Royal Decoy (Fate of Eyrinthia Book 1)

by Heather Frost

  “Do you know who this might belong to?” Reeve asked, rolling the ball in his palm. “Are there any young boys in the village?”

  The man fiddled with the tattered hem of his shirt. “A few.”

  “Did Hogan have a son?”

  “I—yes, two. But Mistress Hogan took the boys and left. As I said.”

  “Yes, I heard you.” Reeve bared his teeth in a smile and fisted the ball. “I want the names of all the young boys in the village.”

  Grayson heaved an irritated sigh, shifting so he casually blocked the back room from Reeve’s view. “Forget it, Captain. It’s a waste of time.”

  “I see no harm in pursuing the matter.”

  Grayson could order Reeve to stop, but that would be reported to the king, and Henri would question him. So he forced himself to shrug. “Engage in this foolishness if you wish, but it will only earn you a lack of sleep.”

  “Thank you for indulging me, Your Highness.” Reeve bounced the ball in his hand as he nodded to the soldiers, who escorted the old man outside.

  Reeve continued to bounce the ball as his eyes drifted over the shop, his gaze moving toward the back room.

  Grayson snatched the ball from the air.

  Reeve actually flinched.

  Grayson smiled narrowly, his tone carefully measured. “Watch yourself, Captain. You try my patience.” He strode out the front door, not allowing himself to look over his shoulder. The back of his neck prickled, knowing he’d left Reeve in the shop that was not, after all, empty.

  Come on, Reeve. Follow me . . .

  Grayson stepped onto the muddy street and Reeve exited the rundown shop behind him. His voice lowered so only Grayson would hear him. “I mean no disrespect, Prince Grayson. I only wish to serve our king, as you must.”

  Grayson turned on his heel and leaned in, their faces only a breath apart. They were the same height, even though Reeve was three years older. “Your place is not to question me, Reeve. You overrode me in front of the men. Do so again and it will be your last act.”

  Fear crossed Reeve’s face and he shifted back on instinct. But then anger flashed in his eyes and his mouth drew tight. “I will find out who’s been in that shop. And if I can’t do so by morning, I’ll burn it to prove no one is above the king’s law.” He eyed Grayson meaningfully. “No one.”

  Grayson watched the man stride away. The ball was in his fist and a muscle throbbed along his jaw. He glanced back at the shop, his expression carefully blank as his thoughts raced.

  Grayson waited until full dark before he slipped from camp. No one saw him go. Reeve would never discover what he was about to do, which meant his father would never know. It was an exhilarating thought.

  The night air in the northern mountains was frigid. Grayson kept his cloak pulled tight around him as he followed a deer trail that tracked back to the village of Gevell. Sticking to the shadows and unconventional paths, he arrived with no witnesses.

  Grayson sighted the butcher’s shop from the tree line and spent a quarter hour watching it. He saw no sign of Reeve, but he still used the back entrance.

  Once inside the hollowed-out shop, he strained his ears. Pinched breathing and a rustle of fabric came from the back room. He eased forward, carefully navigating the rotting floor. He didn’t enter the back room, just stood near the door, his voice pitched low. “I mean no harm. I’ve come to warn you. You can’t stay here.”

  The thin breathing halted. Then, “Please,” a woman begged weakly. “Please help us.”

  Grayson placed a gloved hand on the door and nudged it open. The room was small, merely a storage space. A woman sat in the corner, two children curled in her arms, the three of them wrapped in frayed blankets that could not have actually warded off the cold night. The smallest child couldn’t have been more than three years old, the other maybe seven or eight.

  Grayson’s jaw tensed. “The soldiers will find you if you stay. They’re going to burn the shop at dawn. You must go.”

  The woman’s face was dirt-streaked, and pale brown hair trailed in a thin braid over her shoulder. She obviously didn’t recognize the Black Hand. Otherwise, she wouldn’t have looked at him with such desperate hope burning in her eyes. “I have nowhere to go and Garyn is sick.” Breath rattled out of her, shaking her fragile body. Clearly, the boy wasn’t the only one who was sick. Her eyes watered as she peered up at him. “Please help us.”

  He hadn’t expected this. He’d thought the squatters might be Hogan’s family, but he only intended to warn them; they would flee and he’d return to camp. But this woman looked too frail to move herself, let alone two children.

  The smallest boy moaned and the woman clutched him to her chest, stroking his grimacing face. The older boy was thin and small. Grayson didn’t have much of a childhood to draw on, but he knew no child should have such terror in their eyes. Fates, he knew that better than most.

  His hands curled into fists. “I can carry the boy. I’ll take you to the Julne river. From there you can make your way to Kevid.” He’d already led the soldiers through there. And if they hurried, the Hogans could reach the river and he could run back to camp before sunrise.

  The woman’s tearful words of gratitude slurred together, another sign of her illness. Grayson lifted the youngest child and shifted him to one arm, cringing as the hot forehead pressed against the side of his neck.

  The mother scrambled to grab their blankets and the older boy shouldered a bag of their sparse belongings.

  The shop’s front door creaked open.

  Grayson lifted a finger to his lips, a silent order for the mother and older boy, inwardly cursing when he heard Reeve’s low voice. “. . . every corner of this place. We’ll find that thief and her brats. No one steals from the king.”

  Grayson counted the footsteps; there were four men, including Reeve. They would discover them within a minute.

  The toddler in his arms groaned. Grayson thrust him at his mother and reached for his sword, but before he could draw it the other boy crouched on the floor and silently pried a couple planks from the floor. He went into the hole he’d made and wordlessly took his brother into his arms before disappearing. The mother waved for Grayson to follow as she slipped into the dark cellar.

  Grayson slid in behind her, scanning the cramped space below the shop. By the time he got his bearings, moonlight sliced inside from the outer cellar door the mother had pushed open. He didn’t take the time to try and replace the floorboards. He rushed after the small family as they exited the cellar and darted into the night. The mother was in the lead, cradling her sick child, with Grayson and the older boy following right behind.

  Reeve’s muted shout tore through the shop. The hole in the floor had been spotted.

  Grayson snagged the boy’s thin arm and hauled him toward the tree line, running across the frozen ground. When the child stumbled, Grayson swung him into his arms. If they didn’t make the trees before Reeve got outside . . .

  The shouting increased. Grayson bolted behind the first thick tree in the woods and halted, gripping the boy to keep him from squirming.

  Torches flared but didn’t come closer. Reeve shouted orders in the yard, organizing a search of the nearby shops and houses. He didn’t know they were in the woods, but he’d figure it out.

  Grayson spotted the woman, also huddled against a nearby tree. He kept his voice low. “We need to run.”

  Her chin trembled and sweat covered her brow, but she jerked out a nod. Grayson shifted the older boy to his back, ordering the child to hold on. Thin legs locked around Grayson’s waist and thinner arms looped his neck. He took the sick child from the mother, knowing she couldn’t have any extra weight if she was going to keep up.

  They’d only been running a couple of minutes when footsteps pounded behind them, tearing through the dead leaves.

  “I see them!” Reeve yelled. “To me! To me!”

  Grayson shoved the small boy into his mother’s arms. “Keep going,” he ordered, alrea
dy shrugging the older boy off his back. He itched to pull out his sword, but Reeve had seen him draw it too many times. He might recognize the long blade, even in the dark. He plucked out two knives instead, and when he glanced up he found the older boy peering at him, something like awe in his blue eyes.

  “Brant!” the mother snapped, fear coating her voice.

  Brant darted after his mother and Grayson lifted the cowl of his cloak to shield his face. Hopefully the night’s darkness would do the rest.

  Reeve barreled through the trees, apparently alone. The other soldiers hadn’t caught up yet. Grayson ran to intercept him. For a split second, he considered killing Reeve. No one would know he’d done it, and he’d be free of the spy.

  But Henri would grow suspicious, and Grayson was not a murderer. A killer, yes. But if he took Reeve’s life tonight, it would be murder.

  Still several paces away, Grayson threw the first dagger. It grazed Reeve’s arm, drawing a pained hiss. Reeve’s eyes flashed and his nostrils flared as he drew his sword.

  Grayson swerved and ducked. Reeve swung his sword, but it whistled harmlessly through the air. No doubt Reeve had spent hours a day on a training field.

  Grayson had been raised on one.

  With one dagger he delivered a few painful cuts. Nothing fatal. Just enough to frustrate Reeve. Distract him. Draw other soldiers to the sound of the fight so the Hogans had a little more time to escape.

  When he’d taken as much time as he dared, Grayson kicked Reeve’s knee so the man staggered. The hilt of Grayson’s dagger found the captain’s temple and Reeve crumpled to the icy ground.

  Grayson took a step back, breathing deep. Air misted in front of him and his eyes raked the snow-crusted ground, stopping when he spotted his thrown dagger. Sheathing both knives, he strained his senses, but the woods were silent. Reeve must have entered the woods alone and the soldiers had been too deep in the village to respond to his call.

  No reinforcements were coming.

  Grayson glanced back at Reeve’s still form, his grip on his knives flexing. He should return to camp now, before Reeve woke and could discover him missing. He’d done his job—he’d helped the family escape. No more was required.

  He took a step forward, back toward camp, but instead of continuing on that path he found himself tracking the family.

  It took a few minutes to locate them.

  The woman startled at his approach, her hold on her youngest child cinching tight, but when recognition flashed in her eyes, her shoulders sagged in relief. “It’s you. Thank the fates.”

  Not the response he usually got.

  The older boy’s eyes brightened. “You came back!”

  “We should keep moving,” Grayson said, probably too gruffly. He tried to even his tone. “I’ll escort you to the river.” He reached out and the woman was quick to lay her young son in his arms—her own visibly trembled from the strain of carrying the small boy.

  Grayson wished he could slow their pace, but the family needed distance and he needed time to slip back into camp before Reeve made it back.

  Several long minutes passed before they reached the Julne river and Grayson passed the sleeping child to the mother. His shoulders tensed at the loss of the weight. “You know the way from here?”

  “Yes.” Her chin quivered as she fought tears. “I don’t know how to repay you. I don’t even know your name . . .”

  Grayson grabbed the pouch at his belt and dropped it in her hand. The weight of the coins stunned her; she nearly dropped it. “Find a physician,” he told her. “Then get as far from here as you can. Don’t linger in Kevid.” It was too close, if Reeve insisted on continuing the search for her.

  Tears still brimmed, but the woman smiled. “Fates bless you.”

  Brant stepped up to Grayson, a grin splitting his tired face. “I’m going to be like you one day. I’ll even carry a sword.”

  “Pray you don’t have to.” Grayson hesitated, then pulled the small ball from his pocket. “Does this belong to you?”

  “It’s Garyn’s.” Brant took the ball. “He loves it.”

  Something in Grayson’s chest tightened. “You’ll take care of him?”

  Brant’s eyebrows drew together, confusion coloring his tone. “Of course. He’s my brother.” As if there could be no other answer.

  A wry smile twisted Grayson’s lips. “Good.” He took a step back. “You need to go now.”

  “Thank you,” the mother said again, before the family slipped into the night.

  Grayson watched them disappear, a small smile still on his face.

  Chapter 18

  Clare

  “I thought tea was normally something ladies shared?” Clare asked, taking a sip from her cup.

  Prince Grandeur’s lips curved smoothly. “Yes, well, I enjoy a good cup of tea, and the list of people you can invite to practice with is quite limited—you being a secret and all.”

  They were in a small sitting room near the royal apartments, sharing a late morning tea. Clare fingered the fine porcelain cup in her hands. It was delicate and hand-painted with small blue daisies. It felt fragile in her hands—almost as fragile as she felt.

  It had been two days since the Night Sigh incident. A shiver skated down her spine every time the memories came. The jolt of surprise she’d felt when she’d shaken awake in Bennick’s arms. The rush of confusion at finding herself in the sitting room with Bennick talking sharply at her, his expression etched in alarm. The bite of panic she’d felt when she tried to take a breath and couldn’t.

  In that terrorized moment, reality had hit her hard. She was a decoy. Her whole purpose was to be in danger—to face death—so Serene could live. She’d known it from the beginning and she’d thought she understood. But she’d gotten caught up in the day-to-day activities of her new life. Her lessons. Her new friends. But as she’d stood there, staring up at Bennick’s pale face, she hadn’t been able to stop the tears from falling.

  Fear was cold and unshakable. She’d nearly died. Would have, if Bennick hadn’t checked the room. She and Vera would have lost their lives. Thomas, Mark, Eliot—she never would have seen them again. She might still be killed and lose them forever, and they would never know the truth about her death. That gut-wrenching loss had pierced through everything, and when Bennick had seen her tears, his fingertips brushed her cheek before he pulled her into a firm embrace. She had leaned into him, let him support her as the tears fell. There was no point in regret, yet she wished she’d never gotten caught in the ambush that fateful night. She wished she hadn’t been arrested and forced to make an impossible choice.

  The good and bad were tangled together. Her family was cared for, yet she’d lost them. She was learning more than she’d ever dreamed, but she was treading the edge of a cliff—the slightest mistake would cause her to fall. She was building a new family with her friends here, yet she might lose them, too.

  As if that wasn’t enough to have on her mind, she also had the King’s Ball to worry about. It was still nearly two weeks away, but the castle staff talked of little else and preparations had brought a bustling chaos to the castle. It would also be the first big event since Princess Serene’s betrothal had been announced, and Clare knew everyone was anxious to see how the nobility would act toward the princess.

  Clare had learned last night that the king intended Clare to be the princess for the first half of the ball. If there was an attack or demonstration, he thought it would take place near the beginning, possibly even during his speech. He also wanted to see if Clare and Serene could seamlessly exchange places and fool Devendra’s noble court. Clare knew the king was very aware the ball marked six weeks since Clare had become the decoy, which meant half her time to train was gone. He was eager to put her to the test.

  Mistress Henley had been teaching Clare several dances, including the traditional round dance. Dancing lessons were better than her usual etiquette lessons, though Mistress Henley still drove her insane. At least Vera and
her sister Ivonne, along with a few other maids, joined in the dance lessons. Clare didn’t like being alone these days.

  Prince Grandeur sighed. “You’re drifting.”

  “Sorry.” Clare straightened in her chair, tightening her hold on her teacup. “You’re trying to cheer me up.”

  “Yes, and you’re not doing your part. I need you cheered.” The corner of his mouth rose, but she couldn’t quite manage to copy the expression. His lips pursed. “Nothing more has been learned about the Night Sigh?”

  Clare shook her head. “I don’t think we’ll get any answers.” Which meant the would-be assassin would surely strike again.

  Grandeur took another sip of tea. “Captain Markam is an exceptional bodyguard. I’m sure he’s increased your security.”

  Yes, but would it be enough?

  The prince leaned forward on his cushioned chair and set his cup on the saucer, which rested on the low table between them. The small clink of porcelain seemed loud in the otherwise empty room. “How did your Zennorian exam go?” he asked, in Zennorian.

  She answered nearly at once—in Zennorian. “Very well, thanks to your help.” He’d been finding her in the library again every couple of days to help her with whatever she was studying.

  Grandeur grinned. “Amazing,” he said in Devendran. “You truly have a gift for languages.”

  Heat bloomed in her cheeks, but she smiled. “It’s the one thing I have some talent for. Ramus has me studying the High Families of Zennor, and memorizing their names and histories is exhausting.”

  “And utterly boring,” Grandeur added.

  “Well, since you and Serene are related to many of them—and Serene lived among them for a year—I don’t have much choice but to learn about them.”

  “True.” Balancing his forearms on his knees, he threaded his fingers together. “Your warmth and enthusiasm reminds me of how Serene used to be.” He glanced away, shoving a hand through his short dark hair. “Is it wrong of me to sometimes wish she’d stayed in Zennor?” Before Clare could reply, he shook his head. “Forgive me. You don’t need to be privy to every thought in my head. I just worry her temper will do more harm than good. If she does something to ruin this alliance with Mortise . . .”