“Who summoned you to his office?”
He frowned. “A guard.”
“Was my father alone?”
“In his study? Yes.”
“You saw no one else in the room?”
“Just a couple of guards.” His shoulders lifted, the motion stiff. “What is this about?”
Desfan ignored his question, but not the fact that the man was growing defensive.
“Were you aware of anyone with the serjan before his collapse? Was anyone in the room with him when it happened?”
“No. Not that I’m aware of.”
“Didn’t you question the guards about his collapse?”
The man’s angular jaw flexed. “Of course I did. But they didn’t see it happen. They were positioned in the hall. The serjan often worked late, odd hours.”
“But no one was in there with him?”
“No. As I already said.”
“How did the guards know he collapsed?”
The physician clasped his hands behind his back, his eyes narrowing. “They heard him fall, and then they found him on the floor, convulsing.”
“Had he eaten anything recently?”
“Dinner, I presume.”
“You presume? You didn’t investigate his last food and drink?”
“No, I did not.”
“Then how did you rule out poison?”
The man spread his hands, his exasperation clear in his tone. “There were no signs of poisoning. No discoloration of the tongue, no foul smells, no spots or rashes. He had a seizure of the mind and body, but this is an illness that can strike a man his age, especially one who has been over-worked for years. It is not unheard of. Unusual, yes, but not a sign of poisoning. Jumping to such a conclusion is radical.”
Desfan grit his teeth. “So you didn’t check his food and drink.”
“There was no need.” The physician’s throat bobbed as he swallowed, his voice calmer than before. “Serjah, as difficult as it is to accept the will of the fates in this, I must insist that the serjan’s condition is nothing other than illness.” He straightened. “May I now go and tend your father?”
Desfan dismissed him, and the moment the door closed, he turned to Karim. “Thoughts?”
He was defensive. Nervous, at the very least. Possibly lying about something.”
That was Desfan’s assessment as well. “I’ll increase the guards on my father’s room, though it’s unlikely the physician is a danger to him, since he has been caring for him for months. I suspect he is protecting someone.”
“Or himself. If he didn’t investigate everything as he should have, he could be worried about the repercussions.”
“I think someone else might have been there that night. And I think the physician knows who.”
“Do you want me to bring him back here?”
“No. I’ll ask Arcas to assign someone to trail him, see who he might seek out.”
“I can also find another physician to check on the serjan and his health reports, see how someone outside the royal physician’s sphere might interpret his condition.”
Desfan nodded. “Good idea.”
There was a knock on the door, and when Jamal entered, Desfan dismissed Karim. He knew his friend would arrange the tail for the royal physician, and everything else.
The youngest member of the council bowed deeply, sitting only after Desfan lowered himself into his chair. “I’m sorry to intrude,” Jamal said. “I hoped to catch you before the council meeting.”
“Of course. What can I do for you?”
“I wanted to see how your investigation into the olcain problem was progressing.”
“Quite well, though I’ve mostly turned it over to others.” Not exactly a lie, though the man probably assumed “others” meant guards, not pirates.
Jamal nodded, his hands rubbing over his knees in a nervous gesture.
Desfan’s eyes narrowed. “What did you really want to ask me, Jamal?”
Sweat beaded on Jamal’s forehead. “I don’t want to speak too hastily, but I overheard a conversation yesterday that I cannot remove from my mind. It could mean absolutely nothing. And as the youngest on the council, I know I should tread carefully, but . . .”
“You can speak freely here.”
The man’s throat bobbed. “I was passing the council chambers yesterday, and I heard voices. I was curious, since the council was not yet in session, and the room should have been empty. I found Ser Zephan and Serai Yahri within.”
Desfan frowned. He didn’t like the thought of those two having secret conversations.
Jamal shook his head. “I nearly joined them, but something held me back. I know I shouldn’t have lingered, but their voices were low. Frantic. My curiosity got the better of me, I’m afraid.”
“What did you hear?”
“Zephan told Yahri he would not stand by. Not like last time. Yahri demanded that he stay in Duvan, but he overrode her. He said she could orchestrate her plans and wait for things to fall into place, but he was a man of action.” Jamal’s face reddened. “They moved for the door then, and I left before I could be discovered. I know this isn’t anything more than hearsay, and there is nothing overtly wrong about what they said, but I felt you should know about the exchange.”
“I appreciate that, Jamal.” Desfan’s mind was reeling, trying to overlay what Jamal had shared over the mysteries he was trying to unravel. The olcain, the possible poisoning of his father . . . in any case, it spoke of a friendship—or at least a partnership—between Yahri and Zephan that Desfan had not been aware of.
Which did not bode well.
They were in the middle of a council meeting when the doors to the chamber pushed open without warning and a guard rushed in.
Even before he spoke, Desfan knew it wasn’t going to be good.
“What is the meaning of this interruption?” Serai Yahri demanded. “This chamber is to remain closed during council meetings!”
“Apologies.” The guard continued toward Desfan and he offered an awkward bow as he moved. His throat bobbed anxiously. “Serjah, Emissary Amil Havim has returned and demands to see you at once. I told him—”
Desfan rose along with the twelve council members as Ser Amil strode into the vaulted room. He was covered in dust and sweat and the hollowness in his cheeks bespoke missed meals. There were purple marks under his eyes, showing a lack of sleep, and the men trudging behind him looked just as haggard.
“Serjah, I must speak with you immediately.” Amil’s voice cracked through the hall.
Desfan tensed. “Amil. What are you doing here? You should be in Iden, with your father.”
Amil stopped at the base of the raised throne. He did not bow as he gazed up at Desfan, fury in his eyes. “My father will never leave Iden. He was murdered.”
Desfan stopped breathing. Shock rippled through the room, ripping gasps from some of the council.
“Explain,” Desfan demanded.
Amil sneered. “What is there to explain? My father was murdered before my eyes. Devendra is to blame. We must attack!”
Desfan grit his teeth. He eyed the flustered guard who had first burst into the room. “Seal the room. No one else comes in.”
Amil’s hands opened and closed at his sides, his rage palpable. “You doubt my word?”
“No. But I will not have rumors spread until I know everything.” Desfan crossed his arms over his chest, his dark brows pulling together. “Did King Newlan order your father’s death?”
Amil ground his teeth. “No. But he is not guiltless.”
“Tell me what happened and we will seek justice.”
Amil worked his jaw, his dark beard unrulier than Desfan had ever seen it. He had never considered Amil a friend, even when they were children, but he felt pity for him in this moment. He knew what it felt like to lose those you loved. He knew the denial. The hopelessness. The rage.
He also knew that blame was an easy thing to throw on others, even when there was no
one to really blame.
“My father was killed in an attack made at the farewell banquet held for Princess Serene three weeks ago,” Amil finally bit out. “He had no chance to defend himself. It was an ambush. A coward’s strike. The attack was organized by a Devendran soldier, a palace guardsman. He intended to kill the princess as well, but failed.”
“Fates,” one of the councilmen swore.
“I burned my father’s body and rode straight home so I could deliver the truth of Devendra’s weakness, cowardice, and pointlessness as an ally. There can surely be no peace now. There would be no point. They’re tearing their own kingdom apart and if we try to ally with them, we will be slaughtered—as my father was slaughtered. We need to retaliate.”
Murmuring broke out among the council.
Desfan lifted a hand, forcing the room back into quiet. He stepped down from the dais and set a hand on Amil’s shoulder, his grip tight. “I’m sorry for your loss,” he said, hating the words that had been spoken so uselessly to him once, but feeling the need to say them anyway. “Mortise mourns with you, and we will tell everyone of your father’s brave sacrifice. But I will not attack Devendra, nor will I put an end to the alliance.”
Amil’s gaze sharpened, his nostrils flaring. “They are a pack of ravenous wolves. There is no honor for their king. Even now, the rebellion against Newlan rages strong. Their kingdom will be fractured by another civil war, and you would have us be pulled into that? For what?”
“Peace. Stability. Financial gains. Stronger ties with Zennor. And as a guard against an attack by Ryden.” Desfan glanced at the council, knowing every eye was on him. “There are reasons for everything I’ve done. And though it’s not something I’ve spoken of, I know some of you are aware that these plans for a marriage with Princess Serene were laid down first by my father. Even if you do not respect my command as regent, you should respect his as your serjan.”
He focused back on Amil. “A room at the castle is yours. Eat, wash, and rest from your travels. I will visit you later and we can discuss the state of Devendra and all that happened.” He tightened his hold on Amil’s shoulder and lowered his voice. “I truly am sorry for the loss of your father. But if the alliance is made, then I promise his death will not have been in vain.”
Amil stared at him for several long heartbeats, and Desfan had no idea what he was thinking.
After the uncomfortable pause, Amil shrugged off Desfan’s hand and took a step back. His face betrayed nothing as he bowed stiffly. “As you decree, Serjah.” He turned on his heel and strode from the room, his men falling into step behind him.
Desfan glanced at the council. “We will dismiss until tomorrow.”
None of them spoke to him as they shuffled from their seats and moved for the door. But they whispered among themselves, and the back of Desfan’s neck prickled in response.
Karim came to stand beside him, his voice low. “Amil was not appeased.”
“No.” And Desfan wasn’t sure he could blame him. He scrubbed a hand over his brow. “Fates, why did I send them?”
“You thought they would be good emissaries,” Karim said.
It was true. Amil had never shown hostility towards Devendra, and even though it was known Bahri Havim didn’t want peace, he was loyal to Desfan’s father. Unflinchingly so. Desfan knew he would not go against a royal order, even if he hated it.
It hit him, then. Desfan had sent a man to his death. It hadn’t been by design, but the result was the same, and he felt the full weight of that. His shoulders dropped. “Sometimes I feel like I can’t win.”
“Sometimes you can’t,” Karim said. “What will you do to calm things with Devendra?”
He blew out his breath. “I’ll write some letters. I don’t know what Amil’s last words to Newlan or Serene were, but I need to assuage any fears. The smallest spark could turn into a flame that destroys us all.”
Karim grunted. “That spark could very well come from Prince Liam and Prince Grayson’s arrival.”
“I suppose we’ll find out soon enough.”
Unfortunately.
Chapter 25
Grayson
Seventeen days since Grayson had seen Mia.
It had taken fourteen days for him and Liam to reach the coastal city of Vyken, where they’d boarded a large boat in a vast shipyard. Grayson had stood on deck and watched as the coast disappeared.
That was three days ago. The captain of the ship estimated eleven more before they reached Duvan, if the weather cooperated.
Fates, he hoped it cooperated. The ship already pitched and rolled enough on calm waters. Grayson had never felt so sick in all his life. The first time Grayson had lunged for the side of the ship, Liam had chuckled. “You’ll get used to it.”
He’d spent the past three days swaying on his cot, his stomach rolling, or gripping the wooden rail on deck and heaving until his insides ached. The sailors had largely ignored him, though he heard snickering now and then—especially from the guards sent to protect the two princes.
At least he wasn’t retching right now. In fact, his legs didn’t tremble like they had the last few days, and even though his palms were sweating in his gloves, he didn’t feel terribly sick. Only a little dizzy, his stomach a bit uneasy, but the cool breeze and fresh air helped with that. Standing at the rail, Grayson supposed Liam had been right. Maybe his body was adjusting. But fates, he hated sailing.
If a ship wasn’t the fastest way back to Mia, he would never step on a deck again. He’d been utterly miserable, unable to even think, but since his stomach was calmer today, he pulled out the folded piece of parchment Mia had given him. He’d opened and refolded it so many times that the folds were deep creases. Holding it carefully in the teasing breeze, he viewed the drawing again.
On the page, two figures knelt across from each other on a sandy beach, looking down at the waves frothing up on shore. The picture only gave the profiles, with the sea in the distance. The view was trained at an angle, looking slightly down on the couple.
It was him and Mia. On the side of his face, there were light tracings of scars and his dark hair fell over his brow. Mia’s profile was softened by the curls tumbling over her shoulders and her gaze was fixed on him. He could see the love in her stare. The emotion she had captured in this sketch . . . it gripped Grayson’s heart, making it hard to breathe.
In the drawing, Grayson was not looking at her. Instead, he was looking down at their reflections in the rippling water of the sea, the corner of his mouth tugged up in a grin he rarely used in life.
But the reflections in the water . . . they were not an exact mirror.
It was Mia’s young face—exactly how she had looked the first time he saw her—that beamed up from the water, as if she could see the older version of Grayson looking down at her. Beside her, a young Grayson’s eyes were fixed on her. He was absolutely blinded to anything else, adoration carved across every line of his face.
At the bottom of the picture, Mia had written three words.
Forever with you.
The drawing captured so many facets of their relationship—the depths of it. Their friendship, love, and dedication to each other. Letting his eyes trace over the page . . . it was akin to feeling Mia’s arms wrapped around him. It was almost like she was holding his hand now, squeezing it.
She loved him. And he would do whatever was necessary to return to her, and give her the freedom she deserved. Even if that meant assassinating Princess Serene and starting a war.
And ensuring Liam never made it home.
“You’re looking better.”
Grayson glanced over his shoulder and saw Liam approaching. He quickly folded Mia’s drawing and tucked it into his pocket.
His older brother did not struggle with life at sea. His legs didn’t falter and he didn’t get sick. In fact, he seemed happier with every hour that took them further from Ryden. And while Grayson’s skin burned and peeled, Liam’s tanned face almost glowed.
&nbs
p; Liam reached the side of the ship and leaned back on the rail beside Grayson. “I’d say you might be back to your old self, but you’ve been quiet since leaving home.” He flashed a grin. “Well, when you aren’t retching.”
Grayson tightened his hold on the rail when the ship crested a wave and then dropped. His gut churned and he clenched his teeth. The only consolation was that when he gripped the rail now, his hand had healed enough that it didn’t flare with agony. The scars were already forming, slightly raised in the middle of his palm and on the back of his hand. There didn’t seem to be any permanent damage, thank the fates. Just two more scars on his body. A physical reminder of what he had already sacrificed for Mia.
A reminder that he needed to stay focused, and not become distracted by a brother who might have, under any other circumstances, become a friend, rather than someone he would have to kill.
“Sorry.” Liam folded his arms, still leaning easily against the rail. “You do seem to be doing better, though.”
“A little,” he admitted.
“Are you feeling well enough to resume our lessons? I still have much to teach you.”
Liam had been imparting all sorts of knowledge, helping Grayson hone skills that would be useful in Mortise—including the spy language. The covert sign language was a minimalistic way to communicate; a flick or tap of the finger, the occasional twist of a wrist. It could all be done with one hand, and the movements were small, concise, and a trick to do with gloves. But Grayson could see the appeal of having such a language, so he had dutifully practiced until the motions came more smoothly. He had a hard time catching the meaning when Liam moved quickly, though.
“I also thought we could go over some poisons that Mortisian assassins seem particularly fond of,” Liam added. “Just in case.”
Another roll of the ship had Grayson searching for the horizon. Fates, he hated the sea. “Maybe tomorrow.”
Liam chuckled. “Very well.” He glanced across the deck. “Looks like we’ll get some entertainment.”
Grayson followed Liam’s gaze to where a cluster of soldiers had gathered. The guards were drawing swords, preparing to mock fight. Sailors crept closer to watch, placing bets on the guards they thought would win.
Royal Spy (Fate of Eyrinthia Book 2) Page 23
