Royal Spy (Fate of Eyrinthia Book 2)

by Heather Frost

  He halted, aiming his swords at the ground as he moved carefully toward the table. “Easy,” he said to the crouched figure. “You won’t be harmed.”

  The shadow recoiled, scrambling out from under the table and shooting up on the other side.

  The boy was maybe eleven years old. Dirt streaked his face and blood dripped from his nose. He wore a torn red vest and his bare arms were marred with the beginnings of several bruises. A dark tattoo was inked around his wrist and the whole area was rubbed raw—he’d been bound recently. Bound and beaten.

  Desfan’s stomach clenched. Anger rose, but he kept that out of his expression as he faced the boy. “You’re safe now,” he said. “I promise, they won’t—”

  The boy threw a knife at him. The blade was so small, Desfan hadn’t even noticed it in his hand.

  Desfan cursed as he dodged the knife. As he spun, the boy dove for a small crate on the floor. Before he could grab it, a dagger thunked into the wood, a breath from the boy’s thin fingers.

  He jerked back, darting a look at the man who’d thrown the blade.

  It was the smuggler Desfan had kicked into the crates. He was back on his feet, blood wetting the side of his shirt and his temple. He snarled furiously, already reaching for another dagger. “You’re dead, Ori!”

  The boy’s battered face paled. He scrambled back from the crate, his horrified eyes stuck on the man prepared to kill him.

  The smuggler hurled the second knife at the boy’s chest.

  Desfan widened his stance and swung one of his swords, batting the dagger in midair so it thumped harmlessly against the dirt floor.

  The smuggler cursed.

  The boy—Ori—shot a look at Desfan before he spun and darted for the nearest exit.

  Smart kid.

  Desfan faced the smuggler, blocking his path after the boy. “Smuggling, kidnapping, resisting arrest, and the abuse and attempted murder of a child. That’s quite the list you’ve built for yourself. Do you really want to add to it?”

  The man lunged at Desfan. Despite his wound, the smuggler delivered punishing blows. Desfan was trying not to kill him—clearly a goal his opponent did not share—but avoiding a deathblow was forcing Desfan steadily back toward the wall. Soon, he would be pinned. He needed to change tactics.

  The man surprised him with a flash of his fist, and knuckles smashed Desfan’s nose. Cartilage cracked and blood spurted. Desfan gasped at the sharp pain, one sword falling as his hand instinctively flashed to his throbbing nose. Broken. His nose was broken.

  Fates, not again.

  The watering in his eyes distorted his vision, but he still saw the man’s meaty fist fly for his jaw. He cursed and spun to the right, his shoulders bumping against the wall.

  He tensed as the man raised his sword, and he knew he would need to go for the man’s exposed gut. It was his life, or the criminal’s.

  Desfan’s fingers flexed around the hilt of his remaining sword, but before he could strike a deathblow, his attacker suddenly jerked forward, his expression freezing, then slackening. Blood dribbled from the corner of his mouth as he rocked forward.

  Desfan kicked him back so the large body wouldn’t crush him and the smuggler hit the floor, dead.

  Several paces away, Karim’s arm slowly lowered, clearly having just thrown the knife that had saved Desfan’s life.

  Karim was tall, trim, and his dark hair was pulled into a knot at the back of his head. His belt was weighed down with a creative assortment of knives. His beard was short and framed his angular face, which was generally locked in a smooth expression that gave away nothing.

  At this moment, he’d traded that stoicism for a fierce glare.

  Desfan swiped the back of his wrist under his bleeding nose, blinking rapidly to keep his vision from clouding. “Hello, Karim. How are you?”

  His bodyguard’s thick eyebrows pulled tightly together. “I’m going to kill you.”

  Desfan snorted—and immediately grabbed his nose. Fates, that hurt.

  Karim growled as he stalked forward. “Did you break your nose? Again?”

  “I had help.” Desfan lowered his hand, still cringing at the pain. He nudged the dead smuggler’s boot with his own. “I was trying to keep him alive.”

  “That’s what I keep saying about you, despite all your efforts to get yourself killed.”

  Desfan snatched up his fallen sword and sheathed them both, the twin blades hissing into place against his back. He wiped again at his nose and looked beyond Karim to see the fighting was over. Soldiers secured prisoners as Kiv Arcas scanned the room. The older man’s eyes flared wide when he spotted Desfan’s bloody face. “Serjah!” He darted forward, and Desfan barely smothered a groan.

  Karim spun on the kiv before he could get too close, and the older man withered a little under his glare. “You let him come on a fates-blasted raid? Are you insane? He’s the future serjan!”

  “It’s not his fault,” Desfan said, his tone a little nasal. “I made him.”

  Karim ignored that, his glare still on the kiv.

  Arcas’s throat bobbed almost violently as he swallowed. “I’m sorry. I didn’t—I wasn’t sure—He insisted, and I—”

  Karim shoved a finger in the man’s face. “Never. Again. Understood?”

  Karim was a man of few words, but he usually made them count.

  Desfan caught sight of the small crate the boy, Ori, had tried to take with him. It was on the floor, the smuggler’s dagger still embedded in the wood. Desfan moved for it, wiping his sleeve under his bleeding nose, perfectly aware of Karim following him.

  Desfan crouched by the crate. It was smaller than the others he’d seen in the room. He dropped it on the table, taking the iron bar the kiv handed to him so he could pry open the lid. Karim merely folded his arms and watched, irritation bristling the very air around him.

  The lid yawned open and Desfan plucked out tufts of packing straw. After a few handfuls littered the table, several stacks of drawstring pouches were revealed.

  Desfan’s pulse spiked at the sight. He snatched one of the small bags and tugged it open, already knowing what he’d find.

  The white powder was ridiculously fine—perfectly refined.

  He shot a look at Karim, who hissed out a breath. “Olcain? This was an olcain raid?”

  Desfan palmed the open bag, the white powder almost glowing in the dim light. “We didn’t know what it was, actually. Just stolen goods. Arcas and I had a bet. My gold was on Zennorian wine.”

  Karim turned very slowly to face him. “You came on a raid and you didn’t even know what you were trying to seize?”

  Desfan ignored his friend’s glare and turned to Arcas. “I want a full report of everything you find here. Exact quantities. And I want full notes on the interrogations of all survivors. I want to know how this olcain got into the city, who owns it, and who intended to buy it.”

  Even this small crate was worth a staggering fortune. Olcain was the most dangerous and expensive drug in Eyrinthia.

  Someone in Duvan was bound to be very unhappy with the city guard for seizing it, and Desfan needed to know who.

  Arcas hurried away, shouting orders to his men.

  Karim shook his head at Desfan. “You need to take care of your face. You’ve got a meeting with the council in three hours.”

  Desfan cringed, but it wasn’t fully from the pain of his broken nose.

  No, it was because his short respite was over and he was the regent once more.

  Chapter 6

  Desfan

  “. . . This is a matter that would never have been dismissed in the past. Frankly, I’m astonished that . . .”

  After two hours of hearing the same bland tones, Desfan was beyond irritated—and exhausted, since he hadn’t managed to get any sleep last night, due to the olcain raid. The gold crown—which he only wore when absolutely necessary—was heavy on his head. His broken nose throbbed and his muscles twitched at the inactivity of sitting on his father’s
throne and listening to the endless bickering of the council, the belittling and snide comments directed to him—about him—and the ceaseless arguments against a betrothal that Desfan had already agreed to.

  In short, he was out of patience, and there was still an hour to go.

  “. . . Not to mention the obscene lack of regard . . .” Ser Zephan didn’t seem to need breath—he just kept talking. The man had black hair, lightly graying at the temples, and dark eyes. Desfan had wondered more than once if he was a relation to the notorious, dark-bearded pirate Syed Zadir—also known as Crush, because of what he did to his enemies.

  Probably just fanciful thinking.

  Desfan barely held back his sigh. Would any of them notice if he fell asleep?

  A glance at the twelve members of the council assured him they would. Those men and women missed nothing. Serai Essa was frowning at him, perhaps seeing wrinkles in his white shirt. Or maybe she—like Ser Jamal—was still caught on the black and purple bruising developing around his eyes due to his broken nose.

  The sunlight coming through the tall windows caught the black ring on his forefinger, and he stared at it.

  Years ago, his younger sister Tahlyah had found three identical obsidian rings while playing in the royal treasury—something Desfan and his sisters did often, much to the chagrin of their mother and the amusement of their father.

  “One for each of us!” Tahlyah had beamed, tossing one to Desfan and the other to Meerah.

  Desfan had been ten at the time, and he’d twisted the simple band between his fingers. The royal children were known for finding mischief, but this seemed different, and he felt responsible for his sisters. “Mother won’t like us taking these. It’s stealing.”

  Tahlyah rolled her eyes. “They were lost in the bottom of a dusty trunk, Des. No one will care.”

  “It’s too big,” Meerah said, the ring swallowing her six-year-old thumb.

  “We can string them on a necklace for now,” Tahlyah said with a shrug. “We’ll grow into them.”

  They hadn’t grown into them.

  Tahlyah and Meerah had died a year later.

  Desfan’s fingers curled into a fist, the ring biting into his skin.

  “. . . And that is all I can say about it!” Ser Zephan finished, his mustache twitching along with his left eye.

  Everyone looked at Desfan.

  Fates, it was his turn to respond. And he hadn’t heard much of anything Zephan had said. He straightened and cleared his throat, making sure his voice was strong enough to echo through the stone hall. “Thank you for bringing your opinion to my attention. I shall think on this and have a response for you soon.”

  Behind him, Karim may have snorted.

  One of Zephan’s dark eyebrows lifted. “Does this mean you will consider retracting the prisoner exchange with Devendra?”

  “No,” Desfan said at once. “Of course not.” Was that really what he’d been droning on about?

  Zephan’s mouth tightened. “Then what, exactly, will you be thinking on? What response can I expect from you?”

  He could feel every eye on him, and he silently cursed his distraction. He should have been paying more attention. “I misspoke,” he said carefully. “I will not change my mind about the prisoner exchange. It has already been negotiated and Ser Ashear is overseeing the details. The intent behind my response to you, Ser Zephan, was merely to assure you that I have heard your opinion and I will bear it in mind moving forward. You are correct that I could have handled the negotiations with King Newlan better, by involving the council sooner. But it is done and my word is final.”

  Zephan’s nostrils flared, but he jerked out a bow before he dropped back to his seat.

  Desfan did not get a chance to celebrate the averted disaster, because Serai Yahri wavered to her feet.

  The fragile-looking woman held the senior seat on the council and was old enough to be Desfan’s grandmother, though there was nothing warm or grandmotherly about her. Her mouth was usually pulled into a frown and her eyes were generally narrowed. Before Desfan had been sent to sea by his father, he’d been a menace. He knew that. But years later, Yahri still looked at him as if he were that out-of-control boy. Disapproval was about the only thing he’d ever seen shine in her dark eyes.

  Well, that and disappointment.

  Her braided silver hair still had some dark strands mixed in, and her steely gaze was cutting. “It has come to my attention that you took part in an olcain raid last night, Serjah.”

  The council sucked in a collective breath.

  Desfan cracked a tight smile. Fates, this was just what he needed. “Your information is not wrong, Serai Yahri.”

  Her thin mouth pressed into an even thinner line, though her posture remained oddly regal; her long and slender hands clasped before her, the wide cuffs of her green robe—which all members on the council wore—nearly swallowing her fingers. She was tall, thin, and her chin seemed to always be tilted up. “Did it not occur to you, Serjah, that you are the only heir to the Mortisian crown?”

  Only every fates-blasted day since he was eleven years old. But even as he bristled at her words, he forced his tone to remain easy. “Indeed, it occurred. Which is why I led the raid. A leader does not stand back when there is a battle to be fought.”

  “A true leader uses more than his swords,” Yahri countered.

  Irritation prickled, tightening his skin and his voice. “I have an obligation to serve this city.”

  “Your obligation reaches further than that, Serjah. You should not take such risks with yourself.” She raised a hand, stopping him the moment he opened his mouth. “We will not speak of this again,” she said. “But I do hope you understand the feelings of this council.”

  Oh, he understood her perfectly. She wanted him to sit down, keep quiet, and agree with everything the council wanted. This was just another reminder that this wasn’t his council—it was his father’s. They did not see him as their ruler, only a temporary stand-in until the serjan recovered.

  Desfan didn’t need the reminder, but there it was.

  Serai Yahri shifted her hold on her cane. “Now then, I believe it would be prudent for us to discuss your decision to invite a Ryden delegation into the palace. No Rydenic men—let alone two princes—have set foot in Duvan in decades. Our history is too bloody—we barely retain our uneasy trade. Most of their business is done in Zennorian ports.”

  Desfan lifted a finger. “First, I did not invite them. King Henri wrote to me with an offer of sending a peaceful delegation to witness the historic peace between us and Devendra, and I could not say no. If memory serves, you all agreed with me.” Reluctantly, he almost added drily. “Which brings us to my second point. Our bloody history is exactly the reason why we had to accept them. The driving force behind our alliance with Devendra is to defend against Ryden. This was my father’s fear when he first began discussing his plans of an alliance with Devendra. Our spies haven’t gleaned much from the north, but we do know that King Henri’s army is growing.”

  Serai Yahri’s eyes narrowed. “It could have been stipulated by you that the delegation did not consist of two Kaelin princes. Might I add, it would have been stipulated, if you had consulted this council prior to sending your message.”

  The back of his neck heated. “Would you like to look over all my messages?” he said, his tone a little too stiff for the sarcastic bent he’d been aiming for. “I’ve been drafting a love letter to Princess Serene, if you’d like to help.”

  The woman lifted one eyebrow. “Only if you need my help in such matters, Serjah.”

  A few chuckles coughed out, rippling through the cavernous room.

  Desfan smiled thinly, the action putting pressure on his broken nose. “I don’t think that will be necessary.”

  Yahri tipped her head. “Very well. Then I suppose it is time we turn to the concerns of the people . . .”

  Desfan grit his teeth.

  It was going to be a long day.
/>   Chapter 7

  Clare

  Clare stood on the wide balcony, basking in the warmth of the summer sun as she overlooked Lady Rendell’s grassy yard. She felt lighter than she had in the six days since leaving the castle, probably because she was wearing the simple maid’s uniform instead of the princess’s attire.

  They had reunited with Serene late last night at an inn just outside Tarvin. King Newlan had deemed it necessary for Serene to play herself during their stay with Lady Rendell, as the aging widow was a dear friend of the old queen of Zennor, Aimeth Buhari—Serene’s grandmother. The noblewoman was practically a second grandmother to Serene and would probably see through Clare after spending any length of time with her. They were only staying with the widow for one day and night. Lady Rendell refused to throw large parties, and the point of Serene’s tour was for her to mingle with as many people as possible. Newlan had chosen not to completely bypass Lady Rendell, however, because she was considered almost family, and the widow would have been quite vocal about the slight. Tomorrow morning, Serene would leave in disguise and Clare would move on to another manor in Tarvin to stay with Lord and Lady Wensil for a couple of days. But for nearly twenty-four hours, Clare could just be herself.

  Princess Serene came to stand beside her, resting one elegant hand on the gray stone railing of the balcony. Her dark hair was unbound, her skin a slight shade darker than Clare’s. They had the same blue eyes; deep, Devendran blue. Sometimes when Clare looked at Serene, with all her beauty and confidence, she had a hard time seeing how she managed to fool anyone into thinking she was the princess.

  In the suite behind them, Clare could just make out the voices of Vera, Ivonne, and Bridget as the maids debated what dress Serene should wear to breakfast.

  “I suppose you’re grateful for the break,” Serene said.