Royal Spy (Fate of Eyrinthia Book 2)

by Heather Frost

  “Indeed,” the commander agreed, eyeing her. He shifted his attention back to his son. “I knew you would be here, which is why I wanted to let you know we’d arrived. We’ll keep to the barn.”

  There was a beat of silence, so Clare rushed to fill it. “I’ll inform Lord Francin. We can bring food, blankets, clothing, medicine—whatever the Mortisians or your soldiers need.”

  The commander tipped his head. “Thank you. The aid is much appreciated.”

  Clare nodded and led the way back into the hall.

  Lord Francin and Imara were both curious about the commander’s presence, and Clare hurried to explain what had happened. Lord Francin immediately sent servants to find anything the prisoners needed.

  In the dining hall, since dinner had yet to be served, the nobles were sipping wine from tall glasses and milling amongst each other. It became obvious in seconds that word had already spread, and the conversation buzzed with speculation about the prisoners in the stable.

  “I can’t believe those criminals are out there right now . . .”

  “We’re not safe with them so close! They’d murder us in our sleep if they got the chance.”

  “Their sickness is probably a fates-blasted curse for their crimes.”

  “Filthy Mortisians; they’ll spread their plague to all of us!”

  The ignorant, insensitive comments grated on Clare, and she was all too grateful when Lord Francin declared dinner ready and everyone took their seats at the long tables.

  Despite Clare’s irritation with the Devendran nobles, and her worry for the ill Mortisians, the meal was delicious. A creamy vegetable soup. Roasted vegetables and liberally seasoned chicken served with a rich brown gravy. Plump rolls that steamed when pulled apart, and a variety of jams, butter, and honey. The long table stretched to somehow hold them all, and servants dashed expertly between courses. Lord Francin assured her there was plenty, and even now, the Mortisians were being served the same fare.

  The conversation was punctuated by bursts of laughter, the mood in the room growing more jovial as the wine poured freely and the prisoners were largely forgotten.

  The meal was well underway when Clare caught sight of a servant hurrying to Bennick’s side. They exchanged a brief word, and Bennick’s tension was palpable as he motioned for Wilf to stay even as he strode from the room, the servant at his heels.

  Clare’s heart thudded as she saw the darkening of Wilf’s face. The chatter and laughter of the nobles was suddenly too loud, and the need to escape the room—and follow Bennick—took over. She leaned in to Lord Francin and Imara, who sat beside her. “I must leave for a moment. Excuse me.”

  The princess frowned. “Is everything all right?”

  “I don’t know. Just stay here and keep up appearances.”

  Imara nodded, though her eyes tracked Clare as she slid from the table and moved for the door. The noise from the nobles didn’t stall or drop—they hardly seemed aware of her leaving.

  Wilf fell into step beside her, his voice low. “Are you all right?”

  “I just needed to get away for a moment.” She eyed him. “What’s happened?”

  “I don’t know,” he said grimly. “Bennick just said to stay with you.”

  As they entered the shadowed entryway, a flash of lightning tore through the upper windows, illuminating the tense knot of people standing in the corridor.

  Once again, the commander was drenched with rain. Water pooled around his boots and he was focused solely on Bennick, whose stiff back was to Clare.

  A few of the commander’s soldiers were also dripping wet, silently watching the tense exchange between father and son.

  “No,” Bennick was saying, his voice tight. “I can’t do that.”

  The commander’s eyes narrowed. “I’m ordering you to assist me.”

  “And I refuse. I can send one of my men to the city guard station for reinforcements, but—”

  “Fates, Ben, I need you! You and Grannard are the best trackers we have.”

  “What’s happened?” Clare asked.

  The commander’s head cranked toward her and Bennick spun, his brow furrowing. “Go back to the feast.”

  Her arms crossed her chest, saying firmly in place. “What happened?” she repeated.

  The commander’s jaw worked. “Most of the prisoners have escaped.”

  Clare’s stomach dropped. “What? How?”

  “It must have happened after the servants brought food. When I returned to check on them, my men were dead, and any of the prisoners who could walk were gone.” The commander sliced a look at his son. “I require the captain’s help getting them back.”

  “I’m not leaving the princess,” Bennick said.

  “Without those prisoners, the alliance is threatened. At the moment, I’ve only managed to recover six of them. I need your help.”

  Clare could feel Bennick’s tension as he breathed low and deep.

  She exhaled slowly. “He’s right, Bennick. We can’t lose them.”

  Bennick ground his jaw, his eyes trained on his father.

  The commander shoved a hand through his gray-tinged hair. “I wouldn’t ask, but you and Grannard are some of the best trackers we have. The princess is secure, and I’ll leave some of my men as an extra precaution, but those prisoners must be found.”

  Bennick stood there for a long moment, the roar of the buffeting winds and hammering rain the only sound. Then he turned away from his father. “I’ll get Venn.” He pointed a finger at Wilf. “You don’t leave her. I don’t think the prisoners will come here, but be on alert.”

  Wilf dipped his chin.

  Bennick strode for the stairs, grinding his teeth as he left to find Venn.

  The commander ordered away a few more of his men before he turned back to Clare. “You may rejoin the guests. It would be best not to let them think anything is amiss.”

  Clare eyed him, certain the man had other things he wished to say. He was clearly upset that Bennick had listened to her, and not him. She did not like the commander—at all—but she wished he could be a better person for Bennick’s sake.

  The commander’s eyes narrowed. “Why are you shaking your head?”

  She hadn’t realized she was, but now that she had his attention, she found she had plenty to say. “If you wish to earn his respect, you need to treat him like the man he is. Not a child you can attempt to control.”

  The corner of his mouth curled with a sneer. “What do you know about him?”

  “More than you, clearly.”

  Wilf’s grunt sounded a little like a swallowed laugh.

  The commander’s expression tightened, but before he could speak, Bennick came down the stairs with Venn just behind him.

  He glanced at Clare. “We won’t be gone long.”

  She forced a smile. “We’ll be fine here. Be careful.”

  “Always.” Bennick turned to his father, his expression hardening. “Ready?”

  The commander stalked for the door without a word, leaving Bennick and Venn to trail after him.

  Chapter 38

  Clare

  Returning to the dining room and acting like there weren’t Mortisian prisoners missing was not easy, and Clare was relieved when Lord Francin declared the festivities over. Servants arrived to show the guests to their rooms, and the few brave enough to venture out in the storm were escorted out by Lord Francin.

  Clare and Imara walked together up the stairs, and Clare was grateful that Lord Francin had put them in a quiet wing, away from everyone else.

  Imara was shaking her head. “I can’t believe they ran. Didn’t they realize how close to freedom they were?”

  “I don’t know.” Clare bit her lip at the deep roll of thunder outside, the lashing waves of rain.

  “They’ve been caged too long,” Wilf said from behind them. “They saw a chance for freedom, and they took it. They aren’t thinking logically.”

  Imara’s shoulders dropped. “I feel so terrible fo
r them. I hope they don’t come to harm. How did they even manage to escape?”

  “Desperate men always find a way,” Wilf said.

  Clare bit her lip. “If we can’t recover them all, do you think the Mortisians at the border will believe us that they escaped?”

  “I don’t know.” Imara frowned. “Regardless, it will make the situation more tense.”

  Unfortunately, Clare knew she was right.

  They arrived at their suites. Imara disappeared into hers across the hall, and Clare left Wilf at the door with the other guard with instructions to tell her the moment any word reached them.

  Inside the room, she found Vera repacking one of the trunks, and she told her about the prisoners escaping while Vera helped pluck the pins from her hair. As the tension released across her skull, leaving waves of hair to fall around her shoulders, Clare’s nervous energy increased. She knew sleep would evade her until she learned the fate of the search, and she couldn’t sit still. She turned to Vera before the girl could move to unfasten her dress. “I’m not ready to sleep. Can I help you with the repacking?”

  Vera shrugged. “Of course.”

  Lightning slashed the sky outside, ripping a flash of light across the room. Rain drummed against the window, dampening all other sound. Clare hated to think that the Mortisians were out in this, running scared. She didn’t like to think of Bennick and Venn out there, either.

  She tried to focus on sorting and folding clothing with Vera beside her. The work was minimal, but proved an effective distraction. Between the muffling torrent of the storm and her focus on the task, she did not realize that Wilf must have been tapping at the door until he prodded it open. From her position at the foot of the bed, she caught the motion from the corner of her vision and turned.

  Shock stiffened her muscles when she saw it wasn’t Wilf at all.

  She straightened, confusion rushing through her. “Lord Finch? What are you doing here?”

  The nobleman shoved a hand through his brown hair, pushing it back off his brow as he smiled at her.

  Though his smile was familiar, the chilling edge was new.

  Her heart thudded hard in her chest, and it was suddenly hard to breathe.

  He dipped his pointed chin in a slight bow, his brown eyes almost glowing in the lamp light. “Clare.”

  Everything about this moment was wrong. His presence. His smile. His mocking gaze.

  The fact that he knew her name.

  The blood drained from her face and she took a step back, bumping into Vera who stood frozen behind her.

  Lord Finch took a step forward, then paused. “Oh. I nearly forgot.”

  He twisted away, reaching into his pocket as he looked down.

  Clare smothered a gasp with her hand.

  Wilf lay unmoving in the corridor, and Clare could see the boots of another guard as well.

  Lord Finch bent over the fallen giant and slipped a rose petal into Wilf’s mouth. When he faced Clare again, the Rose’s smile curved wide. “I’ve been looking forward to this moment.”

  Vera clutched Clare’s arm, her nails digging through the sleeve. “It’s him,” she gasped.

  Clare slid protectively in front of Vera, her stomach writhing with fear. “You—you’re not Lord Finch.”

  It was a stupid thing to say, but her thoughts were sluggish.

  “Oh, but I am. I created this persona long ago. With enough gold and tutoring, you can be anyone. Surely you of all people understand that, Clare.”

  Vera’s cry strangled in her throat as the Rose kicked the door closed and strode forward, obviously relishing each step. Clare swore his falcon eyes caught every tremble that shook her body.

  He flashed a smile. “I need various identities. They help me get where I need to be. Creating Lord Finch was easy. I bought a derelict estate near Lindon years ago and pretended that I’d simply been living elsewhere for years. No one questioned me. And when I’m not living as Finch, they think I’m staying at another of my many homes. It’s quite perfect. Just like your performance.” His head tilted to the side as he studied her. “At the Paltrow’s ball, I was convinced I was dancing with the princess. I wanted to meet her, and I really thought I had, up until that moment in the garden when your name was called out.” He smiled. “Clare. A beautiful name, for all its simplicity. Clare.” He shivered a little, his grin stretching wider. “I can’t wait for Bennick to scream it. You, of course, won’t hear that, but I plan to hide close enough so I won’t miss it.”

  Clare itched to grab the knife strapped to her leg, but she forced herself to slowly back up instead. She had to get Vera out of here. “Please. Let her go.”

  One eyebrow lifted. “Not begging for yourself, Clare?”

  Her teeth clenched. That familiar, charming voice was like a hundred spiders crawling over her skin. “You have no reason to hurt her.”

  “Untrue, unfortunately. She’s seen me. I have no choice but to kill her.”

  There would be no reasoning with him. She should have known it the moment she looked into those cold eyes.

  Clare made a dive for her knife, but before she’d even hiked up her skirt, the Rose moved in a blur and grabbed her wrists.

  She spread her feet and twisted against his grip as Bennick had taught her, managing to jerk him forward. She slammed her foot against his knee, and he grunted as he staggered, his head ducking. She managed to rip her hands free, and she clawed at the silver bracelet on her wrist, her nail catching on the small latch. As she jerked the garrote wire free, she dodged around the Rose, wrapping the wire around his neck.

  “Run!” she screamed at Vera.

  She pulled the wire tight, but even though she had moved quickly, the Rose had thrown up a hand, catching the wire with his fingers, trapping his hand at his throat and giving him space to breathe.

  His elbow drove into her side, hitting the place she had been stabbed.

  She gasped in pain and her hold on him loosened.

  It was all he needed to shove into her, then drag her over his shoulder.

  She was flipped over him and landed hard on her back, the air knocked from her lungs, the garrote wire trailing uselessly on the floor beside her.

  “Clare!” Vera cried out.

  The Rose stood over Clare, his face red, his eyes excited. He lifted his foot, and then his boot slammed into her unprotected gut.

  The impact was brutal. She choked, her eyes stinging as she tried and failed to suck in air, and she watched with blurry vision as the Rose grasped Vera’s swinging arm—which held a knife—and threw her as if she weighed nothing. Vera’s head cracked against the wall and her body slumped to the floor. She didn’t get up.

  The scuff of boots came toward Clare and the Rose snagged her wrists, binding them together with the garrote wire, which bit painfully into her flesh. She struggled, but was still dazed from the pain. The Rose’s every move seemed terribly practiced and smooth as he finished tying her wrists, and then he drew out a leather cord from his pocket and reached for her ankles.

  Clare kicked out at him, her foot catching his jaw. He grunted, falling back.

  She turned and wriggled against the floor, trying to scramble away.

  The Rose reached her, one knee digging into her back. She managed a breathless scream before his fingers dug into loose hair, curled into a fist, and he slammed her forehead against the floor.

  Clare did not black out, but her vision blurred and her hearing grew distorted with a high-pitched ringing. She was only half-aware of him dragging her closer, tying her ankles together. Then he hefted her into his arms only to carry her to the bed, where he dropped her.

  He scrubbed a hand over his jaw, where she had struck him. “Bennick taught you well. I’ll be sure to mention in my note to him that you fought hard. I’m sure he’ll appreciate knowing that.”

  Tears stabbed her eyes. Her ears still rang from the blow to her head, and bile climbed her throat.

  The Rose lifted the edge of her skirt and she s
quirmed when his fingers brushed against her bare leg. He tugged her knife free of the sheath and balanced it on his palm. “I think I’ll use this one to kill you. There’s a poetic beauty in that.”

  Clare glanced past him, to where Vera lay sprawled on the floor. Her breath hitched at the sight of her friend’s still body. She couldn’t tell if she was breathing.

  “I’m glad Bennick went to help find the missing prisoners,” the Rose said conversationally. “So much better than if I’d had to overpower him. I couldn’t have killed him—I need him to find your body. I want him to hate me for what I did to you.” He grinned. “That night at the Paltrows, when we were dancing, I saw his feelings for you. I just thought he loved Serene, but later, in the garden, I saw him hold your bleeding body, and I knew it was you he cared about. And that’s when I knew exactly how I wanted to destroy him.”

  “Why do you want to torture him?” Clare asked, her voice shaky.

  “Because I hate him.” It was a simple, terrible answer. He leaned over her, setting the edge of the blade against her throat with enough pressure that she didn’t dare swallow. “Hold still,” he whispered. With his other hand, he began running his fingers through her hair, carefully teasing it out across the pillow.

  Clare shivered and closed her eyes, hating the ghosting feel of his fingers stroking through her hair, brushing her scalp. A tangle snagged his fingers and she winced. He worked through the spot with terrible gentleness, and a tear slid from Clare’s eye.

  In this moment, all she saw was the image of Ivonne stretched out on the bed, hair carefully spread, rose in her mouth, and a dagger in her heart.

  That was how Bennick would find her, unless she could fight her way free.

  His thumb brushed the high curve of her cheek and Clare barely resisted the urge to jerk away. The sharp press of the blade at her throat was all that kept her from lashing out.

  He smiled as he returned to combing through her hair with his fingers. “A decoy. A genius idea. The rebels were as surprised as I was, weren’t they? Especially the one who knew you. Was he your brother, or a former lover?”