Royal Spy (Fate of Eyrinthia Book 2)

by Heather Frost

  “Have you any leads on the buyer or seller?” Liam asked.

  “None that I am at liberty to discuss at this time.” Desfan smiled a little, to soften his words. “But answers will be forthcoming.”

  Liam nodded, but Grayson was getting to know his brother enough to see his thoughts were racing. He was piecing together some puzzle only he could see—or filing away this information to use later.

  After a slight pause, Liam cleared his throat. “I heard that you and Newlan worked out a prisoner exchange.”

  “Yes, it will be taking place at the border.”

  “A merciful gesture on both sides.”

  “Thank you. We hope it sends a clear message of peace. Ser Ashear, a great man on our council, was sent to oversee things.”

  “Oh. I did not realize you could have an empty seat on the council.” His tone was the perfect balance of surprise and interest, but Grayson knew his brother understood everything about Mortisian politics. Why would he be pretending otherwise?

  “He appointed a second to sit in his stead,” Desfan explained. “We do this so a full council is always available to cast votes and serve the people of Mortise.”

  Liam nodded once. “Ah. Very wise. And who is his second?”

  This, Grayson assumed, was what his brother actually wanted to know.

  “Ser Sifa,” Desfan said, taking a quick sip of wine. “Actually, we have two seconds at the moment, as another councilman—Ser Zephan—needed to take some time to tend to his estate, so Ser Anoush was appointed to his seat.”

  “And are they here tonight?” Liam asked.

  “Yes, they—”

  “Serjah, may I have a word?”

  Grayson stiffened at the harsh tone and turned to see the young man who stood behind Desfan.

  He was wearing clothes as bright as all the rest, but his were slightly wrinkled, and his beard was not as well trimmed. He appeared to be in his early twenties, and frustration bracketed his mouth with tension.

  Desfan lowered his fork, his voice low. “Amil, this is not the place—”

  “You refused my audience this morning.”

  “I was otherwise engaged.” Desfan gestured to Liam and Grayson. “I was greeting our guests, the Kaelin princes.”

  The man—Amil—cut them a quick look, his eyes sharp with disgust. “So, you dine with the enemy while my father’s death goes unpunished?”

  Desfan stiffened, but before he could form a reply, his bodyguard—the tall, extremely silent one—gripped Amil’s arm. “Don’t cause a scene,” he said quietly. “The serjah will see you tomorrow morning, as scheduled. Join the feast, or retire to your room.”

  Amil’s nostrils flared and he jerked away from the bodyguard’s hold. He focused back on Desfan. “Until tomorrow, then.” He bowed stiffly and marched from the dining hall.

  Liam whistled lowly. “I knew some would be against our presence, but that seemed especially hostile.”

  “It’s not because of you,” Desfan said, his jaw tight. “I’m afraid Amil recently lost his father. They were serving as emissaries in Devendra, and his father was caught in an unfortunate attack targeting the royal family.”

  “How horrible.” Liam winced. “That must complicate things between your kingdoms.”

  “It is a tragedy, but I refuse to let it complicate the peace. The emissary was killed by a Devendran, but not on royal order.”

  “Some may see it differently.” Liam lifted his glass of wine and took a sip. “And how is your father’s health? We pray to the fates for his quick recovery . . .”

  The conversation continued, and Grayson tried not to show his unrest as the feast dragged on. Finally, after desserts so rich they made Grayson’s stomach turn with only one bite, he excused himself from the table. His temples pounded and the noise, colors, smells . . . they were all too much.

  He strode from the room, hurried down the hall, and when he reached the first Mortisian guard he asked for the quickest route out of the castle. The somewhat wary man spoke quickly, stumbling a little over his words, and Grayson struggled to understand. But he gathered enough information and hurried down the hall. Towering columns, ornate art pieces, and stone carvings—everywhere he looked, he was overwhelmed by the foreignness of it all.

  Pulse racing, lungs aching for freedom, he finally reached an outer door and clipped his way past the guard. He burst out into the Mortisian night, the air still warm, but at least it was fresh. The smell of the sea was thick in the air, and waves crashed against the cliffs the castle was built on. A path trailed away from the castle, and Grayson followed it, winding his way down the cliffs to a stretch of beach that was clearly private to the castle.

  He was on the south side of the castle, further from the docks and the busy city center. And for the first time in weeks, no one was around him.

  Grayson walked over the sand, moving toward the water, grunting a little as the grains shifted underfoot. So far, he was not impressed with Mia’s sand. But even though he didn’t like it, walking through it made him think of her.

  When he neared the water’s edge he kicked off his boots and reluctantly stepped onto the sand with his bare feet, as Mia had asked him to do.

  As expected, he did not find the sand comfortable. It was a contradiction—soft, but grainy. It got between his toes, and when he stepped closer to the water he touched wet sand, which clung to him in filthy clumps.

  He realized he was smiling a little. Disgusting or not—ridiculous, certainly—this was something Mia had done before. Why else would she have asked him to do such a thing? And even though they were so incredibly far away from each other, doing this brought him closer to her.

  He stood inside the water’s lapping edge and let the frothy waves roll over his feet, rising above his ankles. He looked out across the water, then tilted his head up so he could gaze at the stars. There were so many. An endless stretch. The rushing sound of the waves—rising and falling, coming then going—was oddly soothing, and the tension eased from his shoulders.

  Perhaps he didn’t hate everything to do with water.

  He rolled the black legs of his pants higher and took another step forward, deeper into the sea.

  He whispered her name—barely breathed it. “Mia.”

  The distance separating them had never been so vast. He missed her so much the sharp longing filled every part of him, lodged in his gut.

  He stood there for a long time, the glow of torches so distant in the towering palace that they seemed barely there. It was the silver moonlight that illuminated the sea, the beach. And it was moonlight that revealed Serjah Desfan, as he slowly approached.

  Grayson stiffened, turning slightly to keep Desfan and his bodyguard in his sights.

  The crown prince of Mortise looked tired, but he smiled at Grayson. “Sorry to disturb you, I didn’t know you were here. I usually have the beach to myself at night.”

  “Sorry. I’ll go.”

  Desfan waved a hand. “No, please stay.”

  Grayson remained where he was, the water splitting around his calves as the newest wave rolled in.

  Desfan tugged off his own boots and came to stand in the waves, a few paces from Grayson. “You left so quickly, you missed the drunken singing.”

  Grayson couldn’t stop his cringe.

  Desfan laughed softly. “Your brother told me Ryden’s court is very different. Let me know if there is anything I can do to help ease you into Mortisian customs.”

  “Thank you.” It was all he could think to say.

  The serjah nodded, his hands braced on his hips as he looked out at the sea. “Karim, when was the last time you stood in the ocean?”

  “I’m fine here,” the bodyguard said, his tone edged.

  It was clear he would not relax around Grayson.

  Desfan squinted at the moon hanging above them. “Sometimes I forget the simple pleasures.”

  With a ridiculously lavish court, Grayson could see how simple things would be forgotten.<
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  Desfan eyed him. “You don’t talk much, Prince Grayson.”

  “No.”

  “Would you prefer me to speak the trade language? Or Rydenic?”

  “No.” Liam insisted that Grayson speak Mortisian as often as possible, so he could learn it more quickly.

  There was a short silence, and it was entirely uncomfortable. But then, Desfan did not seem particularly bothered. Perhaps Grayson was the only one feeling the uneasy prickle?

  “I have little experience with court life,” he said at last. As if that would explain his inability to have a conversation with this foreign prince.

  The corner of Desfan’s mouth lifted. “Neither do I. I was never very involved, until several months ago.”

  He referred to his father’s illness, clearly. “I’m sorry about your father.” It was the right thing to say, but Grayson didn’t know how to convey sympathy. Mostly because he wished a similar ailment would seize his father.

  “Thank you,” Desfan said, his voice quiet. “You are lucky, Grayson, to have your family around you.”

  It wasn’t luck, it was a curse. But he knew what Desfan meant—what he mourned.

  Liam had reminded him that Desfan had lost his mother and sisters when he was just a child. To have his father ill now . . . He supposed that was difficult, if one had a loving family.

  The Mortisian prince eyed him. “May I ask a question?”

  “Yes.”

  “Does your family truly seek peace?”

  He glanced away, unsure of how to answer. Perhaps it was the moment, but he felt compelled to say, “Not all of them.”

  Desfan exhaled slowly. “What about you? Do you want peace?”

  His fingers twitched at his sides, aching still to hold Mia. “Yes,” he said quietly. “All I’ve ever wanted was peace.”

  There was a moment of silence, then Desfan said over the crashing of the waves, “Thank you for your honesty.”

  They did not speak again. Desfan didn’t mention the incident with the little girl, and Grayson didn’t say anything about his father’s plan to throw Eyrinthia into chaos.

  They just stood together on the beach, under the silver eyes of a thousand stars.

  Chapter 32

  Clare

  Clare expelled a heavy breath and lowered herself onto a wooden chair. It creaked under her weight, but it was the pinch of pain in her side that made her wince. She gingerly fingered the area, feeling the slight bump of the scar through her simple maid’s dress. It was a relief to be wearing it. After pretending to be Serene for weeks, she had been overjoyed to hand the mantle back to the princess. The dedication of the king’s new road was one of the few stops Newlan had insisted Serene handle personally on this tour. The threat to her had been deemed minimal due to several factors, including the nearness of the inn and the brevity of the actual event. Newlan had wanted a royal presence, and he was certainly getting that, with Imara and Grandeur in attendance as well.

  The prince had been with them for a week now, and truthfully, a break from him was making this private moment in the room she would share with Ivonne and Vera all the more of a relief. She had yet to feel at ease around him. His paranoia had grown sharply since she’d left Iden, and she knew she needed to find a moment to talk to Serene about her concerns. It seemed safest to wait until after the road dedication, which would be underway in an hour or so. After the royal appearances were done, Grandeur had made it clear he planned to set out for Lythe. He wasn’t even planning to spend the night, and he had barely spoken to Serene before excusing himself to a private room at the inn.

  The reunion between Imara and Serene, however, had been very warm. They’d embraced in Serene’s private room, squeezing tightly until Serene had finally reared back so she could eye her cousin seriously. “You really shouldn’t have come. It’s far too dangerous.”

  Imara had shrugged. “I couldn’t let you go to Duvan alone. How would you get into decent trouble without me?”

  Serene had cracked a smile, though there was a slight sheen over her blue eyes. “Thank you.” She had then turned to Clare, and in typical Serene fashion, had begun demanding what Clare needed. A physician, a chair, a bed, food, medicine. When Clare had declined all of that, the princess had stepped forward and gripped Clare’s hand, leveling her with a firm gaze. “I’m sorry about what you’ve been through. I don’t know what to say. How to apologize, or thank you.”

  The words were unexpected, but warming. She cracked a thin smile. “Thank you.”

  Bridget had entered the room then, declaring they had no time to waste.

  Clare’s skin had been scrubbed clean of all makeup, her expensive gown traded for a maid’s gray and white dress, and she had left Serene standing in the center of the room in all her royal finery. Clare had slipped out while the maids worked in a flurry to get Serene prepared for the dedication ceremony, and she’d retreated to this empty room.

  It was a nice, quiet place to read her letters from home, which had arrived just this morning. She settled back in the creaky chair and rifled through the letters, an ache in her chest easing as she saw Mark’s familiar handwriting, read Thomas’s words. Hearing from her younger brothers, knowing they were well—it helped with her homesickness. Mistress Keller confirmed that additional guards from the castle had been provided, which Clare knew Commander Markam had arranged after the rebel attack in Lindon. Clare had yet to tell her brothers what Eliot had done. She wasn’t sure if she would ever find the words. She had penned a letter to Mistress Keller while recovering with the Paltrows, but she hadn’t given any details. She’d merely asked that Eliot—if he returned home—not be allowed to be alone with the boys, and that if he attempted to take them, he must be stopped. She didn’t think he would hurt them, but after his betrayal, she was feeling extremely protective of Thomas and Mark, and these extra precautions felt entirely warranted.

  She had just finished reading the letters when there was a knock on the door. “Come in.”

  The door pushed open and Bennick stepped into the room. He spied the letters and smiled a little. “Are Thomas and Mark well?”

  “Yes.” She folded the letters away, swallowing back a wave of melancholy. When she focused back on him, she noted the tension in his shoulders. “Are you all right?”

  “Yes, I just wanted to check in with you before we leave. Wilf and a handful of guards will remain here. You’ll be safe.”

  “I’m not worried about me.” She pushed up from the chair, ignoring the tug of discomfort in her side as she stepped closer to him. “How was your meeting with the captain of the city guard?”

  “Good.” His eyes tracked her every movement, watching for any sign of strain. “They’ll be in place around the square during the dedication. He said the crowd is already large, but he doesn’t seem worried.”

  “Are you?”

  “Just cautious. As always.” His brow furrowed. “Cardon just told me that Newlan sent a letter to Serene, informing her that Desfan invited two Rydenic princes to Duvan.”

  Her eyes widened. “What?”

  He nodded grimly. “Exactly. It’s not something I expected, and I don’t really like the idea.”

  “Why did Desfan invite them?”

  “Apparently, they’re ambassadors for potential peace. King Henri hasn’t confirmed that Ryden will enter peace talks, but he said he thinks the marriage alliance between Devendra and Mortise could be the first step to a promising future for all Eyrinthia.”

  “Why don’t I believe him?”

  Bennick snorted. “Probably because he’s a snake.”

  She bit her lower lip, her thoughts racing. “And if the alliance with Mortise goes through, then Ryden is the only kingdom not linked through marriage. Their trade negotiations with Mortise and Zennor are tentative at best, which really makes Ryden the outcast. I doubt King Henri likes that idea.”

  “Agreed. I think it’s far more likely that King Henri wants to stop the peace between Mortise and Devendra,
if only to keep us from uniting against Ryden.”

  A frown tugged at her lips. “Do you know which princes he sent?”

  “Liam and Grayson.”

  Her breath quickened, dread trickling inside her. “Prince Grayson is the Black Hand.”

  “Yes. And if rumors are to be believed, Liam is a spymaster. They make a dangerous pair. And they’ll be arriving in Duvan soon, if they haven’t already, so they’ll be quite settled by the time we arrive.”

  “Which changes the dynamic of the betrothal.”

  “It isn’t ideal.” Bennick scrubbed a hand over his bristled chin. “It’s entirely possible King Henri wants to forge an alliance with Mortise. Which means the Rydenic princes could be trying to sabotage the marriage alliance with Devendra so they can steal Mortise as an ally. Their first step may be to shift Desfan’s attention from Serene, create their own alliance, and then both kingdoms might turn against us.”

  Clare frowned. “Fates, with Imara there, we’ll have royals from all the kingdoms in one place at one time. When was the last time that happened?”

  “I don’t know. The Garvins Treaty, probably.”

  Which was two hundred years ago.

  That certainly put the magnitude of this into perspective.

  “I imagine the dinner conversations will be interesting,” Clare muttered.

  “I’m sure you’re right.” Bennick chuckled, though his jaw remained hard.

  She stepped closer, and Bennick watched her approach with a question in his eyes. When she reached him, she set a hand on his tense arm, feeling his muscles bunch. “Are you all right? You haven’t seemed like yourself since you saw your father.”

  The commander hadn’t stayed long in Lindon. He had insisted on keeping the prisoners moving at a slow but steady pace toward Stills, where the exchange would happen in eight days. Clare had noticed a shift in Bennick’s mood since he’d had a private conversation with his father, but she hadn’t had an opportunity to ask him about it until now.