Cole sucked in a sharp breath, and his heart skipped a beat. He didn’t look to see what Roney’s expressions was, choosing instead to look down at his sword, which lay across his legs. His jaw twitched. He knew his answer to the question. Saying it aloud was a different story.
Roney’s low pitched voice rasped an answer that mirrored Cole’s thoughts, “Not really, no.”
One heartbeat of silence. Two heartbeats.
“If he’s the crown prince, and he isn’t the right choice, what options do the people have in choosing the right man to become king?” Vincent’s slender frame tensed, as if he was nervous of their answer.
“There is no choice,” Cole replied bitterly.
Vincent pressed his lips together, glanced around the room, then leaned forward, pitching his voice low. “I hate to be seen agreeing with dissenting groups, but what if something ‘happened’ to the prince?” Vincent used his fingers to emphasize happened. “The servant, or the Reformers, whomever went after Lady Sapphire got the wrong person. They should have targeted Richard if they wanted to make good changes.”
The food in Cole’s stomach soured and he snarled, “I’d say they got the wrong person. Sapphire and Slate were my childhood friends. She doesn’t deserve to be targeted, not for anything.” She deserves the world.
Vincent studied him. “Then protect her.”
Cole guffawed. “How?” He gestured at the empty spot over his uniform breast, where his active duty patch had been, then to Roney. “He outranks me now. I have no power.” He gulped back a swig of lukewarm ale. “Besides, the guards around her have tightened. She’s safer.”
“But is she really?” Vincent asked softly.
Cole frowned, staring at the table. She’d been safest when just a noble, with nothing about her to draw the public scrutiny like her life now as Prince Brandon’s wife.
“Who do the Reformers have the most issue with?” Vincent continued, sympathy evident even as he pressed his point. “Richard? How would that work out if she’s known to be friendly with him?”
Cole closed his eyes and grit his teeth. It was true. Richard had practically painted a target on his own back, and then Sapphire and Brandon comported around him, putting themselves in the striking zone.
“Take out Richard, if he’s the one Reformers have the most issue with,” Vincent suggested, his voice pitched low. “Then, with him gone, Prince Brandon will have rights to the throne, and”—his eyes flicked between Cole and Roney—“you’ve both said the younger brother is more stable. He’ll be a better choice for the kingdom. The Reformers can’t protest him as much.” Vincent lifted his mug and swirled it. “Protect your friends and get vengeance for your men against the man who caused their deaths.”
Roney shook his head, a scowl darkening his face. “The king has poured everything into Richard. Prince Brandon is a better choice for the kingdom, but if something happened to Prince Richard, then King Rupert would just hold onto the throne for as long as possible, just because he doesn’t want to give it over to Brandon.”
Vincent absorbed Roney’s comment with a small nod, his expression reflective. “Or,” Vincent continued with a thoughtful tone, “do what the Reformers want, and take out the entire royal family, minus your friend.” He looked at Cole through the corner of his eye. “Maybe you can even save her, be the shoulder for her to cry on, and then some.”
Roney broke in, holding his hands out over the table as if he could dispel the tension that stiffened Cole’s body at Vincent’s suggestion. “Whoa. What you’re talking is treason.” He looked at Cole with wide eyes. “Our fates would be worse than death if rumor of this conversation ever got to the royal family.”
Cole closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the booth wall. How in the world did their conversation get to this? Talk of traitors? Taking out the crown prince? The entire royal family?
But Vincent’s words rattled in his brain. Could it work? From the time they were kids, Sapphire was out of his league, and he’d watched and loved her from afar. But if she were a widow, if her prince were dead, she’d be free. Maybe he could come alongside her, maybe—
No. She was worthy of being a queen, and like it or not, Brandon was the key for having her in such a place as she deserved to be. Now, if Cole could clear the path for them to step up to the throne, let them take over, now that could bear consideration.
How amazing would Fire be as Queen of Doldra? The thought sent a thrill through Cole. She would be incredible. Everything this country needed but currently lacked.
“Besides,” Roney talked through Cole’s thoughts, “this idea of yours would put us in the Reformers’ camp.” He leaned forward and jabbed a finger at Vincent. “The same group that killed how many of us and our men only a few months ago?”
Vincent shook his head. “No. This is different than the Reformers, if what you’ve told me is true. They wouldn’t want anyone of royal blood in power. You want someone you can look up to, someone you can trust to lead rightly. If anything, you’d be temporary allies against a common enemy.”
Cole shook his head, trying to clear it enough to focus on the conversation. “You’re suggesting that we assassinate Richard? And the…” His words failed him temporarily. “Everyone other than Brandon and Sapphire?”
Vincent hesitated, then nodded his affirmation. “Has he done you and your men any good this year?”
Roney shook his head and snorted.
Vincent looked at Cole with sympathy in his eyes. “Has he protected his own sister-in-law, your lady friend?”
Cole clenched his teeth and looked away before shaking his head. Even with the inbred horror at the idea of breaking his vows, he could feel Vincent’s argument swaying his judgment.
Vincent’s voice was soft, compelling. “Is he worthy of the throne?” He waited until both Cole and Roney shook their heads. “Then why do you insist on following a man who’s going to doom you?”
Roney’s reply was immediate, albeit without passion: “Because he’s our crown prince.”
“What if you had a different crown prince?”
Cole drank deeply from his tankard and set it down, buying time. Considering the question and all that it entailed. Especially if they failed. Treason. A traitor's death, chained in the woods to be mauled to death by dragon. His name forever shamed.
A woman’s laugh drew his attention. She sat at a table across the room, smiling at the man seated with her. Bile churned in Cole’s stomach. Captain Stevens wasn’t around anymore to rib him about not having a wife. His men had widows now. Sapphire’s life had nearly been extinguished.
And all the blame fell neatly at Richard’s feet.
Cole felt the weight of Roney’s and Vincent’s gazes on him. He looked first to Roney, his first military friend and brother in arms. Roney’s jaw muscle twitched, and he dipped his head in a small nod. Vincent’s dark eyes contrasted against his pale skin, patient, quiet, waiting. He raised an eyebrow.
But should it only be Prince Richard that they take out? Or the rest of the family—clear the path, let Brandon be the king that Doldra needed with Sapphire as his fiery queen?
Lead settled itself in his gut. He took a breath. “We need to take out the royal family.” He lifted a finger, punctuating his next words. “All but Sapphire and Brandon. And their baby.” She deserved the world, and he would do whatever he could to give it to her. The weight released, leaving him light-headed.
He was committed.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Slate
Slate breathed a sigh of relief as a cool breeze blew, ruffling his cream-colored undershirt. Even for being the middle of summer, it was ridiculously hot. He’d rolled his sleeves up to his elbows and shed his military jacket, but it was still humid, and far too unpleasant to be riding to Finn’s. Granted, the day truly was lovely to look at—crystal clear blue sky, birds in the trees, the light breeze—but he’d be a much happier man when the weather cooled off a bit.
Than
kfully, Finn’s house was nestled just beyond the ridge of pine trees along the path. First thing on Slate’s list of priorities was to chill a glass of water to drink. The tantalizing scent of something burning tickled Slate’s nose, and he pressed a hand to his stomach. Maybe he’d check to see if there was anything in Finn’s pantry to snack on before watering the garden.
Finn’s house edged into view as Slate urged his horse into a trot. The house was small but cozy; small enough for Finn to live by himself, but large enough that Connor and Maria would stay there when visiting. Sage green walls blended in with the landscape, and glow rocks lined the pathway up to the open door. It was homey and comfortable and—
The door was open?
Slate sat up in the saddle, scanning the rest of the house for anything else odd. Zane wouldn’t leave the door unlocked overnight. He was too painstakingly meticulous for that sort of mistake. They had successfully worked their schedules so one of them would be out every day to check on the shop and house, rotating herbs and watering Finn’s garden as needed. Last night, when Zane had passed the key off to Slate, he’d reminded Slate three times to not misplace the key again.
Thirst forgotten, Slate dismounted and tied his mare to a pine, leaving her in the shade. He crouched, moving with quiet steps to the house, gripping his sword hilt. He skirted around the herbs planted under a window and waited. He breathed through his mouth, listening for any sound of movement inside. The acrid smell of smoke tickled his nose again, this time making his stomach clench in apprehension instead of hunger. Wind chimes from the back of the house tinkled in the breeze, and he flinched. The house was silent.
Moving as slowly as he could to minimize noise, he crept to the open door. He waited again, listening, before sliding his sword from his scabbard and standing in one smooth motion.
Stepping through the doorway, Slate lowered his sword and gaped at the destruction. Fluffy bits of feather and stuffing danced across the room, catching on broken wood and fragments of Finn’s well-loved brown couch. The sturdy end tables that he and Connor had believed to be indestructible were shattered, jagged edges of wood sticking out every which way.
Dazed awe brought Slate deeper into the house, then the anger drowned out the surprise. Who would go out of their way to break an end table, a couch, all Finn’s furniture? Slate nudged his boot against a broken lamp. What kind of robber would vandalize like this?
The family portrait that Finn had above the fireplace mantle was ripped, and the few other pictures he had were buried under the mess of stuffing and shattered wood. Herbs that had been hanging to dry by the mantle were crumbled on the ground. The corner bookshelf had been tipped over, books strewn savagely across the floor. Slate moved to the fireplace and saw that the twelfth floorboard was already popped open, the lut that had been stashed inside gone.
And the smell of smoke was stronger inside than it had been outside.
Slate whirled away from the mantle, sniffing desperately, trying to determine where the scent was coming from. It wasn’t from the fireplace. He ran into Finn’s office and brought himself up short.
Somehow, something had exploded.
The corner wall to the right of the doorway was blackened and crisped, the boards burned halfway through. Destruction ran up the wall, across the ceiling, and back down the other wall, nearly to the center of the room, little wisps of smoke escaping the ruined floorboards—even bits of foundation below were visible in some areas. Shattered and melted glass covered the charred floor, and now that he was in the same room, Slate could smell the burnt herbs and elixirs that Finn had stored in here.
What the bleeding Void happened?
He edged into the room, avoiding the fluffy death of the mattress that Connor and Maria had used when they’d visit Finn. Jagged gashes from end to end, stuffing spilled everywhere on the floor. The scent of the burnt feathers and blackened stuffing made Slate’s eyes water.
A faint puff of steam-like smoke wafted from a floorboard, and Slate stamped on it, then along the rest of the boards, determined to prevent it from catching fire. How had there been a fire that burned straight down to the foundation, and covered so much of the room, all without burning down the house?
He glanced at Finn’s desk and shook his head. The lovingly crafted mahogany desk was no longer worthy of anything but firewood now. Slate’s hands clenched into fists and he stalked out.
Finn’s bedroom had received the same treatment: Mattress flipped and ripped, the pillow brutally butchered. Chest of drawers in the corner tipped over, all the drawers out and clothing strewn everywhere. Slate accidentally kicked an empty, broken frame that he remembered had once held a portrait of Finn with Connor and Maria.
Slate used the tip of his sword to gently shift the clothing aside, looking for any sort of clue as to what happened. Agitated, he turned out to glance in the bathroom.
Even the bathroom was hit by destruction. Deep green towels lay on the floor, the basket of soap and extra toiletries dumped nearby. The shower curtain senselessly slashed in two.
At this point, he wasn’t surprised to see that the kitchen had fared no better. Finn’s pots and pans lay dented on the floor, and nothing remained in the cabinets. Shiny flatware sparkled on the floor. The door to cold storage was open, the cooling stone inside, working uselessly to preserve the food that was starting to stink in the heat of the house. He closed the cold storage door and made a mental note to clean it out later, so Finn would have one less thing to deal with in this madness.
Slate opened the pantry door and stepped in, pulling up the cellar door to check below. The smell of pickled vegetables and cut onions assaulted Slate’s nose and eyes. He gagged on the stench and fumbled for the glow switch, his finger slid over the yellow rock, and a small jolt of electricity shocked his finger while the light turned on. Onions, carrots, pickles, beets, and squash lay across the floor, juice and broken glass making a soup of ruined food.
Seriously? He slammed his fist into the wall and ignored the sting of his hand. What did they want? Had they found it?
Slate stepped down into the mess, cautious to not tread on any of the slippery food. He ran his hand from the far corner of the cellar over until he hit the ninth brick, which he tugged out of the wall without hesitation. Reaching in, he groped blindly until his hand found the two small bags of lut.
If they’d been looking for money, they’d missed Finn’s big stash. Slate pushed a hand through his hair. He knew Finn had important documents and papers that he’d never allowed anyone else to see. Had he taken those with him to Connor’s? Were those what the burglar had been after?
He dashed back up the stairs, turning off the luminary stone as he passed it. He searched the house afresh, looking for items of value that may have disappeared, but he couldn’t find anything that was blatantly missing. Finn’s collection of old books was still there.
Anger fueled Slate as he walked back into the kitchen, searching for the letter that Finn had left for him and Zane. It had the address for Connor and Maria, should Slate or Zane need to contact Finn. And as much as Slate hated the idea of sending Finn a letter about this, Finn needed to know. He grimaced as pity eclipsed his anger. Finn didn’t deserve to get news like this while on a pleasant family vacation.
Slate frowned at the empty kitchen counters. Maybe the letter blew down when the door was open? He dropped to his knees to scour the floor. Nothing.
Slate groaned and hit his fist against the floor. Not only was this going to take forever to clean up, but he didn’t have any way to contact Finn. Maybe Slate could call in some friends to investigate and look for clues as to what happened.
Feathers blew across his wet boots and stuck to them. He sighed.
Seriously, just what in the Void happened here?
Chapter Thirty-Four
Finn
The past two weeks of vacation with Connor and his family had flown by in a wonderful blur that left Finn feeling more relaxed and happy than he’d been in a long
time. He hefted the basket he was carrying on his walk home from the village town.
Connor had been the baby that came much later in life and after so many years of wishing and trying for a child of their own. Connor had lit up Finn and Julia’s world. When Julia was murdered and he had fled with Connor, he had at times despaired that his son wouldn’t be able to grow up and enjoy a family of his own. But time passed; Connor married his childhood sweetheart, Maria, and at long last they had a child of their own.
And Raine had quickly become Finn’s favorite baby in the world. She was an adorable, round, little rose-toned baby, quiet and serene, every giggle and smile coaxed out of her being hard-earned but well worth it. Active and curious, she crawled into whatever she could reach, with a tenacious go-get-it attitude that rivaled her adoptive father’s.
Maria had taken to motherhood with an enthuiasim he’d never witnessed before. Almost always singing to Raine, reading to Raine, carrying Raine around the house and the garden; it was clear that she was in love. Finn was amazed with how hard it was sometimes to get Raine away from her smitten mother so he could enjoy some time with her himself.
And goodness, did that little girl love his beard. Finn rubbed his jaw idly, feeling a ghost twinge from when Raine had last grabbed and yanked it early that morning.
Finn raised his face to the bright afternoon sky. Raine would be down for her nap by now, and Maria would be starting dinner soon. If she was really going to be making her legendary cherry pie for dessert, he’d have to hurry and get the cherries to her.
Maybe he should consider retiring after all. Spend the rest of his years here with his family, watching little Raine grow up, enjoying time with his son and daughter-in-law. Slate could help keep an eye on things at the palace, and Zane’s dedication to the keystone rivaled Finn’s. He could let them take over for him. And he could relax, let his guard down, savor his later years.
Betrayal by Blood Page 24
