Royal Decoy (Fate of Eyrinthia Book 1)

by Heather Frost

  The corner of his mouth lifted. “A kind gift, then.”

  Thrown by the honesty in his response, she made no reply.

  He flexed his grip on his belted sword. “We need to get back to the castle. Stay close to me.”

  Clare pushed the toy into her pocket and kept pace beside him as they made their way down the alley. They paused at the alley’s mouth, standing so closely their arms brushed. The soldier cautiously checked the rapidly emptying street as everyone hurried to escape the rain.

  Clare cleared her throat. “Those men who attacked us. Who were they?”

  He eased into the street, turning right. “I think they were rebels.”

  Her pulse quickened. That was awfully bold of them, to strike the princess last night and make another attack today. But they couldn’t have been targeting her; she’d only just become the decoy. “Why would they attack the carriage?”

  “It came from the royal stable. That would have been enough for them.” His voice was low as they stepped briskly down the street, dodging clusters of people. The drumming rain kept their conversation between them. “Most likely one of their spies saw the carriage leave this morning. They had hours to plan the ambush.”

  “Are they loyal to Carrigan?” Even speaking the name of the man her father had followed to his death hollowed her insides.

  “Doubtful,” the guard said. “Rumors say he fled to some mountaintop in Zennor.”

  Clare hoped he was right. Ivar Carrigan had destroyed her family; she didn’t want to think of him stirring up trouble in Devendra again.

  The rain fell more heavily, pooling and running down the street. Tendrils of hair hung loose from her braided crown, sticking to the sides of her face and neck, and her dress was plastered to her body and splattered with mud. As much as she disliked the idea of returning to the castle, it would be nice to be dry.

  “It’s good you didn’t get back in the carriage.” The soldier’s tone was matter-of-fact as he scanned the street around them. “One of them got past me.” He shot her a slanted smile. “You could have obeyed when I asked you to stop running, though. My sword would’ve appreciated it.”

  Her mouth twitched despite herself. “Was it damaged?”

  “Merely scuffed.”

  “Then it and my hands have something in common.”

  He huffed a soft laugh. “I am sorry for hurting you, but I didn’t think you’d stop.”

  She wouldn’t have.

  It wasn’t until the conversation halted that Clare realized how much she needed it. His voice was deep, strong, and surprisingly comforting. She cleared her throat. “I didn’t get your name.”

  His eyes stayed trained ahead. “Venn Grannard.”

  “You must be well-trusted.”

  Venn glanced at her. “What makes you say that?”

  He’d been tasked with watching her, which spoke of the regard the king and commander must have for him; learning about the princess’s decoy before even the princess did must make Venn quite trusted. She didn’t say that, though. “You must be the youngest royal bodyguard to ever serve in Devendra.”

  His lips quirked. “You wouldn’t believe how many people underestimate me because of it.”

  It wasn’t his age that threw her off-balance, but his unpredictable personality. She wasn’t sure if he was going to joke with her, show compassion, or drag her back to the castle like a captive.

  Venn touched her arm suddenly, slowing their steps.

  She followed his gaze, catching three masked men who’d just emerged from a cross street a dozen yards ahead. Their swords were sheathed, but they peered purposefully around the scattered people still hurrying through the rain.

  Clare shrank against Venn’s side.

  “There’s a tavern to the left,” he said quietly. “We’ll hide there until they pass.” He kept his fingers against her arm as he guided her across the street. She was grateful to have his tall body between her and the killers searching for them.

  The tavern was larger than Motley’s, where Thomas and Mark used to work, and the common room was crowded; people had taken an early day due to the rain, seeking the comforts of a tavern rather than home. The overall mood was jovial, in sharp contrast to the emotions roiling inside Clare.

  Venn shouldered his way through the thick crowd and Clare kept close to his back as they shuffled forward. Laughter exploded and conversation blurred around them. Spiced drinks and roasted vegetables scented the air and wooden mugs pounded against tables.

  Venn halted, taking Clare’s arm and pulling her around so she stood facing him, his body between her and the door. He grinned down at her, rainwater dripping from the curling ends of his hair. “Act as though nothing is wrong. Smile.”

  Her lips curved obediently, though her mouth was dry.

  “I think they saw us,” he said, still smiling as if they discussed something amusing.

  Clare’s heart sped. She didn’t realize her hands shook until Venn’s warm fingers folded over hers.

  “Easy,” he murmured. “This will be over soon.”

  Assurance poured from him, and though Clare appreciated his calm, tension still rode her hard as she peeked around his shoulder, tracing back the way they’d come. She stiffened when she saw one of the rebels in the shifting crowd. The black mask had been tugged down to circle his neck like a kerchief and his narrowed eyes sliced through the thick crowd.

  Clare’s fingers clamped around Venn’s. “I see one.”

  Venn didn’t visibly react; even the pulse thrumming in his neck remained steady. “Has he seen us?”

  “No, he’s still searching the crowd.”

  “Any sign of the others?”

  “No.” Clare’s eyes flew to Venn’s. “What do we do?”

  His mouth flattened, the first sign of any distress. “Forgive me.”

  Clare frowned, but he shoved her away before she could open her mouth. She crashed into a man standing behind her and he let out a curse as half his drink sloshed over the rim.

  “Oy!” He rounded on Clare as he shook out his drenched arm. “Watch it, fool!”

  She stumbled back, bumping against the hard wall of Venn’s chest.

  The sound of his booming voice made her jump. “You yelling at my girl?” His fist swung and Clare ducked under his moving arm. The punch landed with a fleshy thud against the older man’s jaw and the rest of his drink wet the floor as he fell back.

  Three men around them tensed—obviously the man’s drinking companions, because they now stood shoulder to shoulder in front of Venn.

  Clare stiffened as the man on the right hauled back his fist, obviously not caring Venn was in uniform, but Venn easily dodged the blow. The man on the left took a swing next, but Venn grabbed a bystander’s arm and flung him into the other man’s fist.

  A tavern-wide brawl sprang to life, as if all these men had been waiting for the cue to come to blows. Tables were thrown and food littered the floor as shouts filled the room. Clare crouched to avoid a chair being hurled, cringing as she was splashed with ale.

  In the chaos, Clare didn’t know which way to run. Then Venn snagged her wrist and drew her close, keeping her smaller body firmly against his. “We’ll hold out until the city guard gets here,” he called against her ear, the clamor of the brawl nearly swallowing his words. “The rebels won’t risk capture.”

  Someone knocked into them but Venn’s strong arms locked around Clare, saving her from the worst of the impact. She gripped his arms and kept her head tucked against his chest, feeling every steady breath he took.

  New shouts soon rang out. “The Guard! The city guard is here!”

  The fight continued, but those who heard the warning disentangled themselves and bolted.

  Venn continued to shield Clare as men rushed past. One skated so close Venn twisted away, pulling her with him.

  Her darting eyes caught the assassin pushing against the tide of fleeing men, his dark eyes trained on her.

  She gasped. �
�Venn!”

  The corded muscles in his arms pulled taut at her shout. His fingertips brushed her stomach as he grabbed her waist—no, Eliot’s dagger.

  He pushed her aside and spun, shoving the small blade into the assassin’s gut.

  Clare tripped on a man lying prone on the floor. She fell, arms swinging, and pain exploded at the back of her head.

  Chapter 6

  Grayson

  Grayson left his horse with the stable hands and tried to shove aside all thoughts of Latham Borg and the innkeeper’s condemning wife. It never did any good to remember what filled his long days.

  Patrolling soldiers slid back when they recognized him and servants halted midstep, eyes clinging to the ground as they waited with bated breath for him to pass. With darkness falling, there weren’t many members of Ryden’s nobility milling about the yard, but they also kept their distance. Some dared peek at him as he passed—the youngest Kaelin Prince, the king’s Black Hand.

  Grayson tried to ignore all of them. The stares. The whispers.

  The fear.

  He trudged up the steep yard, the shadow of the hulking castle covering him. In true Rydenic fashion, the castle was sturdy, intimidating, and stark. Thick gray walls made it a fortress and unadorned towers ensured it looked more like a military keep than a palace. It certainly was not a home.

  Once inside, Grayson kept to the least travelled passages as he wound his way up to the second floor, which primarily housed the royal family. His hands automatically drifted above his belted weapons as he walked the familiar corridor where all the apartments were located, his fingers ready to draw at the slightest provocation. He was always on alert, but especially when he came closer to his family.

  The hall remained empty, though tension still stiffened his body as Grayson unlocked his door and slipped inside. He pressed it closed and bolted it, but even then he didn’t relax. He searched every corner and shadow, lit every lamp, checked the latch on the window. Only then did the knots in his back loosen.

  One hand rubbed the base of his neck as Grayson gazed out the tall window. The view of the northern mountains, covered in dark pines perpetually tipped with snow, was always impressive. It whispered of freedom, and even if he would never experience such a thing, the mere ghost of it never failed to catch his eye.

  But there was a view he craved more than the mountains, and she was waiting.

  Grayson peeled off his black and emerald uniform, leaving him in his black breeches. At the wash basin, he tugged off his leather gloves and plunged his hands into the shallow water, seeing the scars he normally hid.

  Most of the marks on his body were from Tyrell, the brother just a year older than him; he enjoyed leaving scars, especially in exposed places so he could smirk over them later.

  Grayson’s hands fisted in the water, tendons rising and corded muscles standing up on his arms. As the youngest, he’d been the whelp of the family. He’d had no choice but to learn to fight. His survival depended on it, though his father had found other ways to motivate him. Now Grayson could beat them all, though Tyrell still provided the greatest challenge.

  Grayson unclenched his fists and turned his hands over in the water, the reddish-purple burns on the fingers of his left hand standing out starkly against his pale skin.

  Queen Iris was a practical woman. She knew her sons would always have enemies, so she’d taught them to be suspicious of everything. They’d learned the different reactions of every poison, both local and exotic, so they could know the signs and antidotes in case they were ever poisoned. Grayson’s first experience with this was at six years old, when she poisoned his dinner. He’d been sick for three days and she’d threatened to poison him again if he didn’t name what she’d put in his leek soup.

  Garn Root.

  He’d gotten better at dodging her tests. The last to slip through his defenses was two years ago, a fine powder left on his quill that caused excruciating burns.

  Flame’s Breath.

  Grayson rubbed his thumb over the old burns, then shoved the memories away. Dwelling on old pain accomplished nothing. He scrubbed water over his neck and arms, rinsing off the city’s grime. Shivering at the splash of cold water, he gritted his teeth and washed quickly, snatching up a towel and turning as he dried.

  His room was dominated by a large four-post bed, the thick curtains drawn back. He only pulled them closed on the coldest winter nights, since he preferred to keep an unobscured view of the door. The king had once asked Carter to practice the art of an assassin, so he’d snuck in with a dagger and sliced open Grayson’s arm while he slept. Carter had been fifteen at the time. Grayson had been ten.

  He’d learned his lesson and always slept lightly.

  There were no personal touches in the room. The armchairs before the cold fireplace were old relics and there were no tapestries or paintings to decorate the gray stone walls. Queen Iris believed art was a needless distraction and she’d rid the castle of it when she’d married King Henri. The few personal items Grayson cared about were locked in his desk. Near the bottom of the cupboard was a stack of drawings he rarely took out for fear of someone glimpsing them. Though some had been done by his childish hand, most belonged to a far more talented artist.

  Tossing the towel aside, Grayson strode for the wardrobe, lifting out a black long-sleeved shirt. The muscles along his back tensed and rolled as he fitted the shirt on and the cloth stuck to a few places of still-slick skin. He tugged the shirt away from the clinging wetness, too impatient to grab the towel again. The moment he ensured his hidden daggers were secure he moved for the door, once again electing to use the narrow servants’ passages. The few maids and pages he encountered bowed their heads and pressed against the wall as he passed. One young boy even held his breath, as if the very air around the Black Hand was deadly.

  No one dared speak to him, so he made good time to the dungeon.

  The prison’s upper floor wasn’t as miserably cold as the lower cells, but it was still cool year-round. The ends of Grayson’s hair had gotten wet during his quick washing and the longer locks curled against his neck. He fought a shiver and followed the dim light offered by the lanterns bracketed to the wall.

  There was only one door in the corridor that remained under constant guard. At Grayson’s approach, the day guard—a man named Fletcher—came to attention, his gray hair highlighted in the dim light. Without prompting he dug a key from his pocket and unlocked the door, holding it open with a bowed his head as Grayson slipped into the room.

  There were no bars or chains in this cell. A bed sat along the back wall, a stand with a wash basin nearby. A square wooden table with two worn chairs stood on the right and an old glowing stove rested against the right wall. The stone walls were made up of varying shades of gray, the ones by the stove stained with black soot. A connecting back room housed a man and woman King Henri had assigned as caretakers. But even with all that, there was no doubt this was a prison.

  Fletcher closed the door behind Grayson, the lock clicking quietly.

  Mia sat on the bed against the wall, alone. Her caretaker, Mama, was probably in the back room sleeping off one of her headaches; the smell of ale hung in the air.

  Mia was sixteen, a year younger than him. Her dress looked a little worn; Grayson needed to purchase something new for her, but the faded blue color did not dull her beauty. Rich brown hair fell in thick curls around her shoulders and her olive skin made her look more tanned than he was, even though she never left this room.

  Mia bent over her drawing board, pencil moving in soft, careful strokes. Her brow was wrinkled in concentration, though her posture was otherwise relaxed. She was so intent on her drawing she hadn’t heard the door, so Grayson hung back, watching her work.

  He had discovered Mia eight years ago. He’d entered the dungeon to escape his brothers and when he realized where his feet had taken him, he prepared to go back. That’s when he caught a soft voice drifting through the cold stone halls, carrying a ha
unting melody. He’d stilled, frozen by the unfamiliar sound of a lullaby. Entranced, he’d followed the ethereal sound, the words taking shape as he approached the cell, though he didn’t understand the foreign words.

  Fletcher had let him peek through the food gate at the base of the door, and the small girl had noticed him spying almost at once. Her eyes flew wide and her song cut off.

  Heat slammed into Grayson’s face and he would have scrambled back if her expressive brown eyes hadn’t pinned him.

  In his nine years, he’d never seen anything as beautiful as her round, dirt-streaked face. She was soft and her skin looked warm in the glow of lamplight. Grayson expected revulsion from the small girl, or at the very least alarm—even as a child, people skirted around him in the castle hallways, and his newest scar from Tyrell cut right across his left cheek.

  But she didn’t cry out. Instead, eight-year-old Mia knelt by the door and asked in broken words if he wanted to play, her tongue clearly uncomfortable with the Rydenic language. When Grayson jerked out a nod, she found a pebble and flicked it through the small gate.

  They played for a long time, shooting the pebble back and forth between them. And when Grayson’s scarred hand accidentally brushed hers, Mia didn’t cringe away. She smiled at him, and his entire world changed in an instant. Everything had realigned so this girl was the center of his existence.

  Fletcher had soon allowed him inside, and Grayson had been surprised to find a woman there. Mia introduced her as Mama, but confided when they were alone that she wasn’t her real mother, just someone who looked after her. A man named Papa also lived there, but he spent his days as a guard working in the lower prison.

  Excited at the prospect of having a friend, Grayson visited Mia every day. He brought her treats and toys when he could steal them, and she taught him games and rhymes. He loved it when she sang, even if he didn’t always understand her words. He was endlessly fascinated by the beauty of her voice. He’d been mesmerized by her.