Royal Decoy (Fate of Eyrinthia Book 1)

by Heather Frost

  Bennick leaned back, the wooden chair creaking under his weight. “Maybe I’ll slip up in practice and rid you of your long locks.”

  Venn gasped. “You wouldn’t!”

  “I can’t have my men care too much about their hair.”

  “You’re just jealous.” Venn straightened suddenly. “Let’s talk about Clare.”

  Bennick shot a pointed look at Gavril, who was taking another sip from his mug.

  Venn rolled his eyes, silent communication that clearly said, I won’t tell him she’s the decoy—I’m not that drunk! While Gavril was trusted, the king didn’t want any of the palace guardsmen to know about the decoy. Venn cleared his throat. “You certainly watch her closely, Bennick.”

  Cardon cracked a smile. “You do stare at her.”

  Bennick’s jaw tightened. “I don’t know what you’re—”

  “Please,” Venn thrust out a hand and looked to the other men at the table. “He’s never paid so much attention to one of the princess’s maids. You’ve all seen it. Personally, I’m quite interested.”

  Bennick frowned. “Venn—”

  “He has a point,” Cardon said, lifting his mug toward his lips.

  “Thank you!” Venn’s hands thumped the table, drawing looks from surrounding patrons. “What do you intend to do about it, Bennick?”

  His hands fisted below the table. “Nothing. Our positions make it impossible.” The stare he sent Cardon and Venn communicated what he couldn’t say in front of Gavril: Clare was the decoy. There could never be anything between them. The king would not allow it.

  Gavril thumbed the handle of his mug, his voice low. “When you have feelings for a woman, they don’t go away.” His words quieted them all, even Venn.

  The muscles in Bennick’s neck tightened. Gavril never talked of Bonnai, his dead wife. It was a subject none of them broached.

  Gavril’s shoulders rolled inward as he peered at Bennick, the lamplight catching the purple-red burn marring his face. “If you care for Clare, you need to tell her. If she feels the same, you’ll make things work. But don’t wait. Life is not as lasting as it seems.”

  The night was half gone by the time they returned to the castle. Gavril walked toward his barracks and Venn, Cardon, and Bennick entered the castle through a side door, their boots echoing in the empty corridor.

  “I think the night was good for Gavril,” Cardon said.

  Bennick nodded. “We should do it again.”

  Murmurs of agreement went up. The castle was quiet at this late hour. Guards nodded to them as they passed, but even the servants were mostly abed. When the corridor split, Bennick took a left toward the royal wing.

  “Where are you going?” Venn asked. He and Cardon halted, studying him in the dim light.

  “Just checking in with Wilf,” Bennick said. It was a captain’s duty. It had nothing to do with the fact that Wilf was guarding Clare.

  Venn and Cardon exchanged a knowing look.

  Bennick rolled his eyes and turned away, but he heard them trail after him. A few moments later they reached the top of the staircase and entered the long corridor outside the princess’s rooms. Wilf stood at the door with two palace guards, and all three of them looked up as Bennick and the others approached.

  Wilf grunted, his thick arms folded over his broad chest. “I figured you’d all be passed out drunk by now.”

  “No,” Venn answered smoothly. “We’re not you.”

  Wilf growled.

  Bennick glanced at the closed door. He caught the faint glow of light spilling from the crack underneath and his brow furrowed. “Has the princess not gone to bed?”

  Wilf glanced at the palace guardsmen beside them—they thought they were guarding the real princess, and it needed to remain that way. “She retired hours ago.” Wilf’s gaze was also drawn to the light under the door and he frowned. “I hadn’t noticed . . . Perhaps the maid forgot to blow out the lamp.”

  “Vera?” Venn’s voice was steadier, joking gone. “She wouldn’t forget that.”

  Bennick’s heart drummed faster. He grasped the door’s handle and pushed into the room.

  Every lamp was lit, the flames burning brightly behind their glass shields. The scent of lilacs was heavy on the air—the vases must have been recently refilled. Vera was curled in a cushioned chair in the corner, her head tipped to the side, stretching her slender neck. Soft blond hair fell around her shoulders and her face was pale and still, her eyes closed. A dress lay on her lap, as if she’d fallen asleep mending. A spool of thread had rolled across the floor, leaving a thin trail of bright crimson.

  Bennick might have relaxed—after all, it appeared as if Vera had simply drifted off—but there was something horribly wrong about the scene.

  Vera wasn’t breathing.

  Venn cursed and shoved past Bennick. He grasped Vera’s pale face with both of his dark hands, his shoulders bunched with tension. “Vera? Vera!” He threw a hard look over his shoulder, his focus beyond Bennick. “Get a physician—now!”

  One of the guards darted away, but Bennick barely heard him. Because only now could he make out the strange scent buried in the overwhelming lilacs—it was too sweet. Too cool.

  His stomach dropped.

  Night Sigh.

  With a strangled curse, Bennick darted for the closed bedroom door, praying to the fates he wasn’t about to find Clare dead. He rushed into the room and bent over the bed, struggling to ignore the chill that raced over his skin and raised every hair on his body. The room was saturated with the heavy smell of lilacs and poison, and Clare had been breathing it for hours.

  She was on her side, turned toward him and the door. The light from the sitting room filtered weakly inside, just revealing the pale cast of her usually brown skin. She was unmoving under the blankets. Night Sigh lulled victims into a deep sleep when inhaled, swelling their throat and filling their nose until they no longer breathed.

  Bennick gritted his teeth and ripped the blankets off her, scooping her into his arms and dragging her against his chest. “Clare? Can you hear me?”

  No response. No flutter of breath or flicker of movement.

  Wilf darted into the room and shoved open the window, allowing fresh air to sweep into the room. He began hurling vases of lilacs out the window, anything to get the Night Sigh out of the room. It was still too thick in the air, though. Bennick carried Clare back into the sitting room and saw that Wilf must have already disposed of the lilacs that had been in here. With the doors open, it was easier to breathe in here now.

  Across the room, Venn knelt in front of Vera. The girl was doubled over, fully awake and wheezing as she struggled to fill her lungs. Venn’s hands still framed her face as he urged her to breathe, his thumbs stroking her cheekbones. She clung to his wrists, her wild eyes locked on his.

  Cardon was the only guard still in the hall. “I sent them for a physician,” he explained shortly. His shoulders tensed as he gripped the doorframe, his gaze intent on Clare. “Force her to stand, shake her—whatever it takes to wake her.”

  Bennick was already dropping Clare’s legs, supporting her weight when her knees buckled. He shook her, demanded she open her eyes, but she sagged against him, her head bumping against his chest.

  Panic knifed him. He shook her again, harder than before, and this time when her head snapped back, her eyes dragged open.

  Relief hit him so hard, his legs nearly gave out. “Clare!”

  She squinted at him, weary and confused. She tried to suck in a breath and when she failed, her body locked. Terror flared in her eyes and she tried to jerk away from him, as if space would help her breathe. He clung to her—he wouldn’t let her fall. Not even when her fingers scrabbled weakly over his arms, frantic for him to release her.

  Bennick ducked his head so their eyes were level. “You’re fine,” he said, his voice too rough to be comforting. “I promise. Just breathe. Slowly. You’re going to be all right.”

  Clare trembled, her fingers curli
ng into his sleeves as she inhaled thinly. Rich brown hair fell over her shoulders, her face still pale. Moisture blurred her deep blue eyes and when the first tear slipped over her cheek, it cut him. He cupped the side of her face with one hand and thumbed the wet trail away. She opened her mouth, but no words scratched out and her tears fell faster.

  Bennick didn’t think. He pulled her in, his hand at the back of her head as he pressed her cheek to his chest, his other arm banding around her waist. “It’s all right,” he breathed into her hair. “A physician is coming. He’ll be here soon. You’re going to be fine. I promise.” He kept repeating the words as he embraced her, throwing in any useless things that leapt to mind.

  Several long minutes passed before the physician arrived, but he soon had Clare and Vera breathing salts to clear the Night Sigh from their lungs.

  Bennick had retreated a little so the physician could tend Clare, but he stood rigidly nearby and observed each shallow breath she took—they were becoming more measured, and yet his tension only grew.

  Cardon eased up beside him, his voice low. “We need to report this to the king.”

  Bennick jerked a nod, but it took a while before he could pull his gaze from Clare. He’d almost lost her tonight. The knowledge rang in his head, pushing out nearly every other thought. But Cardon was right. King Newlan needed to be told.

  A quarter hour later, once Clare and Vera were settled back into bed and guarded by Wilf, Cardon, and Venn, Bennick finally faced the king.

  Newlan was livid. “How did this happen?” he hissed.

  Bennick stood rigidly, head bowed. Not many were allowed in the king’s personal suite, and Bennick had never been at the center of attention in this room. His skin prickled with the awareness that his position—even his life—was currently under scrutiny. “Sire, I take full responsibility.”

  King Newlan towered over him, wearing a green robe. His hair was rumpled from interrupted sleep, his face red and twisted with rage. Commander Markam stood beside the king, still in uniform even at this late hour. Prince Grandeur stood on the king’s other side. Serene wasn’t present. Bennick assumed it was the king’s attempt to protect the princess. Bennick had no doubt she’d learn about the attack soon enough, and she’d probably be furious about being left in the dark.

  Newlan’s hands curled at his sides. “How did the poison get into her room?”

  “The Night Sigh was dusted on the lilacs,” Bennick said. “The maids didn’t notice, nor did my men.”

  “Inexcusable! Such an obvious poison should have never slipped past you!”

  Bennick swallowed, shoulders rigid, head still ducked. “I will make a full investigation. We’ll increase security on the princess’s suite.”

  “Which maid placed the flowers in the room?” the king demanded.

  Bennick swallowed tightly. “Vera Smallwood, but she’s not to blame. Not only is she a trusted maid that almost succumbed to the poison herself, she also knew Serene wasn’t sleeping there. This attack must have come from someone who doesn’t know about the decoy.”

  “Where did the flowers come from?” the commander asked, speaking for the first time.

  Bennick grit his teeth as he always did when he heard his father’s voice. “The market in Iden. Serene’s head maid, Bridget, has used the same supplier for years.”

  King Newlan eyed Commander Markam. “You will open an investigation of this merchant. And I want to know everyone who had access to the flowers.”

  The commander bowed.

  “Night Sigh is native to Mortise,” Grandeur said quietly.

  The king shot a look at his son. “You think a Mortisian was behind this?”

  “Anyone could have purchased Night Sigh, but I think the connection bears thinking about.” The prince hesitated, then added, “Emissary Havim was overheard the other day venting his frustration with some of the betrothal terms.”

  Commander Markam’s brows drew together. “He’s an emissary of peace. He wouldn’t be behind something like this. It doesn’t make sense.”

  “We can’t make accusations against the emissary,” Newlan said firmly. “This could have easily been the rebels.”

  “Poison isn’t their usual method,” Commander Markam mused. “With the betrothal now public, it could be anyone. An upset noble or merchant could have hired an assassin.” He glanced at the king. “The danger was anticipated—thus, the decoy.”

  “Anticipated, yes,” the king allowed. “But I didn’t expect an assassin to make it into her room.” His eyes cut back to Bennick. “You failed me tonight.”

  Commander Markam cleared his throat. “Your Majesty, I think the captain’s successes should be taken into account. He and his men have avoided several attempts since the decoy—”

  “It only takes one failure,” Newlan cut in.

  Bennick avoided his father’s gaze, keeping his eyes trained on the king. He should probably be grateful for the commander’s defense of him. Instead, he just felt an irritated prickle at the back of his neck.

  Newlan’s jaw flexed as he pinned Bennick with a dark stare. “Your laxity could have cost me the decoy. Our time is too short—we wouldn’t be able to prepare another one in time.” His eyes narrowed. “If you can’t protect her in a fortified castle, how will you do so on the journey to Mortise?”

  The question churned Bennick’s gut, because he’d been wondering the same thing.

  Chapter 17

  Grayson

  Grayson pushed into the empty butcher shop, dragging mud across the dusty floor. None of the streets in the mountain villages were paved and many had been washed-out with the melting snows. Gevell was no different. This remote village was just as desolate and cold as the others, and his boots were three times their weight due to the clinging mud. Grayson’s feet were wet. Mountain air had stung his face raw and his lips were cracked. No cloak was thick enough to protect against the constant time spent outdoors.

  For over a week, Grayson had entered village after village, and every time it was the same. People saw the band of soldiers coming, the Black Hand riding at the head, and they fled into their homes. They were terrified, but they couldn’t hide. Grayson approached every door, demanding the king’s tax. Their faces blurred, as did the villages. All the buildings were constructed of logs and stone, with the spice of pine and the stench of poverty clinging to everything.

  Captain Reeve’s boots thumped behind him, stomping off bits of snow and mud. “This shop was raided a long time ago.”

  Grayson eyed the space, forced to agree. A butcher’s counter, stained with old blood, stood bare near the side wall. Broken crates and tools had been left strewn about the shop and some floorboards had rotted through, proving the shop hadn’t been in good repair even when operational. Dust covered every surface and cobwebs dangled from the rafters. Anything of value had been stripped.

  “The butcher is long gone,” Grayson said. “There’s nothing here to collect.”

  Reeve ignored him, moving toward a corner stacked with empty crates. He crouched, and when he rose, he held a child’s ball in his hand. “There’s no dust on this. Someone was here recently.”

  Grayson plucked a cobweb that swung near his face and let it flutter to the ground. He glanced pointedly at Reeve. “The shop is deserted.”

  Reeve looked to a soldier near the open door. “Find someone from the village. I want to question them.”

  The soldier hesitated, glancing at Grayson.

  Grayson barely bit back a sigh, but he knew by now Reeve would not be diverted. He flicked a hand and the soldier darted to follow Reeve’s order. “You’re wasting time,” Grayson told the captain. “A child probably came in to play and left it.”

  Reeve fingered the ball. “This belongs to a small child. One who couldn’t be left unsupervised. An adult was with them here. Recently.”

  “And you think the child belongs to the butcher?” Grayson snorted. “The man’s long gone.”

  Reeve’s features pinched.
“There are times, Prince Grayson, when you don’t seem wholly committed to our task.”

  That he dared suggest such a thing to Grayson’s face proved Reeve was Henri’s spy, and thus had his protection. That knowledge kept Grayson from snapping. “I grow tired of the mountains.” He tried to sound bored instead of desperate. They’d been gone from Lenzen for over a week. He missed Mia and he was sick of taking coin from hands that had nothing to give.

  Reeve lightly bounced the ball in his hand. “Word has spread to the other villages. People are fleeing from us. We should divide our forces. I’ll finish here and you could take a group of men to the next village before they can hide.”

  As much as he’d like to put distance between himself and Reeve, he feared the damage Reeve would inflict without supervision. “No.”

  Reeve frowned, but the soldier who had left returned with a gray-haired man. The man’s misty eyes darted from Grayson to Reeve and back again. He bowed his head, wiping a shaking hand over his mouth. “Your Highness.”

  Grayson locked his knees, arms crossed over his chest. “Tell me what you know of the butcher named Hogan.”

  The old man’s throat bobbed. “Branton Hogan died six months ago.”

  “What happened to his business?”

  He shrugged, glancing around. “Fell apart, didn’t it?”

  “Who inherited this shop?” Grayson asked.

  “He had a brother, but I don’t know where he lives.”

  Captain Reeve stepped forward. “Did he have a wife? Children?”

  The neighbor eyed the ball in Reeve’s hand. “He did. They left Gevell just after the burial.”

  “Where did they go?” Reeve pressed.

  “I don’t know.”

  Grayson’s gaze wandered to the shop’s back room. The door sagged on its hinges, unable to close completely. Through the narrow opening he caught a shadow of movement and his heart thudded faster. Someone was back there, watching them. Hiding.

  Whoever it was would be punished for evasion—or squatting—if they were discovered. Grayson made an impulsive decision as he focused back on the nervous old man. “Thank you for your help. You may—”