Royal Spy (Fate of Eyrinthia Book 2)

by Heather Frost

  Commander Markam and his men coaxed their prisoners to stand, leaving a path so Clare would be able to walk through them, once the signal came.

  Tamar Nadir frowned. “That is not Ashear,” she whispered.

  Clare tensed, aware that Bennick, Venn, and Dirk also stiffened around her.

  “Princess Serene Aren Demoi of Devendra,” the nobleman called out. “I bring the greetings of his highness, Serjah Desfan Cassian, current regent of Mortise.” His eyes flicked to Tamar, and a slight frown broke his smooth expression. “Serai Nadir, I did not realize you would be present.”

  Her chin lifted. “I would not miss it, Ser Zephan.”

  Zephan.

  The name shot through Clare, making her jolt. She was suddenly back in Halbrook, looking at James as he bled in the inn’s common room. He’d suspected a man on the Mortisian council had hired mercenaries to kill Serene. A man named Zephan.

  Clare darted a look to Bennick, though he wouldn’t recognize the name. His gaze was firmly on the Mortisian nobleman in front of them as Serai Nadir continued, “I did not think Ser Ashear would miss this. He was such a staunch supporter.”

  Ser Zephan lifted his chin. “Unfortunately, Ashear became ill on the journey. The serjah asked me to complete the exchange.” His eyes pinned Clare. “Shall we proceed?”

  Every muscle in her body screamed in protest, and she was momentarily frozen. Zephan’s presence was unexpected, and potentially more dangerous than anyone else realized. If James was correct, this man had already tried to kill Serene once.

  But that had been with mercenaries, while he had remained safe in the shadows. Surely he wouldn’t attempt something here, in front of so many witnesses?

  She wanted to warn Bennick, but she didn’t know how. There was no way to be discreet with so many eyes on her, and the tension on the field was an oppressive force; the smallest spark could destroy this pivotal moment—and the peace.

  Hundreds of eyes watched, waiting for Clare to move.

  It was the prisoners that finally centered her. Seeing the Mortisians, their eyes drawn toward home, and the Devendrans, their downcast eyes and hunched shoulders speaking of a pain she could not fathom . . . She could not let them down. She needed to trust that Zephan would not risk a strike against Devendra while on official business.

  She stepped forward, Bennick, Venn, and Dirk moving with her as she walked past the Mortisian prisoners. She halted at the invisible edge, just beyond where the last soldier stood guard.

  Ser Zephan had done the same, and now he was only three paces away from her. He had two guards, one on either side of him. None of the bodyguards had drawn their weapons, but Clare could feel the tension in all of them as she met Zephan’s gaze.

  One wrong move, and she knew that all the tightly coiled soldiers would snap, ending this moment in disaster. If a fight broke out, it would be a bloodbath, and the weaponless prisoners would be the first to be slaughtered.

  She lifted her chin, channeling Serene in every careful breath as she began the practiced speech. “I welcome you to Devendra in the name of my father, King Newlan Demoi. Once, this field was a battleground. Now, it lays the groundwork of peace between our great kingdoms. This exchange of prisoners creates a bond of trust between our monarchs, our courts, and our peoples. Our kingdoms take this vital step together toward peaceful unity in full confidence, knowing that both our peoples will benefit from the future alliance, just as these forty men and women, and their loved ones, feel the benefit of freedom today.”

  Ser Zephan dipped his dark head. “Your words express completely the thoughts of Serjah Desfan. He apologizes that he could not come himself, but with his father’s health it is quite impossible for him to travel. He did ask that I pass along his hope for the future, with our kingdoms joined forever in peace . . .”

  From the corner of her eye, Clare caught movement. One of the Devendran prisoners kneeling near Zephan had lifted his head just enough to peek up at her. His face was streaked with dried mud and dirt covered his hair. But when his familiar blue eyes met hers, her breath rattled out of her.

  Eliot.

  It was impossible, but it was him. Her brother. Staring up at her with dawning horror in his eyes.

  Breath locked in Clare’s lungs. She no longer heard Ser Zephan’s words. She was no longer aware of Bennick beside her, or anyone else around her. She couldn’t see anything except Eliot. Her hands twitched at her sides, longing to grab him, shake him. A thousand questions burned in her mind but her tongue was stiff, useless.

  This moment seemed eternal, and yet it could have only lasted seconds.

  Eliot’s chest lifted on a sharp breath, his throat bobbing hard. His eyes moved deliberately to the prisoners beside him, then shifted back to her.

  Confusion twisted through her.

  There was a weighted pause, and then Eliot looked back at the prisoners.

  The skin around Clare’s eyes tightened as she followed her brother’s pointed gaze. She saw the ragged clothing, the bowed heads, the grime on their bodies . . .

  That was when she saw it, and a pit opened up in her stomach. It was so obvious, and yet she had missed it. They had all missed it.

  Every last prisoner was a man.

  The prisoner list Desfan had sent included women.

  Her scalp prickled, and Clare shot a look back to Eliot, her heart pounding loudly in her ears.

  His jaw tightened.

  I’m sorry.

  She could practically hear his voice in her head.

  Her eyes stung, the pain of betrayal ripping through her chest. Her fingers curled, nails biting into her palms.

  She knew Zephan was still speaking. She could hear the roar of his empty words in her head, but they meant nothing.

  Her body trembled, her mouth dry even as her vision blurred. She was frozen. Unable to do anything but stare at her brother.

  “Princess?”

  Her eyes snapped to Ser Zephan, who stared at her. His mouth was a thin line, irritation clear in his gaze and the set of his shoulders. One eyebrow lifted as he watched her, waited for her to speak.

  Clare’s pulse thrummed inside her, a quickening beat that made it hard to breathe. She could feel Bennick’s eyes on her face, a wordless question weighting the space between them.

  Impatience tightened Zephan’s dark features. “Princess?” he repeated, more firmly than before.

  “Yes?” Clare barely knew her own voice.

  Zephan’s eyes narrowed.

  Bennick turned slightly toward her, concern flashing in his gaze.

  She needed to speak. There was something she was supposed to say, after the initial speeches were done.

  Bennick’s light touch to her arm helped ground her.

  She swallowed hard, the practiced lines rushing back. “Thank you for your words of peace and hope. They warm my heart, and brighten our shared future. I look forward to entering Mortise on such beautiful terms. Thank you.”

  Zephan dipped his head, accepting her words.

  Clare watched him for any sign of danger. She didn’t know what the plan was, but it couldn’t be good. Not if Devendran rebels had united with a dangerous Mortisian like Zephan. Something bad was going to happen, and she needed to get herself, Bennick, and the others as far away from Zephan as possible—without alerting Zephan and making things worse.

  It was time to retreat and release the prisoners. Tension gripped Clare’s shoulders and her fingers curled in her long skirt, prepared to lift it so she could step back. She darted a look to Eliot, her gaze colliding with his.

  Her brother was still kneeling on the ground. He hadn’t moved, but he seemed closer. She could see the hard angle of his chin, the hair that curled over his dirty brow. His hair was too long. She had always cut it, when they were younger.

  Before he had left.

  A familiar pain pierced her heart, sharpening the sting in her eyes.

  “Princess Serene,” Zephan said, calling her attention. “Serj
ah Desfan sent a gift for you. He asked me to personally put it in your hands.” He slipped a box out of his pocket and balanced it on one palm, the velvet case perfectly suited to holding a small piece of jewelry. “May I approach?”

  Clare’s hands clenched in her skirt and she shot a look at Bennick. A gift exchange had never been part of the plan. Warning blazed through her. Her lips parted, but no sound came out. Anything she wanted to say was strangled in her tight throat.

  Bennick shifted to stand partially in front of Clare, his hand extended. “I will accept the gift for the princess.” His firm tone brooked no argument. It was clear he didn’t appreciate the surprise gift, but he knew they could not refuse it.

  Clare’s heart beat against her ribs as Zephan stepped forward, and she darted a look to Eliot.

  Her brother watched her, a muscle in his cheek flexing as his jaw tightened. Too many emotions flashed across his face. Frustration. Guilt. Pain. Regret.

  His eyes closed, and his shoulders rose with a measured breath. When his eyes opened, a new emotion had settled on his dirty face. One Clare had never seen before.

  It terrified her.

  “It’s a trap!” Eliot shouted, the warning ripping through the air. He jerked his hands apart, breaking the ropes that had been only loosely wrapped around his wrists as he shoved to his feet and dove for Zephan.

  Everything happened at once.

  Bennick drew his sword.

  Zephan reared back, his guards jerking out their weapons.

  Venn grasped Clare’s arm, but she barely felt his touch.

  A Mortisian soldier grabbed Eliot and plunged a knife in his back.

  “NO!” Clare’s shriek tore through her.

  Eliot’s body jerked, face carved with pain. His mouth opened, then slackened. His eyes glazed as he crumpled to the grass, the blade buried in his back, one arm reaching for her.

  Instinct, training, and adrenaline converged. Clare twisted her wrist and tore free of Venn’s hand.

  Shock burst across his face and he cursed, reaching for her again.

  But she was already running, her heart fracturing as she darted toward her brother. She needed to reach him—needed to stop the bleeding.

  The sounds of battle waged around her. Screaming had erupted from the spectators, and she heard the pounding of feet, the ring and clang of metal striking metal. From the corner of her eye, she saw Imara being pulled away by her guards. She also saw Serai Nadir had drawn a throwing dagger from somewhere within the folds of her dress, and she hurled it at one of the Mortisians running after the Zennorian princess. It struck him in the back, and he fell.

  Beside Clare, Dirk cut off one of the Mortisian soldiers from reaching her.

  The world was nightmarish. Nothing seemed real, even though Clare could feel the sweat rolling down her spine and the tightness of every ragged breath.

  Bennick’s voice cut through the chaos. “Get her out of here, now! Venn!”

  It was her only warning before Venn’s arms were thrown around her shoulders, yanking her to a stop.

  Keeping her from Eliot.

  Deep inside her, something snapped.

  Clare clawed Venn’s arms, drove her heel into his foot, hammered her elbows into his ribs. She rocked them both with the fierceness of her attack and Venn hissed in pain. His hands grew bruising, but then he lightened his hold—as if afraid of hurting her.

  She used that reticence against him, continuing her attack until he stumbled, unbalanced. She threw her weight down and broke his hold, but she could already feel him grasping for her again.

  She rounded on him, her nails raking his cheek. Crimson lines split his dark skin and he gasped, rearing back.

  A prickle of guilt rose, but she slammed it down and spun, kicking his knee.

  His leg buckled and he crashed to the ground.

  Clare bolted, heart throbbing in her chest, tears clogging her throat as she drew closer to Eliot.

  It was Dirk who tackled her.

  The hard ground knocked the air from her lungs, and his weight kept her pinned. She barely noticed the knife that hit the grass nearby—the knife that had been thrown, and would have killed her.

  “Let me go,” she rasped, grass and dirt scratching her palms as she pushed against Dirk. “I can save him!”

  Dirk’s breath was hot at her ear, his voice horribly thin as he whispered, “I’m sorry, Clare. He’s dead.”

  Agony ripped through her, even as denial surged. But when her eyes lifted and she saw Eliot, lying motionless not far from her, his face turned away from her . . . she knew Dirk was right.

  Her chest caved in, compressing her heart and lungs.

  The truth had never hurt this much.

  Dirk’s hands squeezed her arms. “I’m sorry,” he repeated, urgency leaking into his voice. “We have to go.”

  Clare’s darting eyes took in the space around them. Saw Bennick, fighting two men at once several paces away. She saw Venn—his face bleeding from her scratches—swing his sword at a Mortisian who darted for Dirk’s unguarded back.

  Her gaze went back to Eliot, her heart burning, her vision hazed with tears.

  Her brother was gone. He had died for her.

  But no one else had to.

  Dirk felt the fight ease from her body, and he pulled her to her feet.

  Venn grasped her hand and Clare met his gaze, her stomach twisting as she saw the blood she’d drawn.

  There was no censure in Venn’s gaze as his fingers flexed around hers. Grim determination set his features, compassion sparking his eyes as he noted her tears. “Stay close,” he said.

  Clare jerked out a nod and moved with Venn, Dirk protecting them from behind as they ran together toward the city.

  Chapter 46

  Desfan

  Desfan’s shoulder pressed into the bookshelf, a curse on his tongue. Beside him, Karim tensed.

  “What?” Jamal hissed.

  The guard who had betrayed them pointed at the bookcase Desfan and Karim crouched behind. “The serjah is there. Him and his guard. They’ll have heard everything.”

  Jamal and his men spun.

  Desfan tightened his grip on his knife as he stepped out next to Karim.

  Jamal’s face went pale, then flushed red. So many thoughts could be seen streaking through his mind, but he clearly settled on the easiest solution. His voice dropped low. “Kill them.”

  Karim hurled a throwing knife, which embedded in the nearest man’s chest, and then his open palm slammed into Desfan’s chest, shoving him back. “Run!” he shouted, plucking another knife from his belt.

  He wasn’t going to run. Was Karim insane?

  Jamal turned toward Yahri, who still sat in that chair, clutching her cane, her eyes wide.

  Fates blast it. The woman couldn’t die. Not when Desfan had so many questions. But getting past the wall of enemies would be too time-consuming. “Hold their attention,” he snapped at his friend.

  Karim didn’t respond, just threw his second knife. Desfan darted back down the aisle they’d hidden in.

  “Don’t let him get away!” Jamal screamed.

  Desfan’s boots pounded over the stone floor, running so quickly the spines of the shelved books blurred. The row seemed to go on forever, but finally he reached the end. He grasped the wooden edge and hurled himself around it, charging down another row. He counted the shelves that flashed by, then—after he guessed it had been enough—he darted up one of the aisles, running back toward the south corner.

  Somewhere behind him, he heard the sounds of pursuit. He’d have to tease Karim later for letting them slip past him.

  He could hear blades clashing as he drew closer to the fight. Karim was no longer throwing knives, then.

  With a burst of speed, he reached the end of the aisle and burst into the south corner of the library, this time entering closer to Yahri.

  Jamal was just reaching for her when her white cane swung in a blindingly fast arc, cracking against his hand.
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  Jamal cried out and doubled over, cradling his hand to his chest.

  He didn’t see Desfan coming.

  Desfan slammed into Jamal’s side, knocking them both to the unforgiving floor. The vial of poison bounced away with a soft clinking sound, quickly drowned out by the sounds of fighting.

  Jamal kicked at Desfan, trying to throw him off, or at least roll them so he could be on top. One of his knees caught Desfan’s ribs and he grunted, his grip shifting on Jamal’s wrists so he could pin them down. “You can’t win,” he said through his teeth. “Give up.”

  A vein bulged in Jamal’s forehead. “No!”

  “Look out!” Yahri cried.

  Desfan looked over his shoulder just in time to get a boot in the jaw. His head snapped to the side and he flew back, losing his hold on Jamal as he landed hard. Blood spurted in his mouth and his hands flinched up to his throbbing face. The pain was intense, but he didn’t think anything was broken.

  “Desfan!” Karim shouted.

  He blinked through the involuntary tears and rolled, barely missing a knife as it plunged for him. He rolled until his shoulder hit a bookcase.

  Jamal pushed to his feet, but the more immediate threat was the man who had kicked Desfan. It was the soldier who had betrayed them. He was advancing, a knife in each hand, the blades covered in blood.

  The sight of that helped Desfan push through his pain-filled daze.

  That blood was probably Arcas’s, and that of the other innocent guard. They had trusted this man, and he had killed them.

  Desfan grit his teeth, head spinning, jaw throbbing. He fumbled to draw his knife, but it was stuck, pinned between his hip and the bookshelf.

  The soldier crouched, his knife striking for Desfan’s heart.

  Desfan snatched a book off the shelf and the dagger thunked into the thick volume. The man blinked at the book on the end of his blade, but before he could strike with the other, Desfan grasped another heavy tome and slammed the spine into the man’s temple.

  The man crumpled.

  Desfan rolled away from the shelf, his breathing deep and ragged. His head felt ready to explode, and he still tasted blood on his tongue. He groaned when he saw two more men running toward him.