Royal Decoy (Fate of Eyrinthia Book 1)

by Heather Frost

  As the beaten soldier grabbed his weapon and stalked away, Grayson shoved a hand through his sweaty hair, pushing it off his heated face. Spectators formed a loose ring around the field, soldiers who gazed at Grayson with awe-tinged fear.

  From behind, slow applause rose, and the calculated sound grated against Grayson’s spine. He tensed and twisted at the waist.

  Tyrell stood at the edge of the crowd, eyes glinting as he clapped. “Well done.” He smiled as he strode forward. “How about we go a round?”

  Grayson’s right hand flexed, his left still gripping his dangling sword. “I’m done for the day.” He angled away from his brother, trying to show his dismissal without giving away the fact that he monitored Tyrell from the corner of his eye. He stooped and grabbed his shirt off the ground, but Tyrell snatched it from his hand and tossed it to the dirt.

  His brother’s voice was level. “Father insisted we train together.”

  Grayson grit his teeth, eyes darting toward the castle that loomed over them. For all he knew, Henri watched from one of the narrow windows glinting with sunlight.

  Tyrell shed his shirt, powerful muscles rippling over his chest as he tossed it aside. He nodded to Grayson’s sword. “You can put that down. We’ll be using some of Mother’s daggers.”

  Blades dipped in poison, no doubt.

  Grayson sheathed his sword and set it aside. When he faced Tyrell, his brother gripped two long daggers with blue hilts.

  The last two hours of intense fighting had taken their toll. Grayson’s heart raced and the muscles in his body spasmed, screaming at the abuse. He had to order himself to think past the pain so he could win this fight quickly. He extended a hand for one of the knives.

  The dagger flashed and Grayson jerked back, spitting a curse as the knife’s tip barely missed his palm.

  Tyrell smirked, twirling the blades in his hands. “I never said you got one.”

  A growl vibrated up Grayson’s throat and muscles tensed in his arms as he balled his hands. “Let’s get this over with,” he said, voice thrumming with anger.

  Tyrell grinned. “I think I’d prefer to draw it out.” He dove forward and Grayson drew back; the daggers sliced only air, but Tyrell kept coming.

  They weren’t allowed to kill each other. That was the only rule in the Kaelin family.

  Grayson skirted around his brother, spinning from the knives. He kicked at Tyrell’s legs, but never made contact. The blows and parries came rapidly, too fast for the eye to track. Instinct and years of training guided Grayson’s movements, keeping the expertly wielded knives away from his flesh.

  Beyond them, the spectators muttered and cursed at the ferocity of the fight.

  Tyrell spun and threw out his leg, heel aimed for Grayson’s abdomen. Grayson pivoted and caught his brother’s ankle. He yanked and Tyrell swore as he stumbled.

  Grayson resisted the urge to twist his brother’s foot completely—snapping the ankle was excessive, and whenever he thought of using more violence than necessary, Mia’s face came to mind.

  Grayson didn’t break any bones, but he did twist until Tyrell was forced to fall. His back slammed to the dirt-packed ground, knocking the air from his lungs. He still clutched both daggers.

  Grayson stomped on Tyrell’s wrist and his brother sucked in a sharp breath, but he still didn’t drop the knife. Grayson grabbed for the dagger locked in Tyrell’s left hand—his weaker one—prying at firmer fingers than he’d expected.

  He realized his mistake and cursed as the other dagger stabbed toward him. He really was tired, to have missed Tyrell’s obvious ploy—his brother had pretended to be more dazed by the fall than he was.

  Grayson lurched back, barely dodging the knife.

  Tyrell growled, drew up his legs and kicked out, leaping to his feet without using his hands. They squared their shoulders as they faced each other. The ring of soldiers had grown; Tyrell would be even more desperate to win. He wouldn’t want to be defeated in front of the men he trained.

  Tyrell launched himself at Grayson, who danced to avoid the slashing blades. The knives continued to arc through the air, coming at him from every angle. His brother was angry, frustrated—those daggers were coming in a lethal way, nothing held back. In the heat of this battle, Tyrell would kill him.

  Grayson’s body throbbed from all the blows he’d received today, and for the first time in this fight he tasted the metallic tang of fear. As a child, that would have crippled him. Now, it motivated him.

  Ducking under Tyrell’s arm, Grayson sprang up behind him, grasped his arm, and twisted as he simultaneously slammed his free fist into Tyrell’s shoulder. A sickening pop dislocated the joint and his brother howled. The knife dropped. Grayson snatched the blade before it hit the ground, the leather hilt slipping a little in his sweaty palm before his fingers locked. He spun away, low and guarded, weapon ready.

  Tyrell’s face was flushed. His arm hung oddly at his side and his nostrils flared. He gripped the matching knife in his other hand and glared at Grayson, pain mingling in his brown eyes as sweat beaded his forehead. “I’ll kill you,” he seethed. “I’m going to squeeze every last breath out of you.”

  Grayson nodded to the arm that hung lower than the other. “You might need that.”

  His brother snarled. He brought his dagger to his mouth, holding the hilt between his teeth. He then grasped his limp arm with his good hand and, in a practiced motion, snapped his shoulder back into place.

  Murmuring broke out among the soldiers surrounding them. Yes, the Kaelins really did dislocate each other’s shoulders, and yes, they knew how to fix themselves. Physicians had been ordered to stop tending that particular injury after the first few times, and, honestly, it got easier to pop back in place. But Tyrell’s shoulder would still be tender and weak; Grayson knew that from personal experience.

  Chest rising and falling, Tyrell pulled the dagger out of his mouth before launching at Grayson again.

  Grayson parried the blow with his dagger, the two blades meeting in a jarring crash. He delivered a punch to Tyrell’s side and his brother hit back. The fight became grittier, and Grayson knew it couldn’t last much longer. One of them was going to make a mistake.

  He prayed it wouldn’t be him.

  Grayson took a glancing blow to his jaw but he slipped past Tyrell’s guard and slammed the dagger’s hilt into Tyrell’s gut.

  His older brother choked, doubling over, and Grayson’s knee came up to Tyrell’s chin. He flew back, crashing to the ground. Grayson crouched over him, both daggers now in his grip and poised over Tyrell’s bobbing throat.

  “You’re dead,” Grayson hissed, lungs straining against his ribs, the adrenaline of the fight rattling through him.

  Tyrell glared, a vein popping in his forehead. His face was red and his body shook with pain or rage—or both.

  “Yield,” Grayson demanded.

  When Tyrell didn’t reply, Grayson pressed both knifepoints to his neck. “Yield,” he repeated. “Or you’ll find out what poison Mother used to coat these blades.”

  The crowd of soldiers had gone silent. The only sound was the distant barking of dogs somewhere in the castle yard.

  Tyrell’s breath huffed hotly in Grayson’s face. “I yield,” he gritted out.

  Grayson straightened. He tossed the daggers to the dirt on either side of Tyrell and turned, stalking back toward his things. The gathered soldiers shied back, even though he wasn’t close to them yet. He tried to ignore the pang of loathing he suddenly felt—for Tyrell, for Henri, and for himself.

  He was nearly to his sword when one of the spectators sucked in a breath. Instinct flared and Grayson whirled, but too late. Tyrell was already there, throwing dirt into his eyes.

  Grayson closed his eyes reflexively, but the damage was done. The gritty dirt burned, and though he managed to peel open his watering eyes, he couldn’t see Tyrell as his brother kicked him in the gut. His back hit the ground and his head slammed twice. The back of his skull pulsed
with pain and he jerked in a breath a second before Tyrell boot stomped onto his bare chest.

  Grayson gasped at the shattering impact and grabbed Tyrell’s ankle, but before he could break it, a blade sliced into his forearm. He hissed at the familiar burn—a knife slicing flesh wasn’t new—but he tensed when the pain turned sharper. Hotter.

  Syalla.

  A non-fatal poison, but the pain was immediate and debilitating once it touched blood.

  Grayson’s back arched and he tried to scream past the crushing weight on his chest. He grabbed for his cut arm but Tyrell used his other foot to pin his wrist to the ground. With his brother standing completely on him, breathing was nearly impossible and his ribs creaked.

  Tyrell bent low, his voice throbbing with promise. “One day, I will kill you.”

  Grayson’s body shook so badly he didn’t know how Tyrell didn’t lose his balance. The scorching Syalla spread through him, burning up his arm, his chest—his entire body. His heart seized, but he wasn’t able to do anything as Tyrell’s other blade flashed over Grayson’s cheek.

  Agony ripped across his face and this time he did find the air to scream, though the ragged sound shredded his throat.

  Tyrell stepped off him, clutching the bloody daggers as he walked away. The soldiers melted from the field, leaving Grayson to bleed in the dirt as the poison consumed him.

  Chapter 31

  Clare

  Clare wandered the rose garden, keeping to the narrow pebbled paths that wound through the well-groomed hedges and blooms. The nobles preferred the more fashionable king’s garden, making this a perfect place to disappear for an hour or so in the afternoon. Clare had been making regular use of it over the past few days.

  It had been four days since she’d seen Bennick. Four days since she’d learned the truth about her brother’s flogging. She didn’t blame Bennick for what he’d done; all she felt was gratitude that Bennick hadn’t executed her brother for his mistakes. His horrible, tragic mistakes.

  She’d started a letter to Eliot, but words wouldn’t come. Frustration and hurt blotted out everything. He’d been cruel, and he hadn’t told her the truth. He’d been drinking while on duty and he’d killed his partner; she couldn’t imagine his guilt. But instead of facing the truth, he’d evaded it. Twisted it, so Clare believed he’d been punished for no reason—that his captain had tortured Eliot simply because he could. Maybe that’s what he believed now, too.

  Her slippers scuffed against the pebbles beneath her feet, the lonely sound standing out against a backdrop of birdsong and the gentle rustling of the leaves. She craved the steadiness and comfort of Bennick’s presence, but couldn’t bring herself to seek him out. Her emotions were too chaotic and she was nervous of how much damage she’d done by attacking him in the corridor.

  For the last four days, he had been avoiding her.

  Clare neared a bend in the path and instinct slowed her steps. In the silence of the garden, whispered voices carried from around the hedge.

  “. . . running out of time.”

  “Has it ever been on my side?” Grandeur muttered.

  “No,” the first voice said, deep and cool. “But the plan you conceived is good.”

  “I can’t force her,” Grandeur said defensively. “This isn’t a light thing I’m asking.”

  “You said Miss Ellington would help of her own free will.”

  Clare’s body locked, her ears straining to pick up every word.

  “I still believe she will,” Grandeur said.

  “What makes you confident this maid isn’t like the others?” the stranger asked.

  “She’s not a friend to Serene. And her father was killed by my father’s order, which can’t sit well with her.”

  “But—”

  “I don’t have to explain myself to you,” Grandeur cut in, a cool edge entering his tone.

  Clare shivered, despite the sun warming her back. She didn’t dare move, not even to shift her feet. Grandeur and the stranger weren’t moving, but they were just around the bend. She should try to slip away, but the fear of being heard—along with a burning curiosity—kept her in place.

  “Fair enough, Your Highness,” the man said. “But you understand my concern—our concern. You approached Clare Ellington weeks ago and she all but rejected you. Perhaps your sister has already won the girl’s allegiance.”

  “No.”

  “Then why did she resist your request to spy on the princess?”

  “It was too soon,” Grandeur said, voice tightening. “I overwhelmed her.”

  “There are other ways to secure allegiance. Perhaps a well-placed threat against her family. She has two young brothers living in the city.”

  Clare’s breath hitched, her mouth running dry.

  “No,” Grandeur said at once, finality ringing in his tone.

  The stranger’s voice was thin. “If they were threatened, she would be yours completely.”

  Clare’s hands fisted at her sides, blood roaring in her ears, nearly drowning out Grandeur’s sharp reply. “No. Threats never work as well as conviction. She will choose to help me because she’ll believe in me. I won’t use her family against her.”

  “Unless there’s no other choice.”

  A short silence stretched. Clare rolled back on her heels, prepared to bolt if their footsteps moved toward her. Finally, Grandeur spoke, and his voice was firm. “Yes.”

  Clare’s stomach dropped.

  The stranger spoke. “What is necessary is not always easy. Are you prepared for the choice you may have to make?”

  Grandeur’s voice was soft, shooting ice through Clare’s veins and chilling her despite the afternoon sun. “Sacrifices are made in the name of peace every day. If my sister rises against me, she will become one of them.”

  Clare spread her damp palms over her skirt, her heart jumping in her chest. She paced because she couldn’t sit, couldn’t focus on anything but what she was about to do.

  The door to the sitting room opened Princess Serene swept inside, her dusky pink skirt brushing over the cheery carpet. It was the same room they’d shared that awful breakfast in, two months ago now.

  The door closed, Cardon and Dirk remaining in the hall.

  Serene eyed the low table as she stepped closer. “As surprised as I was to receive your invitation, I admit I did expect there to actually be tea.”

  Clare shifted her slippered feet, her hands clenched before her. “I’m sorry. It was the only excuse I could think of.”

  The princess’s eyes narrowed, catching the edge in Clare’s voice. “What’s happened?”

  Stumbling a little over the words, Clare related all she’d overheard in the garden. Serene said nothing, only watched her.

  “I don’t know if Grandeur is a true threat to my family,” she finished, a cramp tightening her belly. “But I can’t take that risk. He sounded so . . . cold. And the man he was with . . . I’m not sure who Grandeur has allied with, but that man is evil. I don’t know if Grandeur even realizes how dangerous he is.”

  Serene hadn’t moved during the entire account. She stood still—poised, shoulders back, expression expertly smooth. “You’re worried about my brother.”

  Clare’s forehead creased. Despite everything, Grandeur had been her friend, and that man he’d allied with was dangerous. Of course, Grandeur’s friendship could have been a lie. A manipulation.

  She rubbed her brow. “Yes, I suppose I am worried about him.”

  Serene lowered her chin. “You’re worried about him, yet you don’t trust him. Which is why you’re here.”

  “I can’t risk my family,” Clare said again. She met the princess’s stare. “And I can’t let him plot your death.”

  Serene lifted one eyebrow. “How kind of you.”

  Clare nearly rolled her eyes. “Your brother is paranoid. He’s spoken to me about his fears that you are plotting to take the throne, or betray Devendra by running from your marriage to Desfan. If you could speak with him,
assure him that—”

  “If you truly thought he could be reasoned with,” Serene cut in, “you wouldn’t be here talking to me.”

  Clare glanced away, but Serene was right. She didn’t trust Grandeur. She couldn’t. Not now.

  And that hurt.

  Serene sighed. “You don’t even like me, Clare. Why did you come to me?”

  Clare eyed the princess, who was watching her closely. “Being at the castle, I’ve learned that everyone wears a mask. You pretend to be sharp, cold, and uncaring, but I saw the real you at the orphanage. When the bolts started flying, you grabbed a little boy and shielded him with your own body. It was your gut reaction, not something you did for show—not like the rest of that day could have been. Anyone can pretend to be something they’re not. I’m proof of that. But it’s who you are when you think no one is watching that reveals your true character.”

  Serene said nothing for a moment. Then, “That was surprisingly profound for a kitchen maid.”

  Clare huffed a short laugh and shook her head. “I knew the moment I overheard Grandeur that I would have to make a choice between him and you.” Even if it caused a pang in her chest.

  Serene began to pace slowly over the bright rug, her voice carefully low. “There are things you don’t know about my brother or my father. If I wear a mask, it’s because of them.” She exhaled heavily. “You know I went to Zennor after my mother died. While there, I learned the truth about my mother’s death.” Her voice tightened. “My father murdered her.”

  Clare stared. The princess’s hard expression didn’t alter as she waited for Clare to process the words.

  They were impossible to process.

  “But, the queen was ill—”

  “He poisoned her,” Serene bit out, fury flashing in her fierce blue eyes. “It took months, and when Grandeur learned what was happening he didn’t stand up to our father. He didn’t do anything to save our mother’s life. He watched her die.”

  Denials swam up Clare’s throat, but nothing came out. She couldn’t imagine Grandeur being capable of such a thing. But then, she had heard him threaten to kill his own sister.