Nerastis filth from the wounds.
“You going to tell me what you were doing on the other side of the Anriot when the Empress specifically ordered otherwise?”
“I wasn’t.”
“Don’t lie. You reek like river water.” She paused, then asked, “Did it have something to do with the fire at the Maridrinian palace?”
Yrina was sworn to her and had always kept her confidence. But more than that, Zarrah hated lying to her friend. “Fine. Yes.” Zarrah kept her face buried in her pillow to hide the heat burning across her cheeks. Never mind that her actions were in deliberate violation of the Empress’s orders, what she’d done had been nothing short of a total disaster. She felt a fool and had nothing to show for it but a shredded foot and a stomach full of shame.
Yrina was uncharacteristically quiet as she wrapped a bandage around Zarrah’s foot. Then she murmured, “Don’t let Bermin goad you, Zar. Remember, it is in his best interest to see you make mistakes. The Empress is fickle, and that which she giveth, she can easily taketh away. For you to remain as general of this garrison, you must be perfection in her eyes.”
And to the Empress, perfection meant obedience.
“I’ll leave you to get some rest,” Yrina said. “And I’ll start a rumor that you lost your boot beating the woman who looked too longingly at your lover.”
Zarrah groaned into the pillow. “Don’t you dare.”
“Perhaps you’re right,” Yrina said thoughtfully. “That’s not something you’d do. You’d beat your lover with the boot for inviting temptation, right?”
“I don’t have a lover.”
“That’s half your problem. You’d enjoy life a great deal more with a man dedicated to your pleasure.” Yrina swatted Zarrah across the ass, finally luring her out from under the pillow if only to scowl at her friend’s departing back.
The last thing she needed was the distraction of a lover. Over the years, she’d taken a handful of men into her bed for a night or two, but she’d always been careful to keep it to that, knowing that hers would be a carefully selected political union, not a love match. A consort from a powerful Valcottan family, the union bringing strength to the crown. And in recent months—years, if she was being honest—she’d not brought any men to her bed at all, for they weren’t a distraction she could afford.
Exhausted as she was, the sun was already glowing through the stained-glass windows of her room, sending spirals of color across the white silk of her sheets. Past time for her to have been up and completing her exercises, which meant sleep wasn’t an option.
What she needed was a cold shower to slap some alertness into her.
Limping to the adjoining chamber, Zarrah unfastened the buckles of her leather corselet and discarded it on the floor, followed by the silk camisole that was still glued to her skin from sweat.
Her fingers ached as she unfastened her belt, but as she tugged down her trousers, she heard the distinct sound of crinkling paper.
Frowning, Zarrah reached into the deep pocket and withdrew a folded letter, her heartbeat accelerating as she slowly unfolded it. Perhaps her efforts had netted her something worthwhile after all.
Unfolding the letter, she read. Dearest O, every minute we are apart feels like an eternity …
What in the name of God had she stolen?
Starting over, Zarrah read the letter once, then again, searching the overly poetic piece of nonsense written by a woman named Tasha for any sign of a code, but there was none. Nothing that was even the slightest bit useful.
She’d risked life and limb to steal that bastard’s love letters.
But that wasn’t what set her heart to racing, her stomach threatening to empty its contents onto the glass-tiled floor. No, the worst of it was, she’d promised to give the letters back. All of them.
And a Valcottan always kept her word.
HER DAY DID not improve.
The Maridrinians raided not an hour after she returned—likely in retaliation for what they perceived as an assault on their palace. They attacked one of her patrols, the battle short yet fevered, resulting in heavy casualties on both sides, and each time she spoke words over one of the fallen, her guilt pooled higher in her guts until Zarrah was certain she might drown in it.
Dead because of her actions. Actions that had netted her nothing but shame for undertaking such an ill-considered escapade in the first place.
And now, with full dark having fallen over Nerastis, she had to go back across the Anriot to return a stupid love letter.
The roar of falling water intensified as she approached the dam, the moon her only source of light as she stepped onto the top of it, heading slowly toward the gap in the middle, where she stopped at the edge.
Water surged through the spillway, the flow black and ominous, and fear prickled up her spine. Without the adrenaline of the chase, it seemed madness to try to leap the gap, but she had little choice. Honor demanded she return the letter, no matter that it was nothing more than flowery drivel, and there was no other way to get across that didn’t risk her being caught, as the bridges were being watched.
“You can do this,” she muttered, readjusting the new staff strapped to her back. “Jump over. Return the letter. Jump back.” And then she could shove this particular embarrassment to the bottom of her mind, never to be thought of again.
Or so she hoped.
Taking a deep breath, Zarrah retreated down the top of the dam, taking careful strides so that she’d hit the edge just right when she sprinted back. Turning to face the gap, she voiced a silent prayer, then broke into a run.
Wind tore at her hair as she rounded the dam, her pulse rivaling the waterfall in intensity.
You can do this.
Her boots pounded against the stone, drawing her closer and closer. She gathered herself, readying to leap.
Then skidded to a stop, nearly toppling over the edge as her nerves betrayed her.
“You’re a bloody coward!” She twisted on her heel, intending to try again, when a laugh caught her attention.
Her eyes jerked across the spillway, landing on a dark figure standing on the edge, moonlight turning his blond hair to silver.
“Don’t give yourself such a hard time, Valcotta.” His tone was amused. “Not everyone has the nerve for such a leap.”
She scowled at him, but there wasn’t much she could say.
Rocking on his heels, he called, “I believe you have something of mine. Was the reading of it everything you hoped it would be when you stole it?”
Her cheeks burned. “I didn’t mean to take it.” Though she couldn’t see his face clearly in the darkness, Zarrah knew he’d lifted an eyebrow, so she hastily added, “I meant to return them all. The one stuck in my pocket. It’s here.” Digging it out, she held the folded paper up to the moonlight.
“I believe you.” He tilted his head. “But you didn’t answer my question.”
God, but he was a bastard.
Except while she was fumbling for a reply, he gestured at her to back up, and before she could shout at him that she was perfectly capable of jumping across herself, he’d retreated a few paces and was sprinting toward the gap.
Zarrah’s heart caught in her throat as he jumped, a dark shadow flying over the deadly water to land beside her on nearly silent feet. A silence broken by a sharp intake of breath, and he pressed a hand to his shoulder before reaching out the same hand to her. “Letter.”
Zarrah silently handed it over, his gloved fingers warm where they brushed hers.
“Thank you.” He backed up several paces, obviously intending to jump across, their exchange over.
Without thinking—which she was starting to believe was an escalating issue for her—Zarrah said, “I risked a great deal under the mistaken belief that I’d found myself a prize worthy of my life, yet you risked your life knowing that scrap of paper contains nothing but bad poetry, O.”
He huffed out a laugh. “I am most certainly not O.”
“Then why—”
“O is a … friend, of sorts. Those letters are from the wife he lost a year ago to a shipwreck, and they are deeply precious to him.”
“I …” Her stomach twisted with a mix of shame and admiration. Shame at herself for having pilfered such precious items and admiration that this man had risked life and limb to retrieve them for the sake of another. “My apologies. I would never have taken them if I’d known it would cause such hurt.”
“A strange line to draw, given that you took them on the hope they’d give you information that would see him—and his countrymen—dead.”
“I have principles. Whether you understand them matters little.” She needed to be done with this conversation before her pride took any more abrasion, but curiosity held her feet in place even as it gave voice to a question that had haunted her. “Why didn’t you sound the alarm? Why chase me down yourself?”
He was silent, and the moon chose that moment to move out from behind a cloud, clearly illuminating his face, which was every bit as striking as she’d remembered. All high cheekbones and straight lines, though his lips were absent the smirk she’d begun to associate with him. The wind blew softly over them, and her nose caught the subtle scent of spice, the smell of which filled her with the absurd desire to move closer. To breathe deeper.
