Royal Decoy (Fate of Eyrinthia Book 1)

by Heather Frost

  Peter, the oldest brother, sat on a wooden throne on the king’s right. He was twenty-five years old and had brown eyes with gray rims. The crown prince was the shortest brother by a handbreadth, though he still managed to look down on everyone. His elbows were balanced on the arms of his throne, his eyes cutting through Grayson and Tyrell, a fragment of a cool smile twisting the corner of his mouth. His left fingers slowly spun the signet ring on his right hand. Made of heavy metal and intricately designed with the Kaelin family crest, there were four small emeralds placed as glittering snake eyes. Grayson knew the design well, and the weight of the ring—it had been plunged into his face and gut too many times to count.

  Queen Iris sat on the last throne, on her husband’s left. She wore a sweeping white gown with tight sleeves that sheathed her long arms. Grayson had never seen her in another color, though sometimes she tied a colored sash around her thin waist. Today the sash was black. She didn’t tolerate excesses in anyone, including herself. Subtle lines dug into the skin at the corners of her eyes and mouth, but she didn’t yet look aged. Her black braid was long and thick, trailing over one shoulder. She caught Grayson’s eye and her lips curved a little. That wasn’t new; he suspected she tried to cultivate the same level of intimacy with each of her sons, as if they alone shared a special bond. All she and Grayson shared were their eyes; they were the same shade of stormy gray.

  Whenever the entire Kaelin family occupied the same room, Grayson had to wonder if they’d all walk out.

  Tyrell and Grayson took their places beside Carter and Liam on the floor, Grayson on the end, their heads bowed. The poison master, the spy, the soldier, and the enforcer. King Henri’s private army.

  Their father’s voice rang in the vast room. “Rise.” They did, hands behind their backs, feet spread, chins lifted to attention. The king waved at Liam. “Tell them the news from Mortise.”

  Liam cleared his throat, angling his head so he could view his brothers. “As you probably know, Serjan Saernon Cassian has been ill for some time. Serjah Desfan has taken advantage of his father’s illness, and as regent he’s arranged a marriage alliance with Princess Serene.”

  Carter’s gaze narrowed. “Devendra and Mortise, allies? That seems unlikely.”

  “Most of the Mortisian nobles are against it,” Liam said. “But Desfan is insistent, as is King Newlan. The betrothal agreement will be signed before summer’s end, in Mortise.”

  Tyrell snorted. “Newlan is a fool. Doesn’t he realize Desfan will stab him in the back?”

  “Of course he does,” Carter said, beady eyes darting to their father; he was always eager to show off. “He’ll increase trade between the kingdoms and use Devendra’s armies as a shield when we invade. They must know the great war is coming and they fear us.”

  Peter shot his brother a look. “You forget what Prince Desfan stands to lose. The support of his court, if they truly are against the alliance, and the revenue of a higher tax. Devendra depends on Mortisian ports and the tax is heavy in favor of Mortise. If they become allies, those taxes will be lessened and Desfan will lose coin. So will the nobles and merchants in his kingdom.”

  “If we decide to attack Mortise by water, we’ll take them all by surprise,” Tyrell said from beside Grayson. “Then Devendra’s army would do Mortise no good.”

  Liam shrugged. “In the end, both sides gain something with the marriage, despite the losses. I doubt there will be any double-crossing between the royals. The nobles and merchants, however, will probably prove different.”

  Carter looked to the king. “We need to either challenge the alliance, or condone it. Publically.”

  “Why get involved in the politics now?” Tyrell asked.

  “Because we can play this to our advantage.” Peter leaned forward on his throne, arms resting on his spread legs, hands pressed together. “We could send a representative to Mortise to congratulate the union. Perhaps dangle the thought of entering peace talks ourselves. Then we play them against each other. Princess Serene and Prince Desfan are strangers—we estrange them further. Goad the nobles into attacking each other, or better yet, attack their leaders. Let them tear each other apart. Weaken them at the heart so both kingdoms fall more easily to us when the time comes.”

  Liam frowned, considering his words. “It won’t be easy. They’ll suspect us and our sudden attempt to play the friend.”

  The king braced an elbow on the throne’s arm. “I’ll think on this. You may all go.”

  Grayson was the first to stand, but he froze when Henri lifted his chin. “Grayson, you stay.”

  The back of his neck prickled as his brothers walked from the room. His nerves tightened further when even Iris stepped down from the dais. She gave him a thin smile as she drifted past, which Grayson did not return.

  Only when the doors closed, leaving only a handful of King Henri’s guards as an audience, did Grayson meet his father’s eyes.

  The king of Ryden struck a powerful figure. Tall, muscular, and with a square jaw, he was handsome in a way Grayson never would be—there were no scars on his face. His thick brown hair, edged with silver, was combed back and his short beard was well-trimmed. His angular face still managed to look strong and his cunning brown eyes had long had the ability to pin Grayson exactly where he was. Though the king rarely lifted a personal hand against his children, he had manipulated them into abusing each other all their lives.

  “I’ve had a troubling report.” Henri straightened on his throne, his simple gold crown catching the morning light from the high windows. “While you were arresting an innkeeper, his wife insulted the Kaelin name. And you allowed that slur to go unpunished.”

  Irritation flared, but Grayson strived to keep it from his voice. “If I’d arrested the woman, the innkeeper would have fought and I would have had to kill him. No one would have been left to pay the tax.”

  “A street full of peasants saw a prince of Ryden ignore a blatant crime,” Henri returned sharply. “Judgment should have been swift. Losing the tax earned by a rundown inn wouldn’t damage my coffers. Unchecked defiance, however, damages the heart of our kingdom.” He leaned back, gripping the throne’s wooden arms. “I’ve corrected your error. The innkeeper’s wife was hung this morning.”

  Grayson didn’t blink, didn’t allow any emotion to cross his face, even though his gut wrenched.

  Henri released a sigh, closing his eyes briefly as he fingered his temple. “Your behavior is unbefitting a prince of Ryden. No insult can stand against the Kaelin name. The great war is coming and we cannot let ourselves be weakened from the inside. Do you understand?”

  He bowed his head, jaw straining. “Yes, Father.”

  The king continued to eye him. “You will prove your dedication by journeying to the villages in the northern mountains, demanding all tax payments in full. They’ve been lax in their offerings. Captain Reeve will accompany you. You leave in two days.”

  Grayson didn’t protest, though his lungs squeezed at the thought of being away from Mia. The mountains were steep and the passes narrow, still clogged with snow—it would take a fortnight at least, if not longer. All while being spied on by Reeve.

  But he would do it. Because if he didn’t, Mia would pay the price.

  Grayson found Latham Borg as the old innkeeper was being led from the dungeon, on his way to the remote city of Kavan that housed the king’s western labor camp.

  Grayson had nearly turned back twice, but he forced himself to keep walking. Now that Borg was in sight, Grayson’s stomach clenched. It was too late to turn back. He waved at the guards surrounding their prisoner. “Wait at the end of the hall.”

  The two soldiers bowed and retreated, careful not to step too close to the Black Hand. In seconds, Grayson was alone with Borg.

  The graying man’s arms were chained before him and blood seeped through the bandage on his left hand. Something painfully like hope burned in his eyes.

  Grayson firmed his jaw. “Your wife was executed this mor
ning.”

  Borg stared. His blank expression gradually melted. Shock turned to disbelief, which then crumpled into understanding. His hands trembled, rattling the chains that bound him. He fell to his knees, curving in on himself.

  Grayson remained where he stood, stiff and silent as he watched the grown man rock against the floor, gasping cries shaking his narrow shoulders.

  I’m sorry, he wanted to say. I didn’t order it. It was my father. I tried to protect her. I’m sorry. I thought you needed to know. I would want to know . . .

  He said nothing. There were no words to take away this man’s pain. Grayson had witnessed more executions than he cared to remember and he’d even been the executioner, but he’d never found peace with death.

  Latham Borg’s sobs finally choked off and he lifted his head. Tears still rolled down his hollow cheeks, but his eyes burned with fire. “I’ll find my freedom. And when I do, I’ll kill you.”

  Grayson gripped the man’s elbow and dragged him to his feet. His voice came out low and rough with emotion he fiercely bit back. “Embrace your anger. It may keep you alive.”

  Chapter 11

  Clare

  Clare’s throat tightened as she and Cardon crossed the castle yard, heading toward the royal stable. It was late afternoon and the yard was bustling. Chickens strutted and clucked, nobles strolled toward the gardens, and dogs barked and chased soldiers jogging around the training yard. Clare barely noticed any of it as anxiety sliced through her.

  After a week at the castle, Clare’s riding instructor wanted her to actually ride a horse. Master Lank’s sharp eyes had picked up on her fear the moment she’d entered the stable a week ago, and he’d decided to get her comfortable with horses before forcing her to mount one. Her lessons had involved grooming and tending the animals, including feeding them. Clare could still feel the horse’s lips pull at the food on her palm, bristled hairs tickling her skin. The memory made her shudder.

  Cardon glanced at her, but thankfully he didn’t talk about the coming ride. He went for distraction instead. “I caught the end of your lesson with Bennick today. You’re doing very well.”

  Her pulse quickened as memories flooded her. Bennick grabbing her from behind, her back pressed against his chest, his head ducked beside hers, his warm breath fanning her ear. The low timbre of his voice as it vibrated against her spine, giving her instructions. His lessons were rigorous. Challenging. But when she succeeded in the task he put before her, the warmth of Bennick’s smile expanded her chest. He had a calming presence overall, and his assurances that she could learn to defend herself built her confidence in ways he probably didn’t even realize.

  She wished she had that confidence now. The large stable came into view and Clare’s steps lagged. The smell of horses and manure assaulted her nose, making it twitch. Cats stretched out in the sun, tails curling lazily, hooded eyes watching their approach with indifference.

  The open floor of the stable was tidy with dozens of individual stalls stretching out along the back wall. The other wall was covered in saddles, bridles, and leads—everything one needed to ride, all organized and hung on hooks. The scents of leather, sweat, oats, and straw layered the air, though the stable hands who milled around didn’t seem to notice it as they went about their chores. The horses were all well-fed, powerfully muscled, and terrifyingly massive. Master Lank ran the stable with efficiency and attention to detail. He was probably the commander’s age, but he had more gray in his hair and beard. He was an unassuming man with gentle eyes and, despite his unreasonable adoration of horses, Clare liked him.

  He stood near the entrance, speaking to a palace guard who looked to be a few years older than Clare. He was tall with broad shoulders, and even though Clare could only see him in profile, the resemblance between the two men was obvious. Master Lank spied Clare and his eyes brightened. “Clare, this is my son, Gavril. Gavril, Miss Clare Ellington. She’s the princess’s newest maid,” he lied easily.

  Like all her tutors, Master Lank knew her true purpose at the castle; it was the only way he could teach her to not only ride the princess’s horse, but ride like Serene as well. And, like the other tutors, he was sworn to keep the secret—even from his son.

  Gavril turned to face Clare and she tried not to stare. The left side of his face was terribly burned. The red, rippled scarring swept down his neck and disappeared under his uniform collar. He carried himself stiffly, as if the scars still caused him physical pain. He gave her a controlled nod. “Miss Ellington.”

  She offered a smile. “A pleasure to meet you.”

  Cardon’s boots scraped the hay-strewn floor as he stepped forward and took Gavril’s hand, a grin lifting his own scarred cheek. “I didn’t know you’d returned to duty.”

  “It’s my first week back.” Gavril’s throat bobbed and he turned to his father. “I must return to the castle.”

  “Will you join me for my morning ride tomorrow?” Master Lank asked.

  Gavril bowed his head, strands of brown hair falling into his eyes. “As you wish.” He bid them a good day before striding away.

  Master Lank sighed heavily as he watched his son leave, a large hand scrubbing over his brow.

  “He looks good,” Cardon said quietly.

  “He’s a shadow of himself.” Worry filtered through Master Lank’s gaze as he turned to Cardon. “If you see him in the castle, you’ll take a moment to speak with him?”

  “Of course.” Cardon’s brow furrowed. “He isn’t being mistreated, is he?”

  “You know how soldiers can be,” the stable master huffed. “Especially those in fresh uniforms who believe a good soldier is invincible.”

  Cardon’s jaw hardened, his scar jumping. “I’ll keep an eye out for him.”

  “I’d appreciate that.” Master Lank shook himself and faced Clare with a small smile. “Well, Clare, I’ve got Jinn saddled for you.”

  The words stiffened her spine, but she walked forward with the stable master, leaving Cardon to hang back. The gray gelding stood beside the mounting block, one large black eye trained on them. Clare approached exactly as Master Lank had taught her, holding out her hand and allowing Jinn to come the final distance and settle his nose in her sweating palm. She flinched at the foreign touch but forced herself to rub her hand up between his eyes, watching as his ears flicked in silent greeting.

  “May I join you?”

  Clare’s heart skipped at that familiar deep voice and she twisted to watch Bennick approach, leading a saddled horse from a nearby stall. The animal was noticeably taller than Jinn, with a deep brown coat and black hair. The sight of such a powerful horse unsettled her, but it was the flip in her stomach that distracted her now.

  Bennick’s throat bobbed as he neared, drawing her gaze to his angular jaw coated with its usual layer of stubble. The longer Clare stared, the harder it was to look away. It didn’t matter that she’d spent the morning training with him. No matter how familiar she became with Bennick, something about him inevitably snared her.

  He halted before her and Clare realized she hadn’t answered. Her cheeks warmed and she cleared her throat. “Of course you can join me.”

  “What a relief.” Mirth crinkled the skin around his eyes. “I worried you might be sick of me after this morning.”

  She quirked a smile. “Sick of getting stabbed, yes.”

  “You’ll have to get better at disarming me.”

  “Bennick,” Master Lank warned as he stepped forward. “You said you were here to help.”

  “Of course.” Bennick turned to Clare and pressed a hand over his heart. “I promise to chase after you if Jinn gallops off.”

  It was ridiculous how much that meant to her. How much his presence alone meant. He knew she’d been nervous about her first ride—he’d even asked how she was feeling during their lesson today. He hadn’t revealed any intention of coming to support her.

  Master Lank gestured to Jinn. “Ready, Clare?”

  Swallowing back her an
xiety, Clare stepped onto the mounting block while Master Lank held Jinn’s bridle. She wasn’t allowed to straddle the horse, since apparently fine ladies were to risk their lives by riding sideways, so she lifted herself up onto her unnatural perch and Master Lank handed up the reins.

  She gripped them fiercely and the stable master laid a hand over her fists. “Remember, he’ll sense your tension. Relax.”

  Clare sucked in a breath, trying to ease her tight muscles. All that effort seemed wasted a moment later when Master Lank guided the horse forward. Clare strangled the reins as her world rocked. It felt like she was going to pitch off the horse—almost like he was stumbling beneath her. She hated horses.

  Bennick had swung up onto his own horse and he kept close beside her as they entered the yard. Master Lank led them to the riding track circling the space outside the stable, and as he walked Clare around the first circuit he offered praise and advice. He stepped aside for the second rotation and Clare tensed without his steadying presence. She was all the more grateful for Bennick riding gently beside her.

  After plodding halfway around the track, Clare finally loosened her jaw enough to speak. “You must be bored with the slow pace.”

  “I’m not,” Bennick assured her, even as his horse snorted and shook his head.

  Clare would have laughed if her lungs weren’t so tight. “I think your horse disagrees.”

  Bennick leaned over and patted the long brown neck. “He’s fine. We both like a leisurely ride from time to time.”

  She glanced over at him. “Thank you. You didn’t have to come. I know you’re busy.”

  “It was no trouble.” Bennick shifted in the saddle, stretching his back. “How are your other studies going?”

  “Quite well.” She was actually doing better in languages than Ramus had expected, and it was nice to know she had a talent somewhere. Of course, the irritable librarian always found ways to stump her when she gave too many satisfactory answers.