Royal Decoy (Fate of Eyrinthia Book 1)

by Heather Frost

  Bennick sat nearby and when Clare opened her eyes she caught him rubbing his wrist, his focus on the other fights progressing across the field.

  “Did I hurt you?” she asked.

  He glanced at her. “Is that pride I hear?”

  Her lips curved. “Maybe a little.”

  Bennick chuckled. “It’s well-deserved.”

  A dozen paces away, a soldier knocked his opponent to the ground with a cheer.

  When Clare looked back at Bennick, he was examining his wrist.

  She straightened sharply. “You’re bleeding!”

  “Your nails are sharp.”

  She grabbed his hand, eyeing the crescent-shaped incisions and the crimson blood smearing his skin. “I’m so sorry!” She balanced the back of his hand on her palm while her free fingers tugged a handkerchief from her pocket.

  “Don’t—ruin it,” he sighed the last part, since she’d already pressed the cloth against his bleeding wrist.

  “I didn’t realize I’d hurt you.”

  “I can claim worse injuries, you know. Wilf nearly broke a rib yesterday.”

  She peeked up at him. “Wilf is quite . . .” Terrifying was the word, but she didn’t want to say it.

  Bennick seemed to hear what she hadn’t voiced. He winced. “Wilf isn’t always like that.”

  Clare propped his arm against her leg, still holding the cloth to his skin. “I heard some of the soldiers talking.”

  He scowled. “Soldiers gossip more than old women.” His fingers flexed and a muscle in his cheek jumped. “Wilf has served as a royal bodyguard for almost thirty years. He’s saved my life and the lives of each member of the royal family multiple times. He trained me when I was just a boy. I wouldn’t be who I am today without him.”

  Holding Bennick’s hand and sitting close to him under the warm sun made her bold. “He sounds almost like a father to you.”

  His jaw firmed, but her words didn’t coax out any answers about the commander. “He was, in many ways.” He used his free hand to rub his forehead, effectively blocking her view of his face. “Wilf caught the pox five years ago. All the physicians agreed he was a dead man but his wife, Rachel, took care of him for days with barely any rest. Sometimes I think her determination alone saved him.” He lowered his hand and his voice. “Lady Rachel wasn’t so blessed when the illness claimed her. Wilf was inconsolable when she died.”

  Pity swelled in Clare’s chest. Even if the man frightened her, she knew the pain of losing a loved one. It wasn’t an agony she’d wish on anyone.

  “He drank and gambled away his earnings. He never endangered the royal family, but he became less dependable. He was Prince Grandeur’s lead bodyguard at the time, and the men who served under him grew impatient with his grief; they demanded his replacement. This was two years ago; I’d just been appointed to the position I have now, and I was looking for a fifth man I could trust. I asked for Wilf, and the king consented.” He shook his head. “Yesterday was a bad relapse, but he’s coming around.”

  “What do you think caused it?”

  Bennick stretched his legs to a more comfortable position, his hand still in hers. “He’s been on edge since the Mortisian emissaries arrived. Wilf fought on the front lines during the old war and lost good friends.”

  “So he doesn’t want the alliance?”

  His forehead creased. “I wouldn’t say that. Experiences have made him distrustful, but he’s not against peace. I put him in a holding cell until he was sober enough to calm down.” He glanced at her. “Wilf never gave up on me, even when I was a blasted pain, so I refuse to give up on him.”

  A small smile caught her lips. “You’re a good man, Captain Markam.”

  Bennick huffed out a laugh. “I have my flaws, same as anyone.” He tilted his head and viewed her with suddenly narrowed eyes. “Venn told me something troubling, Miss Ellington.”

  Her mind flashed to the library and her prying questions. Her mouth ran dry. “Oh?”

  Bennick’s lips twitched. “He says you’ve always called him Venn. I’ve known you a day longer, yet I’m still Captain Markam.”

  She grinned. “To be fair, I knew you as Venn for that first day.”

  “True. It still seems wrong, though.”

  “Perhaps I’m more at ease with Venn,” she teased.

  “Are you?” His hand hadn’t moved, but the rest of him seemed suddenly closer.

  Clare’s eyes dipped to his slightly parted lips, striving to keep her light tone. She didn’t quite manage. “Venn doesn’t mock assassinate me every time I see him.”

  Bennick eased closer and she leaned back, chin lifting. His hand twisted in hers and roughened fingertips brushed against her calluses. His arm was warm where it rested against her leg. “I’m not always fighting with you,” he said softly.

  Clare’s heart skipped a beat. “True.”

  His thumb stroked the center of her palm and she sucked in a breath, her hand flinching away in surprise.

  Bennick drew back, a thin smile on his face. “Whenever you feel at ease with me, you’re free to use my given name.”

  If her thudding heart was any indication, she doubted she’d ever feel at ease around him.

  Chapter 15

  Clare

  Clare took the princess’s seat at the formal dining table and tried to keep her breaths even. It was her first public dinner as Serene and she was dressed in all the princess’s finery, all of her exposed skin stained a shade darker. The adjustments to her complexion were slight, but powerful. Breathing was a battle; nerves made her chest tight and her hands twitch, and the fitted bodice of her green gown didn’t help. Knowing she must fool a crowd of people tonight—and please King Newlan with her act—she barely dared open her mouth. Even after four weeks of training, she didn’t feel ready.

  Stringed instruments created a soft backdrop for the laughter and conversation filling the vaulted room. Roasted pig and stewed vegetables spiced the air and Clare’s stomach tugged with a mix of hunger and nerves. Too bad all of Mistress Henley’s cautions about proper etiquette made her dread the moment she had to lift her fork.

  The sight of Bennick and Venn watching from a few paces away calmed her frayed breathing a little. She caught Bennick’s eye and his familiar half-grin infused her with warmth. She sent a small smile back at him.

  “Princess Serene.”

  Clare twisted to find a stranger standing near her chair. He was clearly Mortisian. His clothing was a different style, more loose and flowing, and a wide sash of crimson crossed over his shoulder and chest. He looked to be in his early twenties with brown-tinted skin and dark hair that fell to his shoulders. A well-trimmed beard framed his lower face.

  “You look beautiful as always,” he said, bowing low.

  “Thank you,” she managed.

  There weren’t many Mortisians in the castle, and when the young man took the seat beside her, her guess was confirmed—thank the fates she’d memorized the seating chart—the handsome young man was Ser Amil Havim, son of emissary Ser Bahri Havim.

  Ser was the equivalent of lord, she’d learned from Ramus. Mortisians used the titles interchangeably, since the Garvins Treaty had been signed two hundred years ago, establishing fair trade among the four kingdoms of Eyrinthia. The same treaty had also accepted the common tongue, which assigned titles for the nobility throughout the kingdoms. “As a show of respect,” Ramus had explained, “we use their traditional titles. King Saernon is the serjan, Prince Desfan is the serjah. Lords and ladies of the nobility are sers and serais, respectively.”

  Now facing the son of the Mortisian emissary, panic flooded Clare. Too much to remember—she’d surely make a mistake.

  Ser Amil smiled, his brown eyes soft. “You seem distracted. Have I interrupted the great Princess Serene in the middle of some deep thought?”

  She choked on a weak laugh. “No. I’m afraid I’m simply distracted.”

  “I haven’t seen you since the betrothal was announced.
How has the news been taken by your people?”

  “Relatively well.” It was what Newlan had told her to say, if anyone asked.

  Ser Amil’s dark eyebrow arched. “I heard there was a skirmish in Iden’s market yesterday.”

  “Was there?” Clare hadn’t heard about that, but she imagined many people were unhappy about the prospect of peace with their long-time enemies.

  “My father grumbled about it for quite some time. You know how he is.”

  She didn’t. But Serene might, so Clare nodded. “Where is your father?”

  “He said he might be delayed.”

  Clare was saved from having to make more conversation when King Newlan stood at the table’s head. Silence fell among the gathered nobility and they listened raptly as Newlan gave a speech about peace, hope, and a stronger future. When he finished, the lords and ladies clapped politely, Clare with them.

  As everyone began to eat, Ser Amil leaned toward her. “Have you picked a favorite yet?”

  “A favorite?” It felt like she’d missed something, because his question didn’t make sense.

  “It would be hard to decide,” Amil said, “but I must know.”

  “I . . . I’m not sure . . .”

  Seeing her confusion, he frowned. “During our conversation about Zennor the other day—I asked what your favorite part of living abroad was.”

  “Oh! Yes. Of course. Forgive me.” Clare scrambled to think. “It’s difficult to say, but, I think it was the culture.” She’d been learning all about Zennor’s rich culture from Ramus and it was the first thing to spring to mind.

  Amil smiled. “I trust you’ll find Mortise to your liking, then. We have many traditions and our culture isn’t as divided as Zennor’s.” He took a sip of wine, then asked, “Have you begun preparations?”

  Fates, she hated feeling like she was missing half the conversation. “Preparations?”

  “For your journey to Mortise.”

  “Oh. Yes.” Her cheeks warmed. Serene wouldn’t be flustered. Clare needed to regain control.

  The dancing candlelight from the table’s candelabra caught the flash of his teeth as he smiled. “Duvan is beautiful. The palms, the architecture, the beaches . . . You won’t be disappointed, Princess.” His gaze dipped to her lips, pressed against her glass. “Though, as beautiful as Duvan is, it pales beside you.”

  Clare set down her wine. Why hadn’t anyone prepared her for Amil’s flirtations? She wasn’t sure how to react, but surely Serene wouldn’t respond—not when she was engaged to marry the Mortisian prince. Clare cleared her throat. “Do you know Desfan well?”

  Amil leaned back. “A little. The serjah didn’t spend much time at the palace, until the serjan’s recent illness.”

  “Rumors say he’s a pirate.”

  Amil chuckled. “If anything, he hunted pirates. He would spend months away at sea.”

  “His father never complained about his long absences?”

  “No. The serjan didn’t seem to worry about Desfan’s lack of influence in court.”

  “But others did?”

  He tipped his head in acknowledgement, then lowered his voice. “Between us, I think there are many in court who feel Desfan is not, perhaps, the best choice for regent. Some say he’s not trained enough in politics to lead us until the serjan’s health returns.”

  “I suppose these same people think his first mistake was to insist on this betrothal?”

  “Only because they have not met you, Princess. You are a gift to Mortise.”

  Across the table from them, an empty chair was suddenly filled by Amil’s father. Two Mortisian guards took up positions behind the emissary, their curved swords and shielded expressions sending a tendril of unease down Clare’s spine.

  Ser Bahri’s beard was as dark as his son’s, but fuller. There were lines at the corners of his eyes, but that was the only sign of his age. The emissary greeted her curtly and reached for his wine.

  Amil sighed beside her. “Please excuse him. He’s quite preoccupied these days.”

  “I assumed his duties would relax after the betrothal was decided.”

  “There’s still much to coordinate. He writes letters almost constantly. I’ve tried to help, but he insists on doing most of it alone.”

  The dinner continued, and though Amil was pleasant and chatted passionately about the wonder of Duvan’s coastal markets, Clare couldn’t shake the nervousness bunching her shoulders. She cast a look around the table and caught the old emissary scowling at her, his gaze sharp. Her scalp prickled, a shiver rippling through her.

  Ser Bahri glanced away and the meal continued. Amil talked beside her, silverware clinked against plates and laughter rang out in the room. Ser Bahri never looked at her again, but Clare didn’t relax.

  An odd chill remained with her throughout the remainder of dinner, making her all the more eager to retire. When Bennick and Venn finally escorted her to the princess’s suite, she hurried to climb into bed. It had been a tiring day, and stretching out on the soft mattress felt wonderful. She pulled in long and deep breaths and felt her muscles relax.

  The lilac scent was strong—the maids must have just freshened the room with new flowers—but Clare was growing used to the sweet fragrance.

  She shifted, settling in more deeply as she inhaled. Another scent was mixed with the lilacs, but she couldn’t place it. A yawn cracked her jaw and she rubbed her closed eyes, sleep claiming her quickly.

  Her last thought was that the scent was overpowering, making it hard to breathe.

  Chapter 16

  Bennick

  Bennick clacked his wooden mug against Cardon’s, Venn’s, and Gavril’s. Venn hooted when ale sloshed against the scuffed table and then he threw back his drink, gulping it down without pausing for breath.

  Cardon shook his head, a grin pulling at his mouth. “It must be the Zennorian in your blood.”

  “Are they better drinkers?” Venn asked, swiping the back of his hand over his mouth as he lowered the empty mug.

  Cardon rolled his eyes. “Once again, I know more about your mother’s kingdom than you do.”

  Venn blinked. “You want me to ask my mother about her ability to drink?”

  Cardon shook his head, keeping his mug firmly on the table. Bennick had never seen Cardon drunk; he shared the occasional drink with them, but he came for the company. Bennick wasn’t one to overindulge either, so he never asked Cardon’s reasons. Perhaps they were similar to his own; losing his ability to think and react quickly wasn’t something he cared to experience. And he feared the drink might loosen his tongue. He trusted the men at this table with his life, but that didn’t mean he wanted them to know every thought in his head. Especially when it came to Clare, who was on his mind almost constantly these days.

  She’d done well tonight, posing as Serene at the dinner. Bennick had been close enough to hear most of her conversation with Amil Havim, and though he hadn’t appreciated the Mortisian’s less-than-subtle flirtations, Clare had handled the man excellently. Pride had filled Bennick as he’d watched her adapt yet again to her situation. Whether she was an unassuming kitchen maid diving into danger to save the princess’s life or squaring off against him on the training field, Clare was amazing. He was fascinated by her—something he could admit to himself but didn’t want spoken aloud.

  Venn was loud enough for all of them, anyway. He’d tried pulling Gavril into the conversation, but had soon given up. It was a victory alone that Gavril had accepted their invitation to join them at The Arrow tonight. The tavern sat near the castle’s outer walls and was frequented by soldiers who didn’t want to trudge all the way to Lower Iden to escape the barracks for a while. Other patrons filled the square tables as well, but soldiers—both in and out of uniform—were the majority. Card games, drinking competitions, and bellowing voices filled the room, along with lively flute music.

  None of the merriment seemed to touch Gavril. He occasionally quirked a partial smile at something Venn
said, but he sat with shoulders hunched as he nursed his mug. The burns on his face and neck garnered more stares in the common room than Bennick had expected, and if he noticed the stares, Gavril certainly must.

  When they’d been younger, Gavril had often acted in the role of an older brother to Bennick. He’d ridden with him, sparred with him; even though four years separated them, Gavril had gone out of his way at the academy to make sure Bennick settled in. Gavril had always been soft-spoken, but quick to laugh. Now the laughter, the softness—it was gone. Stripped away in a horrible instant that had taken everything from him.

  “You know something I do know about Zennorians?” Venn asked, breaking into Bennick’s thoughts.

  Cardon sighed. “I think you’re about to tell me.”

  Venn snatched up his long black ponytail and dragged it above his head so they could all see it. “Did you know a Zennorian warrior wears his hair long in times of peace and shaves his head for war?”

  “I did not,” Cardon said carefully, mouth twitching.

  “It’s true!” Venn threw his ponytail down. “My sisters wanted me to shave my head when I entered the academy.”

  “Why didn’t you?” Bennick asked.

  Venn had two sisters, one older and one younger, both married and living in Iden near their mother, Zoya, one of the kindest people Bennick had ever met. Venn’s father, a Devendran soldier, had died in battle when Venn was only two years old. But even though Venn’s life hadn’t been perfect, Bennick couldn’t help but think him lucky; Bennick’s family was far more fractured, even though his parents were still living.

  Venn snorted. “My mother said if I entered the academy with the intent to make war, I couldn’t go. So I kept my hair long, and I always will, even though she rolls her eyes at me.”

  “You mean because she rolls her eyes at you,” Gavril said dryly.

  Venn laughed and Bennick and Cardon chuckled.

  Gavril’s thin smile flashed, disappearing too quickly. But it had been there.