Royal Spy (Fate of Eyrinthia Book 2)

by Heather Frost

  He lowered himself into the chair across from her, eyeing the partially completed sketch. “It looks good.”

  “Thank you.” She fingered the pencil in her hand, the uneasiness that she’d been feeling ever since his late night visit growing and twisting in her belly.

  “I have a surprise for you,” he said.

  “Oh?”

  He plucked up the pinecone, spinning it slowly between his fingers. “I’ve made arrangements for you to spend the afternoon outside.”

  She froze, her breath caught in her lungs. “What?”

  He glanced up. “I thought I’d take you outside today.”

  She slowly shook her head. “But—you can’t. I can’t leave.”

  The corner of his mouth quirked. “You remember I’m a prince, right? I can make things happen.”

  No. Impossible. The king would never allow it, or Grayson would have taken her before.

  Tyrell seemed to read her thoughts. “If Grayson had ever tried to exceed Father’s expectations, he would have been able to ask the same favor and have it granted. It’s not my fault he never tried.”

  Mia barely heard him over the pounding of her heart.

  Outside.

  For the first time ever, she could walk out that door. For the first time in nine—almost ten—years, she could see the sun.

  She squeezed her pencil so hard, it was a miracle it didn’t snap. “No,” she breathed.

  The word was quiet, but it silenced them both for a long moment.

  Tyrell still held the pinecone, though it was motionless now. “What do you mean, no?” he finally asked.

  She straightened her spine, her heart thudding loudly as she met his stare. “I meant exactly what I said. No.”

  His eyes narrowed. “Don’t you want to leave your cell?”

  “No.”

  He set the pinecone down, his eyebrows drawing together. “I can take you to the garden. Father said we can stay there all day. I’ve arranged a picnic, and I bought—”

  “I’m not going anywhere with you.”

  Tyrell pulled back, his shoulders stiffening along with his jaw. “If this is about what happened the other night . . . I wasn’t myself. If I said anything to offend you, I’m sorry.”

  Mia stood, too agitated to remain sitting. Her quick movement pushed back the chair, made it scrape loudly over the stone.

  Tyrell rose to his feet as well, though far more smoothly than she had. His frown deepened. “What’s wrong?”

  “I don’t want to go outside.”

  “All right, fine, we won’t go.” He shoved a hand through his dark hair. “Fates, I’m only trying to give you something.”

  “I don’t want anything from you.”

  His tone was forcefully level. “I’m sorry. I thought you would want to go outside.”

  “Well, I don’t!” She threw the pencil onto the table. It bounced and rolled to the floor.

  Neither of them moved to pick it up.

  “I can’t stop you from invading my room,” Mia said firmly, “but I’m not going anywhere with you.” She barely knew her own thoughts, they were flying so quickly, one panicked fear after another.

  What if she went outside and panicked? What if this was a trick? What if Henri had planned some new horror for her? What if Tyrell was trying to hurt her? What if one taste of freedom wasn’t enough? What if glimpsing what she couldn’t have—what she hadn’t had for so many years—drove her mad? What if she left this cell and couldn’t get back, and Grayson couldn’t find her?

  What if that look in Tyrell’s eye was actually what she feared it was?

  She wanted Grayson. She wanted him to be with her if she ever left this cell. She wanted her first breath of fresh air to be with him. She wanted his hand wrapped around hers as she was blinded by the sun again.

  She didn’t want Tyrell.

  Her breathing had turned ragged. Tyrell cursed and took a step forward. “Are you—?”

  She threw out a hand. “Stay back!”

  He stopped, his eyes flashing with something like hurt. “Fates, I’m not going to hurt you. What’s wrong?”

  “I love Grayson,” she snapped.

  Tyrell reared back, his shoulders tensing. “I know that.”

  Her hands fisted at her sides. “No, I don’t think you do. I don’t love you, Tyrell. At all. I never will.”

  He stared at her, his chest rising and falling with deep breaths. He shook his head, snorting once. “You’re so arrogant. You think everyone might lose their minds over you, just because Grayson fell at your feet. Well, I can assure you, that will never happen for me.” He stalked to the door, jerked it open, and didn’t look back as he slammed it.

  Her throat was strangled with unshed tears and she moved stiffly to pick up the pencil she’d thrown.

  The tip was broken, and for some stupid reason, that was what caused her first sob to escape.

  She cried for a long time. The ache of missing Grayson had never been stronger, and it was as if every bad decision she had ever made, every horrible thing she had ever done, was trying to strangle her.

  Eventually, her tears dried. She set about tidying her room, for a lack of anything better to do. That was when Fletcher eased the door open.

  He carried in a small crate of bottled paints—far more colors than she had ever had—and then he brought in five new canvases of varying sizes.

  “Prince Tyrell just brought them,” Fletcher said. “There’s a note with the paints and brushes.”

  Mia was grateful that the guard didn’t ask questions about her red-rimmed eyes. He simply deposited the gifts and left.

  Mia knelt in front of the crate of paints, saw the cluster of new brushes and the folded piece of paper peeking out between the rows of bottles.

  She lifted the note and opened it, her stomach clenching as she read the words.

  I know you don’t want anything from me,

  but please don’t paint over your beach.

  Mia painted for hours.

  She felt terrible for snapping at Tyrell. She had never thought of herself as cruel, but she had been horrible to him. Regret was a bitter taste in her mouth. She never should have lashed out at him like that. She’d been shocked by the chance to go outside. She’d been afraid. Angry, even.

  But she should have never said those things.

  Tyrell, like Grayson, had endured punishments for showing anything like kindness. It had always made her so sick and angry that Henri could do that to his children. But what had she done?

  Tyrell had bought her paints, brushes, and canvases. She knew he had set them up in the garden for her, tried to give her something. He had dared to be kind, after kindness had all but been beaten out of him.

  And she had attacked him.

  She had not forgotten how Tyrell had treated her, or the things he had done to Grayson. But whether she had wanted to or not, she’d glimpsed Tyrell’s humanity, and she couldn’t see him as wholly monstrous. Not anymore.

  When her back and arms ached, Mia finally stopped painting. She ate her dinner, which had grown cold, and then she sat on her bed and pulled out her sketchbook.

  The open pages were soon filled with two drawings, one on each page. One of Grayson’s face, one of Tyrell’s. Both had a vertical line drawn down the center of the page, bisecting their faces. The line drawn down the middle made the divide clear: one face, two different fates.

  Grayson’s left side bore no scars and he was smiling, his expression open and at ease. The right side was scarred and cautious.

  She had done the same to Tyrell on the opposite page. One half of his face was the sadistic, cruel Tyrell who had beaten her. The other half belonged to a young man with a slow grin and a kind gleam in his eye.

  She had always hated Grayson’s parents. They had destroyed so many lives and brought so much pain to so many people. But their greatest sin was perhaps how they had twisted and tortured their children. None of them had been given love. They had been r
aised on pain, fear, and hatred. Was it any wonder they were the way they were? It was a miracle Grayson had held onto his goodness.

  Mia studied Grayson’s face, her grip on her pencil too tight. Her gut twisted, and she blinked against the tears building in her eyes.

  She wanted Grayson here with her. She needed him.

  She also wanted Tyrell to come back so she could apologize. She had treated him badly, and she didn’t want to be the kind of person who lashed out at those around her, just because she was scared.

  She wasn’t sure he would return, though. Not after the way she had hurt him.

  The cell door banged open without warning and Mia jumped, clutching her pencil and sketchbook. She’d been so lost in her thoughts, she lost track of the hour.

  Papa staggered in. He wasn’t walking straight and the soft glow of the lamp revealed the ruddiness of his bearded face. He’d clearly been drinking.

  Mia tensed. Even though Papa hadn’t taken a hand to her in years, every instinct still screamed that he would hurt her whenever he entered the room. She had learned to remain quiet and still, and she prayed to the fates he would cross quickly to his room.

  He slammed the door and ambled for the back bedroom door, not even glancing at her. Some of the tension bled from her shoulders.

  But then he veered sharply to the left and stumbled toward the crate of paints she had left on the floor.

  “Look out!”

  The warning came too late. Papa tripped on the crate and crashed to the floor. He roared, fists slamming against the stone. “Fates-blasted fool!” he snarled. “What have you done?”

  Mia shrank back on instinct, every hair on her body rising.

  Papa snagged the crate, the bottles of paint rattling. “What is all this?” he demanded.

  “Nothing. Just paint.”

  Papa looked around, saw the paintings propped up against the bookcase to dry. He snatched one, muttering a curse as he threw it at her.

  His aim was off, but she still ducked as it rushed past her to smack into the wall. Her heart pounded riotously against her ribs.

  It had been years since she’d seen him so upset.

  She shoved the sketchbook aside, but still gripped the pencil. For some reason, it felt like a weapon, and that was comforting when Papa turned his furious eyes on her.

  “You,” he whispered, and that lowering of his voice sent a horrible chill racing down Mia’s spine. “You’re the one that’s been taking my coins. Spending all my savings on useless things like paint.”

  “No. I haven’t touched your—”

  He hurled a bottle of paint at her and Mia cried out as she dived to the side to avoid it. Glass shattered on the wall near her head and green paint splashed over her face, neck, and shoulder.

  Mia leaped off the bed and ran for the back bedroom. If she could get inside, Mama might be able to—

  A bottle of paint hit the back of her head and shattered. Mia gasped at the sharp pain and stumbled.

  Papa grabbed a handful of her hair, his boots crunching the glass on the floor as he threw her to the ground.

  She hit hard on her chest and the air was knocked from her lungs. Panic exploded inside her and she clawed the floor, the pencil still clutched in one hand. She choked on fear as she tried to crawl away from him.

  His knee dug into her lower back, crushing her. Her breaths were uneven and harsh, and there wasn’t enough air inside her to scream.

  His hand fisted in her hair again and he jerked her head back.

  “Please,” she gasped. “Can’t—breathe.”

  He had another bottle of paint in his fist, this one red. “I thought it was her,” he sneered, his words slurring. “I thought my own wife was stealing from me, for her drinking and gambling. But it was you. You’ve always been the ruin of us, when you were supposed to be our way to an easier life. The king was supposed to reward me, but nothing changed. A little more gold, but where did it go? Into your stupid pocket!”

  Mia’s lungs were empty, yet bursting at the same time. She was on fire, but she was shivering. Panic had sunk claws into her body, and she could not get free.

  Papa smashed the bottle of red paint into her temple, and agony exploded along with the glass. The impact alone was bruising, but the broken shards cut into her skin, paint and blood mingling.

  Mia screamed and her hands flew to the wound. Paint got in her eyes, and when the pressure of Papa’s knee left her, Mia rolled onto her back, crying as she clutched her head.

  Fight. Grayson’s voice was a growl in her ear. Fight back. Don’t stop until your attacker does.

  Through the pain and the panic, Mia pried her eyes open. Papa was fumbling to draw a knife at his belt.

  She still held the pencil, though it was splattered with paint and blood now.

  Do what you have to do. Don’t hesitate.

  Papa tugged the knife free from its sheath at the same moment Mia dove for him.

  Her pencil slid into his eye—his blade sank into her stomach.

  Papa howled and clawed at his face, trying to find the pencil so he could rip it out.

  Mia stumbled back with a gasp, shaking hands grasping the handle of the knife that was stuck inside her body.

  The door shoved open and she blinked up at Tyrell, whose chest was rising and falling too quickly. He’d been running.

  Behind him, the night guard was pale.

  Tyrell’s eyes darted over the scene, dismissing Mia almost at once to focus on Papa, who roared as he jerked the pencil from his eye.

  “I’ll kill you!” Papa snarled, cursing her. “I’ll—” He spotted Tyrell and gaped, his drunken brain, overwhelmed with pain, struggling to process the prince’s sudden appearance.

  Tyrell’s voice was dark. “You raised a hand against her.”

  Papa blinked, his skin paling, blood dripping from his ruined eye. He lifted his hands. “Your Highness, I—”

  Tyrell’s sword flashed and Papa’s right hand dropped to the floor. The man howled, clutching the stump of his arm to his chest.

  But Tyrell wasn’t done. His sword sliced again, and Papa’s head rolled off his shoulders, his shout silenced forever as his body crumpled.

  Mia gagged, pinching her eyes shut against the scene. But she would never forget Papa’s face, or the sound of his screams.

  The pain in her stomach flared, and that combined with the violence of the last few moments brought her to her knees.

  She heard Tyrell curse, heard his sword clang against the ground. Then his hands were wrapped around her shoulders and he was kneeling with her. “Mia?”

  She peeled her eyes open, and though her vision was hazy, she saw his eyes drag over her—saw him freeze when he saw her clutching the knife embedded in her gut.

  All color left his face. “No.” His fingers curled painfully into her arms. “No,” he repeated, his voice raw.

  Mia’s hands were covered in blood and the warm substance was spreading out from the knife wound, staining her blue dress. She struggled to breathe, and when she shuddered, the blade cut deeper, shredding her insides. “Tell Grayson I’m sorry,” she gasped. “I tried to fight.”

  Tyrell’s jaw hardened. “You’re going to be fine.”

  She wasn’t going to be fine. She knew it. The color was already seeping from her vision, and her heartbeat was lagging, then thumping too hard.

  “I’m sorry,” she repeated. “Tyrell, I’m sorry . . .”

  “Mia!” He grabbed her in his arms, pulling her across his lap. With her head against his chest, she could hear his heart racing. “Fates, Mia—No!”

  Her eyes fluttered closed, and she thought she saw Grayson’s face.

  It was her last thought.

  Chapter 42

  Desfan

  Desfan slipped from the council chamber before anyone could try to stop him, Karim right behind him. The meeting had gone long—as it often seemed to do—and he had spent most of it trying to assuage any concerns the council had.

/>   There had been many.

  Serai Essa was worried about Princess Serene’s health and wanted to know if the delays in the tour would stop the prisoner exchange.

  Desfan assured her that the exchange would still happen, and that he had no new word on Serene’s health, but he assumed she was recovering well.

  Ser Sifa—who was temporarily filling a council seat, since Ashear was overseeing the prisoner exchange—wanted to discuss the Rydenic princes. He was particularly concerned that they were allowed to roam the palace and the city without close supervision.

  Desfan did not want to smother the princes, or risk offending them; they were not prisoners, after all.

  Serai Yahri was concerned about the drain on the royal treasury, which was currently funding Desfan’s orphanage reform.

  He was working on letters to wealthy nobles, who he would ask to become patrons of their local orphanages, which would help meet costs.

  The meeting had dragged, and Desfan’s head ached. He pulled off his crown the moment he entered the corridor, though it didn’t stop the throbbing at his temples. He had a mountain of reports that needed to be read before dinner, and he had a dozen letters to write.

  He forgot all about them when he spotted Kiv Arcas standing outside the serjan’s office.

  The soldier bowed. “Pardon me, Serjah, but do you have a few moments?”

  “Of course.” Desfan waved him into the office, trying not to get his hopes up. After so long with no new findings from Arcas, Zadir, or Desfan’s own investigations into the nobles, he was beginning to think he would never find answers about the olcain, or what had happened to his father.

  “You asked me to look into who was guarding the serjan the night he collapsed,” Arcas said.