Fool that he was. The sooner he was married and gone from this island, the better.
But he didn’t want members of his delegation catching wind of his treacherous internal dilemma, so he feigned obliviousness. “Why would she be jealous?”
“I have no idea,” Clervie said blandly. “Did she say in what way Lisenn is such a monster?”
“No.” A muscle rippled along his jaw. After a moment of silence, he admitted, “Maybe she would’ve, but I accused her of trying to sabotage the treaty. She got angry and left.”
“That explains your sour demeanor.”
He slid a sidelong glare toward his youngest advisor. Clervie’s strengths lay in observation, in discerning patterns of information, of human nature, but he didn’t need her analyzing him. “I’m sour because I haven’t slept.”
She patted his knee again, with the air of a parent consoling a small child. “I know. And also because you’re getting married tomorrow and that would put anyone in your situation out of sorts.” She stood as though to abandon him on those words.
“What situation?” he asked, an edge to his voice.
“A newly crowned prince engaged to an almost-stranger who may or may not be a monster,” Clervie quipped.
At least she left Iona out of it. As she retreated toward her bedchamber, he called after her. “Can you—?”
“I’ll ask around,” she said with a dismissive wave, not even bothering to glance back.
“Clervie.”
The solemnity in his voice made her pause within her door. She turned curious eyes upon him, her shoulders tense, guarded.
“There’s a folksong the children of Straithmill taught Iona when we were there. They called it ‘The Bird among Thorns.’ It told of an injured bird about to be killed by a snake.”
She stepped slowly back into the common room, her dark eyes piercing. “You think that’s related to the nickname?”
“I don’t know. It seems an unlikely coincidence if it’s not.”
“But if Iona’s the bird,” said Clervie, “who or what is the snake about to kill her?”
He met her gaze; the negotiations of the past two weeks, all their research and inquiries, stood in contrast to the obvious answer. “It can’t be Lisenn.” A dry spot in his throat made the statement difficult to speak. “You said it yourself: we haven’t heard a word of ill spoken against her.”
“We haven’t heard much of anything spoken about her.” She picked at her lower lip, a furrow deepening between her brows. “There was this weird dynamic between them when we rode together on the way to Sorrow’s Linn. Iona didn’t want her sister to know anything about her time in Capria, even though Lisenn seemed like the very picture of sisterly concern. Denoela and I thought it was her way of supporting our treaty, by not cluing her sister into how awful we were to her all those years. But if she sees Lisenn as a monster…”
“Then she wouldn’t want to expose any sign of weakness, past or present,” said Jaoven. His insides roiled, this concept at war with everything he had experienced with the elder princess. Aside from her brief sulk over their informal archery tournament, Lisenn had been the very picture of graciousness.
Shallow, perhaps, but always charming.
“What about their father?” Clervie abruptly asked. “You said when we first arrived that you thought he was at the root of Yanna’s odd behavior.”
He considered this, and found a more believable villain. King Gawen might easily be a snake in the thorn bush. Capria’s reason for extending an offer of treaty stemmed from their distrust of all their neighbors, Wessett included. He could easily imagine the king tossing their agreements aside and choosing war instead, for his own elevation rather than a combined crown that wouldn’t occur until after his death.
But surely he wouldn’t pose a threat to his own child, not when her very existence ensured the continuance of his bloodline.
“There is another option,” Clervie said, though hesitantly. Jaoven eyed her, a silent command for her to continue. “This might be Iona’s gambit to scuttle our treaty. If she still holds a grudge, then she’s merely sown a seed of discord. If we run around now, a day before the wedding, calling questions upon the integrity of King Gawen and Princess Lisenn, we make ourselves look paranoid and untrustworthy, and Wessett backs out. We’ll leave here in disgrace, more vulnerable than when we came.”
That wasn’t possible. Or rather, he didn’t want to believe it.
But he only had Iona’s word—Iona, who’d suffered at his hands, who once held him in complete disdain. At what point had he stopped viewing her as an obstacle and started assuming she was his ally?
He cast his memory back and hit upon an easy answer. It was that moment at the river, when her emotionless mask had slipped and panic overtook her. In that instant, she had been so small, so vulnerable, with not a hint of artifice upon her.
The moment had passed quickly, but his perception of her had forever changed.
“I want to believe her.” The admission, quietly spoken, hung upon the air. He knew his own weakness drove it, and that if he was wrong both he and his kingdom might pay a dear and deadly price. But whether it was instinct or inclination, his gut told him to trust Iona.
A deep sigh escaped Clervie’s lungs. “I’m not going to sleep now, am I.”
He met her gaze, solemn. “I suppose that luxury evades us both.”
“I thought when the war ended I’d finally get back to normal hours.” She pivoted, heading for her room again. The complaint was laughable from someone who had just stayed out all night of her own choosing.
“Where are you going to sniff out information?” he called to her retreat.
“Among the servants, first and foremost. I’ll ask around about that folksong and its meaning. But first, a change of clothes.”
Her door shut, leaving him alone with his tea and his brooding thoughts. If he wanted the truth, he should logically go to the source of the original concern, to Iona herself.
If she would even talk to him.
But at least he knew where she usually spent her mornings.
A shave and a change of clothing restored some of his energy. He left the diplomatic quarters at the same time as Clervie but they parted ways in the hall. The castle was peaceful as he strolled along its corridors at a leisurely pace, his path naturally turning toward the neglected back corner where Iona’s studio lay.
Would she even be there this early? She hadn’t returned to the ball last night, so he assumed she went to bed instead—which, at the time, he had counted as a blessing. It had been difficult enough to watch her dance with others before he’d identified the extent of his preference for her. It would have been torture afterward.
Somehow, he had known it would be inappropriate to dance with her himself. Had she worn anything less conspicuous than that red dress, he might have ventured it, banking on a claim of kinship to carry him through. The gown was a beacon among the crowds, however, drawing attention and admiration. Her dance partners had worn nothing brotherly in their expressions. Even Elouan and Neven, both of whom would never speak aloud a romantic interest in their former classmate, had looked too reverential by far.
Jaoven clenched and flexed his fingers, banishing the sudden urge to throttle both men. Neven had Clervie, their mutual affection all but official, so his admiration of Iona would go no further than an appreciative look. Elouan had better sense than to pin any lasting interest on a princess of Wessett. Even so, he wished them both to oblivion.
The halls narrowed. A cacophony echoed against the stone walls as he rounded the final corner to the art studio. It sounded as though someone were emptying one of the storage rooms along the way. Frowning, he slowed his pace.
The door to the studio was open, and shadows moved across the patch of light that spilled across the corridor. Voices carried, conversation back and forth.
Confusion mounting within him, Jaoven stepped close enough to peer into the room.
It h
ad been all but cleared of its contents. Members of the royal guard were boxing small items and covering the worn furniture with dust cloths. The platform where Iona’s cousin had posed was gone, as was her clavichord and easels and stretched canvases. A smudge of deep red pigment upon the stone floor looked almost like a bloodstain.
One of the guards caught sight of him in the door and hissed a signal to his fellows, who froze in their work. Their captain stepped away from the group to ask, “May I help you, Your Royal Highness?”
“What’s happened here?” Jaoven asked.
The captain looked around, a mask of innocence firm upon him. “The princess doesn’t have any further need of this space. We’re clearing the last of her things.”
“What do you mean, she doesn’t have any further need of it? Has she moved her studio elsewhere?”
The man’s brows arched. “I believe that may be the case. We don’t question the orders we receive.”
Every feeling within him revolted, his outrage on the wrong side of irrational. “But what about her particular lighting? And the portrait she was painting of the young marquess?”
“I believe that project has ended,” said the guard.
Jaoven shook his head. “It was nowhere near complete when I saw it a week ago. She didn’t finish it in the three days she’s been back, not when she would only work on it for an hour at a time.” He started further into the room, but a hand thrust into his path.
“We don’t question the orders we receive,” the captain said again, a thorn of steel in his voice even though his expression remained pleasantly neutral.
Instinct warned the prince not to press his luck. He composed himself enough to venture one final push. “Who gave you those orders? Was it Iona? Or was it the king himself?”
But the guard only ushered him back toward the hall. “Your Highness, this is hardly a matter that concerns you. Princess Iona’s needs shall be met in this and all things, as they ever have been.” He cast a glance back over his shoulder to his fellows. “I’m going to escort the prince of Capria back to his diplomatic quarters. Carry on, and I’ll rejoin you shortly.”
“I can return on my own,” Jaoven said stiffly.
“It’s my pleasure to accompany you.”
He bit back the protest on the tip of his tongue. The guard would undoubtedly report his presence to a superior, perhaps even to King Gawen himself. And how was he supposed to explain a sudden concern for the younger princess of Wessett? The morning after his betrothal to her sister was announced, no less.
Accordingly he buttoned his lips and fell into step behind the guard, all the way back to the diplomatic quarters. He bowed curtly to the man, deigning not to speak a word of farewell, and then passed into the common room. No sooner was the door shut than he pressed his ear to it, listening for receding footsteps. They didn’t immediately come, but the tap-tap-tap eventually sounded in the hall outside.
Carefully, he ventured to open the door.
“Your Royal Highness, can I help you?” A guard at the end of the hall stepped toward him.
The captain must have flagged down one of his underlings and stationed him to watch over the Caprian prince. Jaoven scowled and retreated back inside.
He could try one of the windows in the attached bedrooms. They looked out upon the gardens, and the captain wouldn’t have had time to assign guards in that quarter just yet, though he might soon enough.
The problem lay in where to go from there, however. Jaoven had a basic idea of where Iona’s bedroom was, but he could not encroach upon her there. If she wasn’t in her studio, the garden itself was the only other place he knew to look, but whether she would venture out this early in the morning seemed unlikely, and once he was out of the diplomatic quarters, getting back in might prove to be a problem.
He was exhausted and trapped by his own foolhardiness. With a frustrated sigh, he flopped onto an ivory couch and let his body rest even as his mind raced.
They wouldn’t guard him all day, would they? He wasn’t a prisoner here. But if King Gawen came to question why he had been snooping around Iona’s studio this morning, what excuse would he give?
Perhaps he wanted to commission a wedding portrait. Or maybe he wanted a landscape to give to Lisenn as a wedding gift, a view of Wessett she could take with her into Capria.
Yes, that was the best excuse. Frame his actions around the sister he was supposed to marry.
And then somehow determine whether she was, indeed, a monster he should best avoid.
His nerves calmed enough for his mind to relax. Just as he was sagging into a light snooze, the door opened and shut. He shifted the forearm covering his eyes.
Clervie scowled at him. “Why are there guards at both ends of the hall?”
He sighed and repositioned his arm to block his view again.
The rustle of her skirts signaled her approach. She swatted at his legs, a warning for him to move them out of her way. Jaoven tented his knees and scooted up a split-second before she plopped down in the newly opened space.
He knew from experience that she would have sat regardless of whether he moved.
“What happened?” she asked, pinning him with a stare.
“They were clearing out her studio,” he said. “All of her art and her instruments are gone. It was almost like none of it had ever existed, for how clean the place looked.”
“And she wasn’t there to oversee the work?”
He shook his head. “They said she didn’t have any further need of the space.”
“I don’t like that,” said Clervie, her brows drawing together as she gazed absently across the room. “Your folksong isn’t very old—roughly twenty years.”
“So it’s the same age as Iona herself. Another coincidence?”
“Maybe, maybe not. The lyrics were written by her uncle, Orran of Wessett.”
He’d heard that name before. “King Gawen’s younger brother? Iona said he died of pleurisy when she was barely a year old.”
“Yes, that’s what the kitchen boy said as well. But as soon as I brought Iona’s name into the conversation, his whole demeanor changed. He made the first possible excuse to leave, and then he must have spread a warning. Suddenly no one else will speak to me.”
“But could her uncle really have written the song about her, when she was only an infant?” Jaoven asked. “Even if Lisenn is some kind of a monster now, she’s only a year or two older than Iona and would have been a mere toddler at the time.”
Clervie met his gaze, the solemnity of her own raising goosebumps along his arms. “Maybe he wrote it about himself. Jove, we’re too far into this treaty to be uncovering skeletons. The easiest answer is to accept that the song is simply a song.”
“And if it’s not, we risk becoming that injured bird ourselves.”
“Do you want me to talk to Iona? I can probably get close to her more readily than you at this point.”
But he only shook his head. “I want you to rest. We both need at least a few hours of sleep, and then we’ll tackle this problem with fresh minds and new plans. Don’t tell any of the others just yet. I don’t want to create obstacles where none actually exist.”
She nodded. With heavy hearts they parted ways to their respective rooms.
Chapter 20
Iona slept in late, the weight of a thousand regrets pressing upon her. She shouldn’t have spoken to Jaoven. She shouldn’t have lost her temper. She should have told him the full and ugly truth, and simultaneously kept her mouth shut.
There was no right answer.
When she finally arose, she dressed in slate gray, the same dress she had worn the day the Caprians arrived. A glimpse of red in her wardrobe provided evidence enough that she had not dreamed the previous evening’s ball, but she was back to her customary drabness now, able to blend in with the castle’s stone walls.
“You have a dress fitting this afternoon,” Bina said as she smoothed Iona’s hair into its usual low knot. The princess eye
d her in the mirror. “They’ve been making your sister’s wedding dress for weeks already, ever since the original treaty proposal arrived. I’m sure they’ve been making yours for nearly as long.”
“Not red, I hope.”
The maid suppressed a rueful laugh. “I can’t vouch for the hue. If you attend a royal wedding in your usual colors, though, you’ll stick out like a mud stain on a white mantle. I’ll be grateful in two days’ time, when you can wear any dress you please without fear of retribution.”
It seemed a shallow blessing to receive in return for submitting an entire kingdom to her sister’s will. Iona could wear any color in the rainbow, and the people of Capria could dodge Lisenn’s fickle wrath.
“I think I need to go for a walk,” she said.
Bina read the turmoil in her eyes but allowed her to leave anyway. Her footsteps turned toward the garden, her only remaining refuge on the castle grounds. The heat of the day was already rising, the dew evaporating from the grass and a promise of summer on the wind. She breathed deep the scent of earth and directed her path toward the hedgerows, avoiding even a view of the lake and the midnight conversation it conjured.
She should not have spoken to him.
As she approached a high hedge walk, someone called her name. She turned. Aedan ran across the grass, waving to catch her attention.
Aedan, whose hopes she had nearly betrayed last night. Pale and steeped in self-loathing, she waited for him to catch up.
“How are you?” he asked, grinning.
Wry humor touched her lips. “Clearly not as joyful as you. I take it your evening was a success?”
“Dancing with my lady until the early hours? Yes, quite a success.”
“I wonder that you’re out so early in the day.”
He tipped his head skyward, arms propped on his hips. “It’s almost noon. Hardly early. But why do you look as though you’re preparing yourself for a funeral rather than a wedding?”
She spared him a reproving glance and started into the hedges.
The Heir and the Spare Page 20
