Royal Spy (Fate of Eyrinthia Book 2)

by Heather Frost

  “The brave warrior and Helenera found refuge with a neighboring clan, and that is where—months later—the child was born. He was given his father’s name: Jaymet. Helenera treasured her son. And even though her husband’s death weighed on her, their child was not raised on revenge and despair, but honor and hope. Helenera braided her hair every day in memory of her lost husband, until one day—when her son was nearly two years old—the warrior who had saved her life asked if she would become his wife.

  “Helenera was troubled at first, for how could she forget Jaymet and marry another? She went into the woods to ponder the warrior’s offer, and it is said she spoke with the spirit of her husband. Regardless of whatever spirits did or did not appear, her peace became complete. She unbraided her hair before making one small, tight braid behind her right ear. She cut it off and held the small braid in her hands. Three gathered strands made up the braid—one for love, one for honor, one for memory. Helenera dried her face, buried the braid, and returned to the valiant warrior who had claimed her heart.”

  Clare’s lips pressed into a smile, her throat constricting with emotion. Serene would have no doubt heard this before, so she said nothing, but the story was undeniably moving.

  “That’s a beautiful ending to the story,” Lady Winsel said, her eyes shining.

  “It is,” Imara agreed. “But there’s never a definite end to a story, only a pause before the next development. You see, the brave warrior became their clan leader, and he had a unique vision—that the violence between the clans might be stopped. He set out to unite the clans into one strong kingdom. His name was Zennor.”

  Lady Winsel blinked. “He was Zennor’s first king?”

  “No. Unfortunately, Zennor didn’t live long enough to see the completion of his dream. But his son, Jaymet, did. When he managed to unite the clans in peace, he called the kingdom Zennor, to honor the man who had loved him and his mother.

  “To this day, widows in Zennor follow Helenera’s example. When a husband is lost, all the widow’s hair is braided. After the funeral, the large braid is traded for a thin braid that trails from behind the right ear. Some choose different positions, and some even dye it so it stands out more, but when a woman has decided to open her heart again, she cuts the braid and returns it—if possible—to the grave of her husband. Some women wear the widow’s braid until the end of their days, while others may cut it sooner. The tradition leaves the healing period up to the woman.”

  Clare stared at Imara, but she was no longer seeing the princess. The memory of combing Serene’s hair mere days ago rushed through her. She had found a thin, tight braid hidden in her long dark hair, and Serene had stiffened at the discovery. Vera had quickly given Clare another task, and the moment—while odd—had faded from Clare’s thoughts.

  Until now.

  But it couldn’t be a widow’s braid. Serene had never been married.

  And yet, the more Clare thought on it, the more certain she became, even if it didn’t fully make sense.

  Serene had a widow’s braid.

  Her mind reeled. Why would the princess wear one? Had a man she loved actually died? Of course, there were many types of loss.

  She thought of James, the mysterious man Serene had written to. She had wondered if their connection went deeper than friendship, and now, considering the widow’s braid . . .

  What if Serene wore the braid not for a man who had died, but for one she could not have—because she was betrothed to another?

  Lord Winsel’s deep voice pulled Clare from her thoughts. “How is the unrest in Zennor? I’ve heard that tensions with the dissenting clans run high these days.”

  “Unrest is a strong word.” Imara’s tone was carefully diplomatic. “There have always been disagreements between the clans and the monarchy, but my father continues to honor their independence.”

  “And of course your marriage to one of the clan leaders will help settle things,” Lord Winsel said.

  Imara smiled, though the corners were tight. “Indeed.”

  Lady Winsel beamed, the glow of the candles highlighting her sharp cheekbones. “Two royal weddings in such proximity. What an exciting time for Eyrinthia!”

  Wilf returned, letting them know the carriage was ready. They all filed out, Imara’s arm linked through Clare’s. The Zennorian princess leaned in as they walked the corridor, her voice low. “You do a remarkable job, you know.”

  The compliment caught her by surprise. “Thank you.”

  “No, thank you.” Imara’s brow furrowed, her voice still a low whisper. “I’m grateful for the risks you take for my cousin. You’re very brave.”

  “Most of the time I don’t feel brave.”

  “And yet you continue to protect her. That is true bravery.”

  They descended a carpeted staircase and entered the lobby, which still housed clusters of nobles huddled together after the performance. Clare was grateful Bennick and the other guards were there to keep them moving across the marble floor and through the tall double doors.

  The silver moon hung low in the sky, and several torches spaced along the front of the concert hall spilled light onto the waiting carriage. At their approach, the footman opened the door and bowed low.

  Clare was lifting her slippered foot to the carriage step when Bennick’s arm snaked around her waist and jerked her back from the open door.

  Her heart pounded. “What is it?”

  Tension radiated from Bennick as he continued to hold her. “Wilf,” he snapped.

  The large man slipped past them and ducked his head into the shadowed carriage.

  Bennick lowered Clare to the ground, but he didn’t let go of her.

  Venn darted forward with a lantern, holding it high so the light could spill over Wilf’s tall shoulders.

  Venn’s curse sent a chill down Clare’s spine.

  Finally, the large guard straightened, his face grim as he met Bennick’s gaze. “We’ll want another carriage.”

  Clare twisted in Bennick’s grasp and managed to see past Wilf. With the light in Venn’s hand shredding the shadows, Clare could finally see the interior of the carriage.

  Her stomach dropped and her knees went weak.

  Crimson rose petals were strewn on the floor and bench seats, and there—in the center of the floor—was a man’s severed head, a rose stuck in his gaping mouth.

  Lady Winsel screamed.

  “He was one of the ushers,” Venn said quietly. “He showed us to the box.”

  Clare’s gut churned. Sitting on the settee in her room, she tried to keep her expression calm. Bennick had already asked her if she would like to go to bed, and she knew if he saw her terror, he would end this discussion immediately.

  But she needed to know everything.

  Lord and Lady Winsel had retired. Imara had also disappeared into her room, leaving Clare in the sitting room of her suite with Bennick, Venn, and Wilf.

  The Rose had left another note, but this one was different than the last. This time, it was a poem.

  Settle the petals around your bed,

  Let dreams of me dance through your head.

  Your soldiers can’t save you, try as they might;

  I’ll steal your breath as I steal your life.

  I’ll touch you and taste you and smell your perfume—

  I’ve already picked out a rose for you.

  The horrible rhyme raised every hair on her body. But it was the second note that truly terrified her.

  It had been wrapped around a small stoppered vial, no bigger than her smallest finger, and filled with a red-tinted liquid. The message on the tightly curled note was short.

  For you, Markam.

  In case the fear becomes too much.

  Wilf held the vial now, and he was frowning at the liquid. “I don’t know what this is, but I doubt it’s good.”

  Bennick glanced up from the poem, which he had been reading yet again. “It’s Raebris, I think.”

  Clare eyed Bennick, her i
nsides knotting. “Why would the Rose send you poison?”

  Bennick didn’t look up this time. “I don’t know.”

  “I think he’s insane,” Venn muttered.

  “Possibly,” Bennick said, his tone mild.

  Clare stared at him. “How can you be so calm? An assassin sent you a vial of poison.”

  “I’m really not worried about the poison.”

  “But he threatened you.”

  “No,” Bennick’s eyes found hers. “He taunted me. There’s a difference.”

  “Clare has a point.” Venn crossed his arms, his dark brow furrowed. “It’s strange that he singled you out. It breaks his pattern. Or you’re a target now, too.”

  One of Bennick’s eyebrows lifted. “You think whoever hired the Rose to kill Serene also paid for my death?”

  Venn shrugged. “The Rose isn’t known for taunting anyone but his victims. And you said it yourself, that gift of poison was a taunt.”

  Bennick’s brow furrowed. “Why in all of Eyrinthia would anyone pay to have me killed?”

  “It doesn’t have to be personal,” Venn said. “It’s no secret you’re the captain of the princess’s guard. Your name would be easy enough to learn, and threatening you adds tension to all of us.”

  “Or it could be personal,” Wilf countered. “Either for the Rose, or the one who hired him.”

  “I don’t have any enemies,” Bennick said. “Not like this.”

  Wilf grunted. “That you know of.”

  Bennick shook his head. “This is all just speculation. I’m more concerned with how the Rose managed to behead a man and arrange everything in the carriage without the driver, footmen, or guards noticing.”

  “They stepped away,” Venn said. “Just for a few moments.”

  “Which only proves how closely the Rose was watching them,” Wilf said. “The fact he also killed the usher who assisted us also proves he was inside the concert hall.”

  Bennick’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t like how he keeps blending in.”

  “He could be dressed as a servant,” Clare said, drawing their attention. “It would be an easy enough disguise, and none of the nobles would look twice at him. The other servants would be too busy to question the extra hand.” Servants were practically invisible. She knew this from experience, even though as a maid she’d rarely left the castle kitchen.

  “Good point,” Venn said.

  “He could also be dressed as a guard,” Wilf pointed out. “Or a noble. Frankly, he could be one of the shadows on the wall, for all we’ve been able to detect him.”

  Bennick gathered up the Rose’s messages. “I’ll send these to the commander for review, and I want to question the driver and footmen again. They never should have left the carriage unattended.” He turned to Clare. “Get some sleep. We have a long day of travel ahead of us.”

  But even though she was exhausted, she did not sleep. Because long after she was in bed, she imagined she could smell roses in the dark.

  Chapter 15

  Mia

  Mia sat at the table, one hand plunged into her thick hair, the other lying flat on the book spread open before her. She was trying to practice her Devendran because it was her worst language and she needed any distraction she could get.

  Grayson had been gone three days, and even breathing hurt. She’d been without him before, but not like this. Traveling to Mortise would take a month at least, and the length of his stay in Duvan was undetermined. It would be months—very possibly an entire year—before she saw him again.

  There were things she should have told him. Things she had tried to say, but couldn’t. She’d physically locked up, her throat constricting as sweat broke out over her body. Her heart had hammered, fear and shame keeping her silent until it was too late.

  Her breathing hitched and she forced herself to focus on her breaths. To draw them out. To relax her body so her heart stopped racing and her lungs didn’t ache.

  Devon, the physician who had tended her for years, had told her she needed to keep calm. That breathing slowly and deeply would help keep the panics at bay. That, and she needed to avoid stressful thoughts.

  Which was why she was trying to focus on the Devendran poetry.

  Grayson had given her many books over the years. Pilfered them from the library, mostly, though some he had purchased during his travels throughout Ryden. He knew she loved to learn, so many of the books were about life in the other kingdoms. This particular volume had been thrown into a pile by Queen Iris when she’d visited the library once. She’d called the poetry wasteful, and the servants had thrown it into a box with other books the queen had deemed useless. The queen had become bored with her tirade and the box had been carried out with the other castle waste.

  Grayson, at thirteen years old, had saved every book he could carry and Mia had them—and others—stacked under her bed. Books also lined the shelves on the walls and more were stacked in the corners of the room. Books and art—these were her escapes.

  And Grayson, of course.

  She wondered, not for the first time, what Grayson was really doing in Mortise, because he certainly wasn’t on a mission of peace. Henri never would have sent him for such a reason, which left her with all sorts of horrible ideas. She worried about what he would do to others—and what those actions would do to him.

  Sometimes all Mia felt was fear, which she hated.

  Fearful little thing.

  That was the first thing King Henri had ever said to her, when she was seven years old and hauled into the throne room. It had been late at night, but he’d seemed fully awake. And when he’d grinned at her, she had never felt so frightened in her entire life.

  Which was saying something, because she had tasted horrible fear before coming to Ryden. Fear, pain, anger, denial, and grief.

  That little girl in that ragged dress had wanted nothing more than to scream at the king, I’m not afraid!

  But she had not screamed. She hadn’t said anything, because she was afraid.

  She was still afraid.

  She was a coward.

  Some days, she convinced herself she wasn’t. That living through such horrors somehow excused her from being measured the same way others were.

  But there was no denying her cowardice. If she was brave, she would have told Grayson the truth a long time ago.

  She slapped the book closed, set her forehead against the leather cover, and groaned.

  Grayson had once told her that he envied the way she sang. With confidence, uncaring if others heard. But what he didn’t know was that she only sang so bravely when Mama and Papa were gone.

  Fearful little thing.

  Fates, she missed Grayson. She missed how strong she felt when he was here. She missed the security that came from knowing he was close, even if he wasn’t with her. And she missed the training sessions they’d shared. After Tyrell had attacked her, she craved Grayson’s lessons more than ever.

  She had nightmares of that night. The belt. Tyrell’s dark eyes. Being bound to the foot of the bed . . .

  But those weren’t her only nightmares, and they were not the worst.

  She saw the faces of her family, sightless eyes staring at her with accusation and horror. She saw the faces of the men who had taken her away from everything she had ever known.

  She had started to see Grayson’s death.

  She pushed back from the table and rose, snatching up the slim volume of poetry as she crossed the room to her bed. She knelt on the hard stone floor and flipped up the quilt that hung nearly to the floor, revealing the stacks of books underneath.

  Before she could replace the book, a sound froze her.

  Voices in the corridor, just outside her door.

  Mia’s stomach twisted and she shot a look over her shoulder.

  The voices on the other side of the door were muffled. One belonged to Fletcher, but the other . . . It wasn’t Mama; the voice was too deep, and she had gone into the city for the day. And it was too
early for Papa to be back from his duties in the lower dungeon.

  Her breaths ran shallow as she strained to hear through the door. There was a pause in the conversation. Or perhaps it was the end of it. Just a brief visit from another guard come to see Fletcher, perhaps?

  That theory was shattered by the metallic slide of a key going into the lock.

  Mia lurched to her feet, still clutching the book of poetry in one hand. She barely resisted the urge to reach for the pebble that rested just under the collar of her blue dress. But when the door swung open and she saw who stood in the frame, she was glad she hadn’t grabbed for the comfort of the necklace.

  She needed her hand free to fight.

  Tyrell stood in the corridor, taller than she remembered. And wider. His shoulders were so broad they nearly took up the whole doorway. His hair was the same dark shade as Grayson’s, but similarities between them ended there. Tyrell’s expression was cool and his features were sharp—cruel. A red cut sliced over his cheek, standing out starkly against his pale skin.

  That had not been there the last time she’d seen him.

  When his brown eyes focused on her, she locked her knees so she wouldn’t tremble.

  Over his shoulder, Mia saw Fletcher. He was pale as he darted a look to her that said, I’m sorry.

  Mia tried to give him a thin smile, something to assure him, but her lips were pressed into a tight line that could not relax.

  Her heart pounded painfully against her ribs.

  This was like last time. So horribly like last time.

  Except Grayson wasn’t in the castle. He wouldn’t be coming to save her.

  Tyrell stepped into the cell, his eyes coasting over the space. He kicked the door shut with the heel of his dark boot and the slam echoed through Mia’s bones, making her flinch.

  Relax, Grayson’s voice rang in her mind. You need to keep loose so you can move quickly. Don’t let yourself get pinned. Go for the eyes.