The Inadequate Heir, page 9
“If I’d sounded the alarm, they’d have captured you, and a swift execution would’ve been the most mercy you could’ve expected.”
Zarrah had known that crossing the Anriot. Known that if she were caught, she’d have been brutalized before her head was removed and catapulted across the Anriot for her countrymen to find. “Why should you care for the life of your enemy?”
“Because I’ve seen enough death to last me a lifetime, and if I have my way, I’ll never be the cause of it.” His eyes, rendered colorless in the darkness, regarded her steadily. “And just because Valcotta is Maridrina’s enemy doesn’t make you mine.”
That was exactly what it meant, but instead of arguing, she said, “You do not sound in favor of the Endless War.”
He turned to look out over the glowing city, but Zarrah kept her eyes on him, watching as the wind teased a strand of his hair free from the knot at the back of his head. He was in his mid-twenties, was her guess, and while his clothes were nondescript, his cleanliness suggested he enjoyed a certain amount of privilege. Likely one of the endless noblemen who filled the Maridrinian army, there being no other purpose for them.
He gestured at the city. “Explain to me how this place is worth fighting over?”
There were reasons. The land surrounding Nerastis was tremendously fertile, the port large enough to support significant merchant traffic, and the weather calmer than it was anywhere on the continent.
As though sensing her thoughts, he said, “How many men and women do you suppose have died in the war over this city?”
“Who can say?” Though she knew the answer: tens of thousands. It was surprising the earth itself wasn’t stained red, so many had fallen in this place.
“Even if it were only one, it would be too many,” he said. “Because this is a war fueled not by the desire to improve the lives of the people but by the greed and pride of kings and empresses, and no one should have to give their life for that.”
She snorted in disgust. “Perhaps by Silas Veliant’s greed, but the Empress fights for honor and vengeance.”
“I’m sure that’s what she would have her soldiers believe is her motivation. It is likely the reason they tell themselves they fight, because it is much more palatable to face death in the name of honor than because it was the job you were hired to do. It’s certainly what Maridrinian soldiers tell themselves; that I can tell you for fact.”
Zarrah opened her mouth to argue that was ironic, given his people were honorless dogs, but then shut it again, as it was no argument against his point.
“Do you know who started the Endless War, Valcotta? Who threw the first punch?” He didn’t give her a chance to answer. “No one does, though of surety, both sides blame the other. The only thing that can be said with certainty is that an emperor and a king long dead both wanted this land and had too much pride in their hearts to split it down the middle. And though thousands have died to claim it, Nerastis sits in ruins and much of the land around it fallow. Anyone who thinks it is honorable to continue such a fight is a goddamned fool.”
Zarrah jerked, hand going to her weapon as fury rose in her heart. “If you had any concept of what your people have done to mine, the number of orphans they’ve left in their wakes, you’d—”
“I do understand, because your people have done the same to mine. And you must take a hard look at yourself if you think a child of Maridrina is worth less only because they don’t bend the knee to the same crown.” He gave a sharp shake of his head. “Back and forth and back and forth, and all it yields is corpses, their children growing up with hate in their hearts to take up weapons and continue the cycle anew.”
His words were too close, too personal, though he couldn’t possibly know the truth. “What would you have us do? What other solution is there but to fight?”
Silence.
“I don’t know,” he finally said. “It’s easy to want change, but far more difficult to find ways to achieve it. And impossible to achieve it when those in power want the status quo, which is why I dream no further than finding a way to extract myself from these circumstances.”
She dropped her hand from her weapon, feeling oddly disappointed with his answer, though she wasn’t certain why. “What good are idealistic words when you do not act upon them? You criticize the actions of others but then lift up your hands in defeat when asked for solutions to the problem. I might be a fool, but at least I’m a fool who tries to make a difference. Whereas you are … useless.”
The Maridrinian visibly flinched, though he recovered swiftly. “Better useless than dead.”
“I disagree. If you truly believe in something, you should be willing to suffer for it. To die for it, if need be. Which tells me that you either don’t believe your own words or that you are a coward.”
He stared at her in silence, then said, “Valcotta, I believe you are far cleverer than I first gave you credit for.” The moon cast shadows across his too-handsome face. “And perhaps more of an idealist than you realize.”
An idealist? She blinked, then took a step forward to catch his arm. “Who are you?”
The smirk returned, and reaching down, he took her hand and lifted it, his lips just barely grazing her knuckles, the sensation making her stomach flip. “There is something to be said for anonymity, Valcotta. Especially when one’s mind is not aligned with the will of one’s country. And most especially when one is considering action.” He let go of her hand, her skin immediately begrudging the absence of his touch. “Good night.”
And without another word, he leaped over the spillway and disappeared into darkness.
“IT WAS ON THE floor of my room.” Keris handed the letter to Otis. “So you can cease and desist in your threats of the maidservants.”
Otis muttered, “I haven’t been threatening them.” His denial was at odds with the current state of the staff, which, since his brother had realized the letter was missing, could only be described as frazzled. “But how did it get in your room?”
“The answer will have to remain one of life’s great mysteries.” Settling himself on a chair, Keris sorted through a stack of his books on the neighboring table, the desire to read settling upon him in a way it hadn’t been in a long time. But instead he asked, “What word of Ithicana?”
He could feel his brother’s scrutiny, but Otis eventually said, “They are still fighting, despite the storms and our forces turning their own defenses against them. We’ve reopened trade along the bridge.”
“With the same trade terms as the Ithicanians used?”
Otis shook his head. “As compensation for the continued use of her navy, we are allowing the Amaridian Queen to use it without charge or tax.”
“That will have the Harendellians in a frenzy. Father tempts fate.”
“They won’t act until the next calm season. Losing their fleet isn’t worth it.”
Keris frowned at the book he’d chosen, though his consternation wasn’t over the contents. Their father was banking on the Ithicanians being defeated by the next calm, thus eliminating his need for the Amaridian navy and the cost associated with it. If Ithicana kept fighting, Maridrina would not only have war on all sides, but it would be bankrupt, which would mean increasing taxes on their already-belabored people. “Taking the bridge was folly.”
Otis made an aggrieved sound. “Never mind Ithicana. You promised to train with me, and don’t think I’m not convinced you didn’t steal my letter to cause enough of a stir to get yourself out of it.”
The Valcottan woman’s face appeared in his mind’s eye, his memory replaying how her jaw had tightened at the thought of having taken an item of sentiment and the hurt its loss would’ve caused. “Think what you’d like.”
Otis gave him a shove. “Find your sword and meet me in the stables. I need a gallop, and you need some sunlight—you’re the color of a corpse.”
“You’ve forgiven me, then?”
“Not even close. But you are my responsibility whether I wish it or not, so I have no choice but to endure your company. Now quit procrastinating and find your bloody sword.”
THEY WAITED UNTIL they were out of the city, then broke into a fast gallop up the road, mud from recent rains splattering their boots as they raced north. Overhead, the sky was the purest shade of blue, without so much as a cloud in sight, the sun heating the back of Keris’s coat as he leaned over his mount’s neck. Away from the swampy Anriot and filth of Nerastis and the fallow grounds, the air smelled of ocean brine and verdant fields, and his eyes moved over the men and women working them.
There was a great deal of wealth to be made here, but it came at a cost that was impossible to miss: burned remains of homes and barns dotted the landscape, blackened frames reaching up to the sky like fingers. Here and there, the ground had been razed, and as the wind shifted, the stench of rotting flesh filled his nose. Possibly slaughtered livestock, but equally likely it was the casualties of a Valcottan raid. In the distance, he caught sight of a Maridrinian patrol, sun glittering off the steel of their weapons. Dozens of such groups patrolled the border, but there was too much ground for them to protect every inch of it, and the Valcottans were opportunistic in their attacks.
Otis cut inland down a narrow track, and Keris guided his mount after him, urging the horse to more speed. He liked to ride. Liked to ride fast, which was rarely an option with an escort. But while he’d never be allowed out of the city without an escort, Otis suffered no such limitations. Not with his reputation as a warrior and the respect that went along with it.
Reaching a wider spot in the path, Keris dug in his heels, surging past his brother and laughing when Otis lifted his hand in a vulgar gesture. Neck and neck, they raced their horses east until they reached a copse of trees, only then slowing to a walk.
“This will do,” Otis declared, swinging off his mount, Keris reluctantly following suit. With the horses tethered to some trees, his brother pulled out his sword.
Keris eyed the weapon. “Must we?”
“Yes. There’s a difference between people believing you’re skill-less and actually being so, and that difference is survival.”
“I prefer knives.”
“Pretend it’s a very big knife.”
Sighing, Keris extracted his own sword, hating the weight of it in his hand. Knives had purposes beyond violence, but the blade glittering in the sun was good for nothing but killing. Holding the sword felt like tempting fate.
If you truly believe in something, you should be willing to suffer for it. To die for it, if need be. Which tells me that you either don’t believe your own words or that you are a coward. The memory of her words simultaneously angered and inspired him. All his adult life, he’d been espousing the virtues of peace and been called a coward for believing in such ideals.
But never once had he been called a coward for not acting on them.
Otis moved to attack, and Keris half-heartedly parried, going through the motions that he’d been forced to learn as a child. The clang of steel against steel set his nerves on edge, sending flickers of memories through his thoughts. Memories of his father screaming at him that Veliant men were warriors and to be otherwise was womanly and soft. How he’d shrieked at Keris that he was a weakling for refusing to learn, not seeming to understand that learning would’ve been the easier path.
How many beatings would it have spared him? How much mockery and vitriol would have gone unvoiced if he’d become as accomplished with the weapon as Otis and his other brothers?
Except juxtaposed on those memories was the one of his father strangling his mother to death and the oath that he’d sworn on her lifeless body that he’d die before becoming anything like the man who’d sired him.
Otis snapped, “Quit defending and attack!”
Grinding his teeth, Keris lunged into a feeble offensive, his brother countering it with enough force that his weapon was knocked from his hand.
“Pick it up!”
The words filled Keris’s ears, except it wasn’t his brother’s voice he heard but his father’s, and red filled his vision. With a snarl of anger, he dived under Otis’s upraised blade, tackling his brother to the ground with violent force. They grappled, rolling across the ground, their fists flying, but he managed to get his arm around Otis’s throat. Squeezing, he waited until his brother frantically tapped on his arm, then held on a moment longer for good measure before shoving him down to the dirt. “I don’t like swords.”
“Fine.” Red-faced, Otis dragged in several breaths, then shook his head. “How someone as lean as you can be so godawful strong is a mystery to me.”
“Books are heavy.”
Otis huffed out a laugh, then his eyes narrowed. “Are you hurt?”
Keris was rubbing the shoulder he’d injured catching Valcotta the night of the fire. Grappling had done it no favors. “It’s nothing.” And knowing that given the chance, Otis would fret over him worse than one of their aunties, he unfastened the hamper attached to his brother’s horse, peering inside. “Did you pack me a picnic lunch? How sweet. If not for our shared blood, I might be starting to question your intentions toward me.”
Casting his eyes skyward, Otis muttered what sounded like a prayer for patience, but before he could say more, distant screams filled the air. And as the wind blew over their faces, so did the smell of smoke.
DESPITE THE EXHAUSTION plaguing her, Zarrah had slept only fitfully, her mind unwilling to let go of her conversation with the Maridrinian. Not only the words, but that she’d had a conversation with him at all.
While many Valcottans tolerated Maridrinians, in commercial and occasionally social contexts, Zarrah only engaged with them on the battlefield. She had long believed herself honorable in her refusal to have anything to do with Maridrinians that didn’t involve steel and staff and their blood. And yet last night, she’d talked to one of them about peace between their nations. Had called him a coward for not pursuing it.
And he, peculiarly, had called her an idealist for believing so.
A less accurate word for her character, she didn’t know. Her life was dedicated to the Endless War and to exacting vengeance against the Veliant family, and she’d crossed the border more times than she could count, leaving Valcottan justice in her wake.
Except what if it hadn’t been justice at all?
The idea infuriated her, but as hard as she tried to shove it aside, it kept returning to her mind. Kept scratching at her conscience with the suggestion that in trying to avenge what had been done to her as a child, she’d instead made herself the villain in the stories of countless Maridrinian children. That in trying to defeat Silas Veliant, she’d become him.
She forced herself to focus on the report she held, which was from a spy in Harendell who’d discovered the whereabouts of the Ithicanian queen. Yet despite the information being unexpected and strange, she had to read it three times before retaining any of it.
“Why do you fight?” The question leapt from her lips, and Yrina looked up from the reports they’d been reviewing together to regard her.
“For any number of reasons, as well you know. Last night I got in a fight because one of Bermin’s fools spilled my drink.”
Zarrah had noticed her friend’s minor injuries when she’d come in earlier and accurately assumed an alehouse brawl. “Someone with a nose as large as yours shouldn’t pick fistfights. Is it broken?”
Yrina rubbed at it. “Nah. It’s made of steel. And he looks worse, I’ll have you know.”
“I’ve no doubt.” While Zarrah had been raised in the privilege and comfort of Valcotta’s capital, Yrina was from the northeast edge of the nation, part of one of the nomadic and highly militant desert tribes. She’d been born swinging her fists, been wielding a blade before she could walk, and had killed a dozen men before she’d reached womanhood. The Empress had personally selected Yrina to be Zarrah’s close guard after her mother had been killed, and she’d swiftly been won over by the other girl’s humor. “But that’s not what I meant. Why do you fight the Maridrinians?”
“For the honor and glory of Valcotta.”
Yrina said the words without hesitation, but the swiftness in the saying caused Zarrah to frown. “Of course. But … are there other reasons?”
Yrina set down the report she was holding. “For you, sister. Where you go, I will follow, and your path leads to Maridrinian blood and vengeance.”
Unease fluttered in Zarrah’s stomach. “And if I did not exist in your life? Would you fight?”
Yrina’s round face scrunched into a grimace, brown skin creasing around her hazel eyes. “I’ll not hear talk like this, Zar.”
“Not my death. I mean if we had never met.”
Her friend leaned back in her chair. “This is a strange line of questioning. Is it a test?”
It was, but not for Yrina. “Humor me.”
Yrina shrugged. “Might be that I would. The pay is good and the accommodation posh in comparison to other posts.” She swiftly added, “And of course, there is honor in spilling Maridrinian blood.”
A swell of nausea rose in Zarrah’s stomach. “Is it your opinion that the majority of the garrison shares these sentiments?”
“Why?” Yrina scowled. “There isn’t to be a cut in pay, is there? Because honor doesn’t fill the belly or pay for an attractive man to tell me I’m pretty. I think the Empress forgets that, if she cares at all.”
God spare her, had the Maridrinian been right?
“No,” she answered weakly. “No pay cut. Only idle curiosity.”
But Yrina had been at her side for a decade and was not so easily fooled. Leaning over the desk, she took Zarrah’s hands. “Not everyone has been hurt by the Maridrinians the way you have, Zar. But that doesn’t mean that we are not loyal to you. Your hurt is our hurt, and we will die to give you the vengeance you deserve. Trust in that.”
