The commander didn’t acknowledge the maid’s words, though his voice was low as he gestured to Clare. “You will attend this young woman, Millie. She’s staying the night.”
The woman’s eyes dragged over Clare’s mussed braid and worn dress, her lip curling. “Who is she?”
“Millie.” Warning lived in the commander’s voice.
The middle-aged woman huffed. “But where will she sleep?”
“Put her in the spare room.”
“The spare—?”
“Don’t argue with me,” he snapped.
“Sir, the lady will—”
“My wife doesn’t need to know she’s here.” His voice dropped low. “She won’t know, Millie. Do you understand?”
The unspoken threat hung in the air until finally Millie’s head dipped. “As you will, Commander.”
The commander turned his razor gaze on Clare. “Go with her.”
Clare took a step forward on instinct, but halted and forced her eyes to meet the commander’s. “My brothers will need a caretaker.”
His flat stare was intimidating, but she forced herself to continue. “I was promised that I could have whatever I needed, and I require a caretaker of my choosing.”
A muscle in the commander’s cheek jumped and Clare was sure she’d pushed him too far, but his voice was level when he spoke. “I will have candidates selected before dawn.”
Surprise and relief rushed through her. It was a small victory after everything she’d lost, but a victory all the same.
Without another word the commander strode from the suite and Clare was left to follow Millie down the hall and to the last room on the right. The maid left her in the doorway, muttering about fetching a nightgown.
Clare stepped into the room, a musty smell itching her nose. There was no window since they were in the depths of the castle, but the lamp from the hall cast enough of a glow to see colorful tapestries of sunny landscapes and rolling mountains on the stone walls. The furniture was made of dark wood and coated with a thin layer of dust; the bed seemed the only exception to the air of disuse, looking freshly made with a light blue quilt laid on top. A trunk sat in the corner and the shelf above it was filled with dusty toys; model ships, a wooden sword, and blocks with chipped and faded paint.
It was the room of a little boy, but one who hadn’t lived in it for a long time. Clare didn’t know what had happened to him, but she felt a flash of sympathy for the commander. She knew the sharp pain of loss.
She fingered the scarred cloth of a stuffed panther crouched at the end of the bed, wondering about the boy who had clearly once loved it.
“Don’t touch that,” Millie snapped.
Clare spun, the feel of the panther’s worn texture still on her fingertips. “Sorry.”
The maid’s eyes narrowed and she shoved a balled-up nightgown into Clare’s hands before exiting the room.
Tears scalded Clare’s eyes the moment the door snapped shut. She blinked, fighting for control, but it was too much. The sacrifices she’d been forced to make tonight hit her hard, and the pervading sadness of the room didn’t help; it was a place that whispered of lost things, regrets, and the ultimate cruelty of fate.
Clutching the nightgown to her chest, Clare perched on the edge of the bed and let the tears dash over her cheeks.
Chapter 3
Grayson
The stink of Lenzen’s slums lay heavy on the afternoon air. Manure, rotten food, and too many unwashed bodies. Despite the stench, Prince Grayson Kaelin’s expression was neutral as he dragged his horse to a halt in the center of the street. He gripped the reins in a black-gloved fist, viewing the wood and stone façade of the inn. He noted the sagging shutters, the warped roof, the bursts of laughter coming from inside, and then he jerked his chin.
The squad of soldiers behind him followed the silent command to march on the inn.
Grayson remained where he was, his brown horse snorting and shifting beneath him when startled shouts and alarmed screams rang out, the frantic cries of women rising above the growls of men.
There was no laughter now.
Patrons were shoved into the street and forced to kneel. Mothers clung to their children and fathers struggled to remain between their families and danger. In the chaos, no one had seen Grayson yet. The soldiers commanded all the attention.
For now.
Grayson waited until everyone was kneeling on the ground, surrounded by soldiers with drawn swords, before he swung down from his horse, boots kicking up dust from the unpaved road.
Silence cut through the crowd. Grown men and young children alike paled at the sight of him. Women whimpered.
The Black Hand. Merciless enforcer of the king’s laws. The youngest prince of Ryden and the deadliest. Only seventeen years old, yet Grayson had the power to bring them all to a trembling halt. The truth was a familiar weight in his gut.
“Where is Latham Borg?” he asked, his voice deep and clipped.
A heavy beat of silence, then an old man raised a bandaged hand, his wrinkled face pinched. “Please, Your Highness. This isn’t necessary.”
Grayson tugged the cuffs of his gloves, ensuring the black leather covered his wrists. “You understand the king’s tax?”
Latham Borg cringed. “Yes, but business has been slow.”
The captain of the squad snorted, coming to stand beside Grayson. “Your customers fill the street, old man.”
Captain Reeve was in his early twenties and was constantly trying Grayson’s patience. He edged in on his authority and was most likely a spy of King Henri’s, who liked to keep an unwavering eye on his sons.
Latham Borg glanced at the ragged crowd. “They’re my friends. They can’t always pay.”
Grayson placed himself just forward of Captain Reeve—a not-so-subtle reminder for the captain. “King Henri has no use for excuses. Do you have the required payment?”
Unspoken pleas shone in the man’s gaze. “I sent a letter . . .”
Grayson’s hand shifted, his gloved palm now resting only a breath from his sheathed sword. The innkeeper’s eyes flew wide, his throat bobbing sharply.
The woman beside him snatched hold of his unbandaged hand. “Please, Your Highness, we can raise the amount. My husband has been unwell since the accident, but—”
Grayson turned on his heel. “Arrest the innkeeper.”
“No!” The woman struggled to hold her husband even as he was levered to his feet. The soldiers shoved her aside but she immediately scrambled to her knees and reached past the soldier blocking her path. “Latham!”
The innkeeper’s face was tight with fearful resignation as he was hauled away. “Marie, it’s all right.”
She ignored her husband’s empty assurance and continued to cry out, emotion strangling her voice.
Chains clinked as the innkeeper was shackled, injured hand and all, then he was forced to stand before Grayson.
The words Grayson spoke next were so practiced, they were almost worn. “You’ll be taken to the castle for your trial. After your trial, you’ll be taken to one of the western labor camps. You’ll work until your debts are paid.” Grayson’s eyes moved to the woman, her face streaked with tears. “While your husband works off past debts, you will be charged with the regular tax. If by the end of the month you cannot pay, the inn will be seized and you’ll be sent to a labor camp as well.”
“No!” Shackles rattled as Latham fell to his knees, soldiers still grasping his shoulders. “Spare my wife. Let me work for the past and present tax. Please!”
The woman protested, but Grayson didn’t look at her. He lowered his voice so only the innkeeper would hear his next words. “If I accept your offer, you’ll never earn your freedom.”
Borg met Grayson’s cold gray eyes, something not many men would dare. “No. But I would earn hers.”
A muscle ticked along Grayson’s jaw. The street was quiet, awaiting the Black Hand’s judgement. It made his words seem louder than they actually were�
��more final. “So be it.”
“No!” Marie Borg sobbed.
“Ride out,” Grayson ordered, striding to his horse. He was nearly there when a commotion made him spin. The innkeeper’s wife had gotten free and thrown herself at her husband. With his wrists shackled, Borg couldn’t embrace her, but she clung to him and cried.
Grayson grit his teeth. Why did they always make this more difficult? He barked a command for her to be restrained and two soldiers jumped to obey.
As the woman was dragged past Grayson, she glared at him, her face flushed with grief and rage. “You’re a demon! Fates-willing, I’ll live to see the day your black heart is cut out of you. You and your entire family!”
Grayson raised his hand and the woman flinched, but he’d only grasped Reeve’s wrist, stopping the captain from striking her. Grayson didn’t spare Reeve a look as he shoved his hand away and leaned in to the woman, his voice carefully measured. “If you wish to make your husband’s sacrifice a worthy one, I suggest you curb your tongue.”
“You know nothing of sacrifice!” she spat, her chest rising and falling with each harsh breath.
“If you value your existence,” he breathed coldly, “you will be silent.”
Her lip curled, nostrils flared. “You’ll never be free of your sins. Not even if you silence every one of your accusers.”
There would be no reasoning with her. Grayson turned on his heel and swung onto his horse. With a harsh tug of the reins he put the woman behind him. The soldiers also mounted and the squad rode out, Borg stumbling as he was dragged behind a soldier’s horse.
After they had left the inn behind, Reeve edged his mount to the prince’s side. “You should have killed her for her insolence.”
Grayson barely bit back a curse. It was all he could do to keep his voice level. “If I’d killed her, he would have fought. A dead man can’t pay his debts.”
“Some punishment was in order, Your Highness.”
Grayson hardened his jaw. The other soldiers weren’t brave enough to speak to him, much less reprimand him. Most people saw the Black Hand and flinched back. He was a legendary fighter with the scars to prove a life devoted wholly to violence. Perhaps being the king’s spy had given Reeve a measure of self-importance.
Still, Grayson’s continued silence prompted Reeve to let his horse drift away.
“You’re a demon.”
The memory of the woman’s words made his lips twitch dryly because they were true. King Henri and Queen Iris had five sons, all created expressly to serve the crown, each raised with unique—and usually violent—skills. Defiance was inconceivable. Resistance, pointless. Grayson was his father’s puppet. He had to be.
“You know nothing of sacrifice.”
He glanced over his shoulder at the innkeeper. The man’s head was bowed, arms stretched taut as he was pulled behind the horse.
“No. But I would earn hers.”
Latham Borg would die in the labor camp. He wouldn’t survive the lumber yards with an injured hand. And even if he lived a week, month, or year, he’d never be free. And when he died, his debts would fall on the woman he loved. Borg hadn’t saved her. He’d merely shielded her for the moment.
Eyeing the castle that towered over the city, Grayson knew how that felt. The fatality of it.
Freedom didn’t exist. Not when you cared about someone more than you cared about yourself. Not when you would do anything to protect someone else.
Latham Borg knew it.
Grayson knew it.
His father, King Henri Kaelin, knew it, and he wielded the knowledge like a weapon. As long as he had in his power the one person Grayson cared about, he kept an invisible blade at Grayson’s throat, ensuring his son’s obedience.
And no matter how much Grayson hated what he had become, he could never risk rebellion.
Chapter 4
Clare
Clare winced at every bounce of the carriage as it clattered down the streets of Iden, headed for the lower city she called home. Her head throbbed from the hit she’d taken from the princess’s large bodyguard and the fitful sleep and tears of last night hadn’t helped. Her neck was bruised and her throat still sore, but she was on her way to see her brothers, and that was all that mattered right now. She was still afraid of her future, but she’d made the only choice she could. She needed to focus on the benefits this would bring her brothers, not the pain it caused her. It was that or drive herself insane with panic and grief.
She wore a borrowed blue dress the commander’s maid, Millie, had thrust at her, and she’d braided her brown hair into a crown, the routine task easing some of her tension. She was as prepared as she was going to be to face her brothers.
During the night, the commander had selected three staff from the castle nursery, which was used by the nobles who lived there. Clare had met the women before dawn, and choosing Mistress Keller had been easy. The matronly woman had kindness in her eyes and a ready smile, assuring Clare her brothers would be well cared for—even loved.
Still, nerves danced in her belly as the carriage rolled to a stop, making her hands twitch in her lap. The carriage was surrounded by a handful of soldiers on horseback, though Clare hadn’t bothered to study them when the commander had herded her to the carriage in dawn’s weak light. Mistress Keller had spent the first part of their journey asking eager questions about Mark and Thomas, until at one point she had pursed her lips and studied Clare thoroughly before asking if she was all right.
Clare had jerked out a nod. As far as Mistress Keller knew, Clare had been hired as one of Princess Serene’s maids. It was a grand position. And even though the woman could not have missed the moisture trapped in Clare’s eyes, Mistress Keller hadn’t pressed her.
Through the small window Clare could see people on the street gawking at the fine carriage and uniformed escort. A carriage from the castle never stopped in Lower Iden.
Horses snorted and soldiers dismounted, boots pounding the dirt road as they hit the ground.
Clare’s hands twitched in her lap, nerves sparking through her.
Mistress Keller set a hand on Clare’s knee. “Would you prefer to go in alone? I can wait in the carriage until the boys are ready to meet me.”
Appreciation loosened the knot in Clare’s throat. “Thank you.”
The carriage door swung open and one of the uniformed men held out a calloused hand. Clare took it without looking at the soldier and he assisted her to the cobbled street. Her eyes were drawn to the slightly crooked door of her narrow house, smashed between Motley’s Tavern and a cobbler’s shop. It was suddenly hard to breathe.
The soldier squeezed her hand and Clare glanced up—and stared. Familiar blue eyes met hers and when he offered a thin, almost reassuring smile, she jolted with recognition.
It was the princess’s young bodyguard, the one with the sand-colored hair. The one who had tried—and failed—to stop the massive guard from hitting her.
Tension seized her, tightening her shoulders. It was only too easy to guess why he was here. The commander hadn’t trusted her. He’d placed a royal guard on her already, to make sure she didn’t run.
The bodyguard’s face tightened when he caught her hardening expression and his lips parted, but the front door burst open before he could speak.
“Clare!” Mark’s shout split the air and Clare dropped the soldier’s hand, rushing forward to meet her brothers as they bolted from the house. She threw her arms around them when they crashed into her, their thin arms strangling her in return.
“What happened?” Thomas demanded, all the authority of a thirteen-year-old in his voice. “You didn’t come home!”
“I’m sorry.” She pulled back enough to brush her hands over their dirt-streaked cheeks, assuring herself they were all right. Their grins flashed and her fingers faltered. The ache of missing them already strained inside her chest.
Thomas and Mark eased back, looking beyond her for the first time to eye the carriage and soldiers.<
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“Fates,” Thomas muttered.
Clare glanced at the blue-eyed soldier watching them and stiffened. “Let’s go inside—I’ll explain everything.” Mark latched onto her hand and she held his smaller one tightly. He was ten years old, but he seemed younger in this moment. But perhaps that was just her own fear rising.
She guided her brothers toward the house and were nearly to the door when Thomas lowered his voice, shooting a nervous look at the soldiers behind them. “I went to Eliot last night. I’m sorry, Clare—I didn’t know what else to do. He’s hiding inside.”
Clare’s heart tripped. The soldiers couldn’t know he was here. But that wasn’t the only reason she didn’t want him here. If anyone would question her lie of being hired as the princess’s maid, her older brother would. But Thomas looked so pale and worried, Clare reached for his shoulder and squeezed. “It’s all right.”
Despite her nerves, the moment Clare stepped into the small house she was enfolded in comfort. Everything about the space was familiar. The table their father had crafted. The rug their mother had made from rags. The dusty mantle and scorched fireplace. Dried herbs hung from the ceiling, spicing the air and mingling with the scent of lye soap.
Thomas moved to the back bedroom where the boys slept and pushed the thin portal open, releasing Eliot to stride into the main room.
Eliot was tall and slender, but strength lined his form, hardening his shoulders and arms. Even though he wasn’t in uniform, he stood with the bearing of a soldier. His face was clean-shaven, his brown skin smooth over his angular jaw. His dark hair was tousled, like he’d been running his hands through it for hours. Clare barely had time to blink before Eliot clasped her arms, holding her gaze with worried intensity. “What happened? I went to the castle last night, but no one could tell me where you were—I couldn’t even find Towdy. I heard something about an attack, and—”
Royal Decoy (Fate of Eyrinthia Book 1) Page 3
