Royal Decoy (Fate of Eyrinthia Book 1)

by Heather Frost

  When Bennick opened his mouth, she already knew she was going to cut off whatever explanation he’d prepared. “Miss Ellington—”

  “Can we begin the lesson?”

  His tense shoulders strained against his uniform, his gaze intent. “Are you sure you don’t want to talk about—?”

  “Quite sure.”

  His brows slammed down. It looked like he was going to argue, but then he placed his hands on his narrow hips, his tone carefully measured. “In the event of an attack, your priority is to stay out of the danger as much as possible. You have guards for a reason—we do your fighting. You never engage in our fight.”

  Her jaw firmed. “So if I see someone coming for your back, I let them stab you?”

  “Yes.”

  She could do that. She also recalled how Serene had acted in the hallway ambush, her knife drawn and looking for a place to enter the fight. Clearly, the princess needed this lesson.

  Bennick shifted his weight and elaborated. “If you come into the fight, you’re only going to distract me, or Venn, or whoever is trying to protect you. Then we all die. Fighting is always your last resort. And your last defense—if running or fighting aren’t possible—is to pretend you’re dead. Understood?”

  The finality in his voice needled ice through her blood, but Clare nodded.

  A shout on the field jerked her attention. A soldier had just hit the ground and he was cursing hotly, rubbing his abdomen while his sparring partner laughed and swung his practice blade through the air.

  “Clare?”

  Her gaze shot back to Bennick. “What?”

  He pursed his lips. “The second thing to remember is focus. You need to concentrate on the moment you’re living. Let everything else go. Third—never freeze. Freeze, and you’re dead.”

  There was no warning.

  Clare sucked in a breath when Bennick snatched her wrists and pulled her arms forward, his fists making unbreakable manacles. Her heart thudded and she tried to jerk back, but he anchored her in place, his fingers flexing to hold her. Her extended arms stiffened. “Let go of me.”

  “No.” His head bent, his voice low. “It’s time to learn a vital lesson.”

  His hold was absolute. The powerlessness she felt sliced cold fear through her. “Let go. Now!”

  Bennick’s eyebrows drew together. “Calm down. I’m not going to hurt you.”

  “Then let go!”

  “No. You need to break free.”

  “What?”

  The corner of his mouth lifted, and for that alone she wanted to hit him. “Break free,” he repeated. “It’s the only way you’re getting loose, because I’m not going to let go.”

  Her pulse kicked as she stared up at him, her empty hands tingling. With how he held them, elbows bent and palms facing her, she could feel the blood draining from her fingertips. She knew he wasn’t lying—he wasn’t going to let go.

  She yanked her arms.

  He barely rocked forward and his hands didn’t give. “Pretend I’m attacking you. Break free.”

  Clare’s mouth firmed and she pulled until her wrists strained and a grunt escaped her. Bennick’s hold only tensed.

  She redoubled her efforts, ignoring the bruises his fingers were surely forming on her skin.

  After a silent moment of struggle, Bennick spoke. “You’ll need to actually try.”

  Heat flared in her cheeks. “I don’t think an attacker would be this aggravating.”

  “Probably not,” he allowed. “They’d just kill you. Now come on. Show me what you’re capable of.”

  She ground her teeth and pulled again.

  After an unsuccessful moment, he said, “My grip is weakest at my thumbs.”

  She adjusted, grunting as she twisted against his hold; all she gained was a deeper throbbing around her wrists. She stopped and glared at him. “You’re stronger than I am.”

  “Yes.” He was infuriatingly calm.

  Her glare sharpened. “Is that what you want to teach me? That I’ll be weaker than my attackers? That I can’t win?”

  “You might be physically weaker, but that doesn’t mean you can’t win. There’s a different lesson here.” He dug in his heels, settling back as if getting comfortable. “I’m sure you’ll figure it out.”

  Her face was flushed from anger and exertion. “Why don’t you just tell me?”

  “This is a lesson you need to teach yourself.”

  Her lip curled. “I think you’re a lazy teacher.”

  His mouth twitched. “Quit stalling.”

  A growl rolled up her throat. He claimed the point wasn’t to teach her she was powerless, but that was how she felt. It was how she’d felt too often in her life. The pain, humiliation, and hopelessness of all those moments slammed into her, ugly and horrible and raw.

  Screaming as her father was hauled from the house by soldiers. Kneeling at her mother’s fresh grave, only a child but now a mother herself. Clutching a three-year-old Mark and begging the fates to take away his fever, because she didn’t know how to save him. Eliot marching from the house, leaving her behind. Every hour she slaved in the castle kitchen. Her wrongful arrest and the moment she’d been forced to give her oath. Mark, screaming for her as she climbed into the carriage.

  Her insides were flayed open. Her breath rattled out of her and when she looked up and saw Bennick watching her, waiting for her to do the impossible, something in her snapped.

  Clare dropped, throwing her body down.

  Bennick grunted and shoved back his shoulders, centering their weight as he still held her captive. A vein in his forehead stood out and his knuckles were white. He eyed her with approval, but she didn’t dwell on that.

  She lunged forward, pushing between their arms and invading his space, but he merely stepped back to compensate for her advance. She jerked back, using his grip on her wrists as an anchor so she could shove her foot against his shin without losing balance. He swayed from the planted kick—even hissed out a breath—but when their eyes locked he grinned, his hold remaining fast.

  Clare growled and repeated the move, more confidently than before. While she kicked, she wrenched her wrists against his thumbs and his hold slid. Triumph flashed, but his fingers clamped down.

  They were both breathing hard and adrenaline shot through her. She didn’t care if she hurt him. She wanted to hurt him. Clare’s knee shot up, going right for the space between Bennick’s legs. Her knee slammed into his thigh, because at the last second he’d twisted.

  He let go of her.

  Clare stumbled back, rubbing her red wrists, her knee throbbing.

  Bennick choked on a short laugh and scrubbed a hand over his thigh. “That would have been entirely effective, Miss Ellington.”

  Her chest rose and fell as she glared at him. “Too bad you dodged it.”

  He pushed back hair that had fallen across his forehead. “Did you figure out the lesson?”

  “Every man has a well-placed weakness.”

  He chuckled. “Not the point I was trying to make, but a good thing to keep in mind.”

  “Then what was your point?”

  Bennick’s expression softened as he searched her face. “You’re never helpless, Clare. There’s always a way out. You just have to be willing to take it.”

  Never helpless. Those words sank inside her, pushing against the rage and fear—the powerlessness and shame—that had been overpowering her. Something else took up the space left behind. Strength. She didn’t quite know how he’d managed it.

  Bennick spoke into the short silence. “When it comes to protecting yourself, there’s nothing you cannot and should not do. You can’t hesitate to hurt whoever is trying to hurt you. If you have a knife, you stick it inside them. You take advantage of any vulnerability. Bite their fingers, claw their eyes, break their nose, or—” He ducked his head and caught her gaze. Though his face was serious, a smile edged to life. “Put a knee between their legs. It doesn’t matter what you do to them. You. Be. M
erciless.”

  She was locked in his stare, still holding her aching wrists, pressure clamped around her thudding heart.

  Bennick’s forehead creased at her continued silence. His attention fell to her red wrists and he winced. “I’m sorry I hurt you. I—”

  “Why did you lie about your name?” she asked quietly.

  Bennick took a step back and raked a hand through his dark blond hair, a muscle pulling in his jaw. “I didn’t have a choice.” A shadow crossed his face. “The commander came to me in the middle of the night. He told me about you—that you were going to be Serene’s decoy. By doing so, he went against the king’s orders.”

  “Why did he tell you, then?”

  He exhaled hard. “Things in the castle have been . . . tense. The court is unsettled with having emissaries from Mortise here, even though no announcement has been made about Serene’s betrothal. Threats have increased and the rebels are growing bolder. All that considered, the commander felt I needed to be told about you so I could begin guarding you immediately. After what happened yesterday, I’m glad I was there.”

  Clare was, too. And she thought she understand the reason behind Bennick’s deception. “When we were attacked, you couldn’t risk the king finding out you were there. What the commander did was treason. And you . . .”

  He tipped his head. “Also a traitor, by that definition.” His expression turned grim. “I shouldn’t have used Venn’s name. Or maybe I should have told you everything right there in the street.”

  “There were more pressing concerns at the time.”

  His mouth twitched. “True.” He glanced down as his boot scuffed over the short grass. “I know you’re upset with me for lying, and you have every right. But I’d appreciate it if you didn’t tell the king. Or my men. It would be safer for them if they didn’t know, so they can maintain full deniability.”

  Clare didn’t feel any need to protect the commander, but Venn and Cardon? They’d only been kind to her. And Bennick, well . . . kindness had been his dominant trait, too.

  With her anger dissipated, holding a grudge was like fisting sand. Impossible. She lifted her eyes to meet his. “I won’t tell the king.”

  Relief eased out the lines that had bracketed his mouth. “Thank you, Clare.”

  She nodded once.

  “I’m, ah, sorry for pushing you yesterday,” he said, a little sheepishly.

  It was such a small thing, she actually smiled. “Which time?”

  Bennick flashed an apologetic smile. “I was rather pushy, wasn’t I?”

  “You were. But you did save my life.”

  He bowed deeply. “All in a day’s work.” She chuckled, and when he straightened, his hands shifted over his pockets. His eyes sparked. “I nearly forgot. I believe this belongs to you.” He reached into his pocket and withdrew a small figurine.

  She froze at the sight of the dented tin soldier.

  “I found it in the tavern,” Bennick said. “It must have come out of your pocket when you fell.”

  Her fingers shook a little as she took it. Her throat closed and the backs of her eyes burned.

  “Clare?” He shifted closer, concern tightening his tone. “Is something wrong?”

  “I thought I’d lost it.” Her voice rang hoarse. She gripped the soldier so tightly the edges dug into her palm.

  Bennick tensed at the tears streaking down her cheeks. “Please don’t cry.”

  As if she could stop. Her breath hitched as she choked, almost a laugh.

  “Fates,” he muttered. “I’m useless with tears.” He stepped closer, angling his body so he blocked her from the rest of the field. He glanced around them, looking anywhere but at her. He didn’t say anything. His hands opened and closed at his sides, but she didn’t feel impatience from him. He’d probably stand there all day, if that’s how long she cried.

  It took a few moments for her tears to stop. “I’m sorry.” She sniffed sharply, hating the ugliness of the sound. That he’d had to witness any of this made her cheeks burn. She swiped at her wet face. “I . . . didn’t expect to see it again. Thank you.”

  The skin around his eyes tightened. “If I give you something else, will those tears start again?”

  She huffed a short laugh. “I hope not.”

  He grunted in agreement, then tugged a small knife from his belt. Clare’s eyes widened—it was Eliot’s. “Thank you for letting me borrow this. I’d already thrown my knives before we got to the tavern, so this little blade saved our lives.”

  Clare’s fingers curled around the leather handle as she peeked up at him. “Thank you.” She was thanking him for more than the dagger and he seemed to realize it.

  He dipped his head. “If you’re ready, I can teach you how to use it.”

  Clare slid the toy soldier into her pocket, then flexed her hold on the dagger. “I’m ready.”

  Chapter 10

  Grayson

  Grayson tugged at his stiff collar as he waited for the throne room doors to open. His brother Tyrell stood beside him in the shadowed corridor, using the tip of his dagger to clean beneath his nails. At eighteen, Tyrell was only a year older than Grayson, but he wore that year with great superiority. Whenever he smiled, he always showed the sharp edge of his teeth.

  Being around him tensed every muscle in Grayson’s body. Even though he’d surpassed his brother in skill, Tyrell was still an exceptional fighter. As the youngest, they’d been forced to be better than their brothers. When Grayson became King Henri’s enforcer, Tyrell had been put in charge of training the castle guards. He loved terrorizing new recruits.

  “Liam’s returned,” Tyrell said suddenly, as if they’d been conversing. “I wonder if he brought news and Father wants to share it with us.”

  Grayson frowned. “When did Liam get back?”

  “Last night. You should pay your spies more.”

  Grayson didn’t have spies. Now that he could protect himself, he didn’t really care what his brothers did.

  Tyrell straightened, sheathing his knife. “My sources tell me Liam looked sun-browned. I assume he’s been in Mortise.” Grayson made no response and Tyrell switched to another topic; he was such a gossip. “Mother showed me some new additions to her garden yesterday.” It sounded deceptively pleasant, much like the term mother. But Queen Iris’s garden grew only poisons, since bottling death and pain were her life’s passion. “Mother asked about you.” Tyrell leaned his shoulder against the stone wall so he could face Grayson. “She wanted to know if I thought you enjoyed serving Father.”

  Grayson kept his mouth shut, focused on a chipped gray stone in the opposite wall.

  Tyrell snorted and shook his head. “You’re Father’s favorite, yet you never act grateful. You don’t enjoy it.”

  Grayson’s stomach hardened when he thought of the people he’d intimidated, arrested, and executed; the homes and fields he’d burned, the coins he’d pried from a father’s bleeding hands while his wife and children sobbed. He thought of Latham Borg, the innkeeper he’d arrested mere days ago, and his hysterical wife who had cursed Grayson.

  He was the Black Hand. A fates-cursed monster. Why would he enjoy that?

  Before Tyrell could open his mouth again, the doors to the throne room swung outward. Members of court filed out, bowing wordlessly to the two princes as they passed down the long corridor. As the men and women swept into the hall they were careful to keep space between themselves and the princes; the women even held their skirts close, not wanting their hems to graze Kaelin boots. Every eye was lowered in respect or fear—probably fear.

  When the last nobles had slipped past, Tyrell and Grayson were given entrance to the throne room.

  The space was designed to make one feel small. The vaulted ceiling had taken generations to build, with stone pillars ringing the open space. Towering windows along the east side revealed the morning light. A black carpet cut across the floor, ending at the royal dais. An emerald banner hung behind the thrones, the Kaelin crest
stitched in the center with black thread—two serpents twisted around a longsword, fangs bared over the hilt, mountains outlined behind them. The snakes were poised to strike each other.

  It was a fitting symbol for the Kaelin family.

  Other than the torches bracketed to the gray stone walls, there were no other adornments. Three thrones rested atop the dais at the head of the room. King Henri sat on the middle throne, fingering his brown beard as he watched his youngest sons approach. Grayson glanced away, despising the flash of pride and possession in his father’s eyes.

  Carter must have slipped in through the servants’ entrance, because he was already kneeling before their father’s throne. He was always eager to be first—second only to Peter, of course. It had been that way since his birth. He was twenty-two years old and wore his dark hair long, letting the ends brush his shoulders. He had Father’s deceptively warm brown eyes but his chin was pointed sharply, like Mother’s. He was missing most of his right forefinger—Peter had cut it off when they were children—and his other fingers were stained from making poisons alongside their mother. He always reeked of herbs, poisons, and the other substances he experimented with. Carter was thinner and weaker than the rest of them, and they all knew it. He posed a threat only because he was so loyal to Peter and their parents; he would do anything for them, even break the only rule the Kaelin family had—Carter wouldn’t hesitate to slip a blade between any of their ribs. Or, more likely, poison them.

  Liam knelt beside Carter, shoulders back and head tipped up as he stretched his neck. His stiffness was clear; he probably hadn’t left this room since returning to Lenzen, having months to report on. Only twenty years old, but he led Ryden’s spy network. The middle Kaelin brother had the lightest brown hair of them all and a short brown beard—more stubble than anything. Some foreign fashion, no doubt. His shoulders were broad and led to his tapered waist. He was handsome; probably the best looking of them all, since he’d somehow managed to keep most of his scars off his face. His brown eyes were intelligent, peeking out from a tanned face. A black leather wristband wrapped around his left forearm, the width of a hand. He’d acquired it a couple years ago during his travels, and though Grayson didn’t see his brother often, he had yet to see Liam without it.