Royal Decoy (Fate of Eyrinthia Book 1)

by Heather Frost

  “Sir?” Bennick’s eyes cut to the page, who shuffled his feet impatiently. “It’s probably dry now.”

  Bennick’s fingers pinched the stiff paper. For a brief moment, he thought he wouldn’t give it up. Then he handed the letters to the page. The boy turned to leave, but before he could reach the door, the question leapt free. “Which letter did you read?”

  The page twisted around. “I didn’t read it, Captain. Honest.”

  Bennick forced his expression to loosen. “You’re not in any trouble, but do you remember which one?”

  Obviously fearing a reprimand, the boy moved slowly as he lifted Slaton’s letter.

  Bennick’s heart thumped a little faster. “Did you see how she began the letter?”

  “Just the man’s name. Eliot.”

  She called him Eliot. They were familiar, then.

  Bennick swallowed, though his voice remained a little too tight. “Did you see how her signature went? You mentioned she signed it.”

  “She did, sir. Just with her name.” He paused. “Well, she said, ‘Much love, Clare’.”

  Bennick dug in his pocket and tossed a coin to the boy, and as he dashed off, Bennick raked a hand through his hair. The image of Slaton’s name written in Clare’s hand was seared into his mind. Why would she be corresponding with him?

  Much love, Clare.

  The obvious reason soured his stomach.

  Chapter 20

  Grayson

  Grayson steered his horse up the narrow mountain path, soldiers riding in front and behind him. Steep inclines were edged with drifts of crusted snow and dead leaves sprang up on both sides of the trail. Tree branches hung over the road, a mix of skeletal oaks and heavy pine boughs. White, gray, and dark green were the prominent colors in the winter-locked mountains, but the weeds along the ice-edged river bled with muted red, dull gold, and brittle brown. Breath misted in the sharp morning air from both man and beast. Hooves clopped, leather creaked, and soldiers talked and laughed with each other.

  They should reach the next village by nightfall, where Grayson would once again enforce his father’s tax. It was a never-ending cycle and he was beyond ready to return to Lenzen—to Mia.

  During these long rides his thoughts drifted to the small family he’d saved in Gevell. He remembered the tears of gratitude welling in the mother’s tired eyes. The eight-year-old boy’s quirk of a smile, his insistence that he would be like Grayson someday. Fates willing, they’d made it to Kevid and the mother had found a physician for herself and the littlest boy.

  Sometimes when Grayson squeezed his fist, he could still feel the small ball in his hand. It made the corner of his mouth lift. What he’d done didn’t make up for all the wrongs he committed in his father’s name, but it was a piece of rebellion he could always hold.

  Reeve nudged his horse beside Grayson’s. “I’d hoped we’d turn a higher profit for His Majesty.” Reeve had grown more hot-tempered since losing the Hogan family in Gevell. He was quick to snap at the soldiers and Grayson had felt the man’s glare more than once when he thought Grayson wasn’t looking. “I pray the king will be understanding,” the captain continued. “I won’t have this held against me.”

  Grayson sighed. “I’m sure the promotion you crave will be yours soon.” His father had a habit of rewarding evil.

  “It can’t come soon enough.” Reeve shifted on his horse, the sunlight coming through the pine boughs catching the emerald in his uniform. “The great war is coming. I intend to be in a position of importance when it does.”

  The war. Soldiers whispered about the anticipated conflict like it was a prayer. As if the battle was a holy rite, a chance for Ryden to correct all the generational wrongs done by Devendra and Mortise. Grayson hoped the war remained unrealized. He didn’t think his blackening soul would survive it.

  “My grandfather was a general,” Reeve continued. “A hero in the Battle of Sine. He raised me to live up to his legend, and I intend to.”

  Tension climbed up Grayson’s back, as much from Reeve’s tone as his topic. The Battle of Sine had been a horrific massacre of innocents. It wasn’t anything to be proud of. The city’s only crime was unknowingly harboring Mortisian spies. And Grayson’s grandfather had ordered the deaths of nearly every man, woman, and child in the city.

  “Serving with the Black Hand will elevate my status,” Reeve said. “But only if we’re successful.” His eyes drifted to the daggers on Grayson’s belt. “Those are fine weapons. They’d do well in a close fight.”

  The hairs on Grayson’s arms rose. Reeve couldn’t know about his involvement in the Hogans’ escape. If he had identified Grayson, he would have accused him days ago.

  Grayson forced his voice to remain level. “They’ve proven effective many times.”

  Reeve opened his mouth, but he didn’t have a chance to reply. A startling roar ripped through the air and men poured down the steep slopes by the road, an array of weapons in their hands. Hunting bows. Rusted swords. Hoes. Rocks.

  Peasants were attacking the patrol.

  Grayson fisted the reins, jerking his horse to a stop. He barked orders, heart slamming as he twisted his mount around. The soldiers were well-trained; swords were drawn, bows were raised. When the peasants reached them, soldiers swung weapons from atop their mounts. The horses were just as trained as the men—they didn’t flee, even as they tossed their heads and pawed the ground while the battle raged around them.

  The violent frenzy chilled Grayson’s blood even as his body flashed with heat. He fought alongside the soldiers, though the patrol was horribly outnumbered. Grayson was soon surrounded, and though he spun his sword and hacked at the men trying to kill him, his cloak was snatched from behind and he was dragged off his horse.

  He crashed onto his back on the muddy road, the breath knocked out of his lungs. He blinked, vision hazing, then sharpening. A savage face hung over him. It was a middle-aged man with long red hair tangled around his face. The peasant reared back, a bloody axe clutched in his hands. With a roar, the man plunged the axe down, toward Grayson’s chest.

  Grayson rolled. He felt the swipe of the axe as it blurred past him and slammed into the earth. The attacker jerked the axe free, dead leaves fluttering in the air, but Grayson lunged before he could swing again. He buried a knife in the man’s side, all the way to the hilt. He watched as the man crumpled—a threat, then nothing. The axe thumped harmlessly to the ground.

  Grayson’s chest rose and fell sharply and his nostrils flared. Crouched low on the road, he clutched the bloody knife. Howls and screams cut through the crisp mountain air. Swords slashed and struck, the familiar crash of weapons and bodies locked in furious struggle. Horses snorted, keened, and pounded their hooves.

  A twig snapped.

  Grayson whirled, thrusting his dagger into a peasant’s abdomen before the man could run him through with a rusted blade. When the man fell, Grayson saw a young soldier fumbling to draw his sword, two peasants cornering him against a pine.

  Grayson darted forward. He swung his sword and his dagger flashed. Two more men fell, dead.

  The soldier stared at him with rounded eyes and a sweaty forehead. He clutched his sword, still half in the sheath, and gulped. He couldn’t have been more than fifteen years old.

  Grayson ground his teeth. Weakness would get them both killed. “Draw your sword,” he snarled. “Kill them or die.”

  The soldier jerked a nod, using both hands to yank out his blade.

  Grayson spun, cutting through the next attacker and the next. He used every skill his family had ever beat into him. This is what he’d been trained to do and any other thought had no place here. He focused on his actions—the balance in his stance, the flex and release of his muscles as he swung his sword, stabbed with his dagger, bent away from an enemy’s blow only to swing back around and end them.

  Time blurred, but he knew it passed. The fight was waning. Even though the peasants outnumbered them, they were no match against trained so
ldiers. Against him.

  As the battle eased, Grayson’s eyes swept the scene. He tracked the last skirmishes, noted the fallen horses, the bodies of soldiers and peasants strewn across the road.

  He watched as Reeve was kicked to the ground. His sword flew from his hand, bouncing out of reach. The captain blinked, clearly dazed from the fall. The peasant stood over him, pitchfork raised, ready to shove it into Reeve’s unprotected gut.

  There was a moment of hesitation. A split second of pause before Grayson lunged, driving his long sword through the peasant’s back.

  The man seized, muscles locking before he fell, sliding off the blade.

  Reeve inhaled raggedly. He gaped up at Grayson, lip bloody, fists pressed into the ground. His eyes were still flooded with terror but shock edged in, lined with relief.

  Grayson tightened his hold on his bloody weapons, knuckles flaring with pain. He stared down at Reeve, his expression hard, but he didn’t respond to the silent question in Reeve’s gaze. He turned on his heel and walked away, leaving the captain staring after him.

  Chapter 21

  Clare

  Clare’s fingers danced over her loose braid, feet dragging a little as she made her way to Serene’s large bed. The scent of lilacs pervaded the room, reminding her of the Night Sigh that had been masked by the heavy perfume. Several days had passed, but fear still stabbed whenever she thought of that night.

  Vera always offered to assist Clare into bed, but even after a month at the castle, Clare preferred to do it herself. She pulled the quilt down and slid into the soft bed, yawning before she blew out the bedside lamp. The afterglow of the flame remained in her vision as she blinked and laid against the many pillows, letting the darkness pool around her. She pushed most of the pillows away and curled on her side, her arms stretched out with one hand resting beneath a satin pillow.

  Something brushed her curled fingertips.

  A chill tracked down her spine. She jerked her hand out from under the pillow, fingers dancing over her prickling skin, but she found nothing.

  Rubbing out the uncomfortable feeling, Clare slowly pushed up in the bed. A chill lifted the hairs on her arms. She half-expected to see a deeper shadow in the darkness—an assassin standing over her, dagger raised. Her pulse kicked, instincts screaming. Her palms were braced against the mattress, senses straining against the heavy darkness and oppressive silence.

  A gentle tap hit against the smallest finger on her left hand.

  Clare snatched her hand away and slid to the edge of the bed, fumbling for the bedside lamp. With shaking hands she managed to light the wick and light flooded the room.

  Clare froze when she saw the spider curled beside her pillow.

  It was huge. Easily the size of her spread hand and nearly as thick. The brown spider sat so still, yet somehow Clare knew it could move lightning fast. Lungs locked, she slid slowly back, only shifting one muscle at a time. Panic keened inside her. A whimper stuck in her sealed throat—she didn’t dare scream.

  Then she felt a horrible brush against her ankle, and she stopped breathing. Terror choked her, because she could feel the long, hairy legs scrape over her skin, moving up her leg.

  There was a second spider.

  Instinct begged her to kick, scream, shake free of the blankets, but a deeper instinct held her immobile. Fear, yes, but also a whisper of reason that told her one false move could kill her. These spiders weren’t from Devendra, and if they were in her bed—the princess’s bed—she could only imagine the terrible venom they carried.

  Trembling, Clare bit her lip until she tasted blood. Her white-knuckled fists were pressed into the bed beside her and her eyes darted between the spider still waiting beside her pillow to her sheet-covered leg, and finally the closed door that sealed her in the room.

  “Help.” It was a croak, but even that slight noise made the spider next to her skitter, legs grasping the rumpled sheet.

  Tears burned Clare’s eyes and slipped down her cheeks, but she didn’t brush them away. Everything in her world focused on the feel of that large spider slowly dragging up her bare leg. When it reached the slight curve of her knee, it hesitated. The spider’s weight wasn’t much, but it was everything. The spider brushed tentatively at the twisted hem of her nightgown. Clare could actually see the thin sheet rustle as the spider tried to navigate the best way to continue its climb.

  From the corner of her eye, the other spider moved. Her heart crashed in her chest and her lungs strained. It was crawling for her fist. She had to move. She couldn’t have two of those monsters touching her.

  At the same time the spider’s first leg brushed her knuckles, the spider on her knee slid, dropping off her. It thumped against the mattress, but that was lost in the sound of Clare’s scream. She tore from the bed, ripping away from the sheet and the spiders. Her shoulder slammed into the wall and her bare feet burned against the cold stone floor.

  She was still screaming, shoving her hands over her arms, her legs, her hair—she had to scrub the tingling sensations away. Phantom spiders were crawling all over her, and no matter how hard she rubbed her skin, the prickling remained. Breath shuddered out of her, hitching her sobs.

  “Clare!” The bedroom door banged open and Bennick’s gaze sliced over the room, snagging on her. Two strides and he was in front of her, grasping her shoulders. “What happened? What’s wrong?”

  Her hands knotted in his shirt, gripping him so tightly her fingertips were already going numb. Her cry had pinched off, but she couldn’t speak.

  Wilf and Venn barreled into the room. Clare knew when they saw the danger, because they both drew up short.

  “Holy fates!” Venn cursed.

  Bennick jerked his head around, following Venn’s eyes to the bed. His hold on her spasmed and he swore as he twisted back on Clare. “Were you bitten?”

  She wrenched her eyes away from the bed and stared into Bennick’s panicked eyes. She managed to shake her head, but words were still beyond her.

  His fingers flexed around her arms. “Kill it,” he snapped at Venn.

  “You kill it!” he spluttered.

  “Venn—”

  Wilf shoved around Venn and slammed his dagger straight through the spider’s middle. The many legs jerked, but the spider couldn’t bolt—it was pinned to the bed.

  “Ogai,” he grunted. “One bite will kill a grown man.”

  Venn’s eyes bugged. “And you just killed it like it was nothing? Are you insane?”

  A shiver ripped through Clare and Bennick’s hold tightened, one arm banding around her waist. She couldn’t stop shaking. “Another,” she gasped.

  Bennick tensed. “What?”

  “There’s another,” she said, speaking past the bile that burned her throat.

  Wilf snagged the blankets and ripped them off the bed. As the linen fluttered, his dagger flashed again, slamming down.

  Clare shuddered and Bennick cupped her face. “Clare, look at me.” Her eyes slid to his dark gaze. She’d never seen his jaw so rigid. “Are you sure you weren’t bitten?”

  “I’m fine.” She sucked in a breath and tightened her hold on his uniform.

  Bennick’s hands dropped, but didn’t leave her. They brushed over her shoulders, her arms, her back, checking to make sure nothing clung to her. His perusal was quick and sure, ending only after he’d stroked a hand through her loose hair. “You’re safe,” he whispered.

  Her body shook and she planted her forehead against his chest, sagging against him. His hand wrapped around the back of her head, holding her there against his drumming heart.

  Bennick lifted his chin. “I’ve never heard of an Ogai spider. How did you know it, Wilf?”

  The bedding stopped flying as Wilf finished his search. “I saw my share while fighting in Mortise,” he said, his voice a low rumble that filled the room. “It was long ago, but the Ogai is hard to forget.”

  Clare shuddered. Fates, how would she ever sleep in this bed again?

  “So
meone tried to kill Serene with demon spiders from Mortise.” Venn’s swallow was audible. “Where would one even find them in Devendra?”

  “The shadow markets,” Wilf said at once. “You can buy anything in Lower Iden if you know who to ask.”

  Bennick eased back from Clare, fingers brushing her wet cheek, prompting her to look up. “Go with Vera. We’ll search the entire room.”

  Clare finally noticed Vera standing inside the room, her blonde braid resting over her shoulder. The maid’s eyes were locked on Wilf, who stood beside the bed, dagger lifted, the second spider still skewered on his blade. Clare’s belly lurched, but it wasn’t the dead spider that chilled her blood. It was the feral gleam in Wilf’s eyes.

  “Clare?”

  Her gaze flew to Bennick. Concern bled from him but she managed to pull away from his comforting hold. “I’m fine,” she whispered, though fates knew she wasn’t.

  His eyebrows drew together but he didn’t question her. She slid past him, grateful to reach Vera, who wrapped an arm around her back and helped draw her from the bedroom.

  They sat on the settee in the sitting room, a single lamp glowing in the dark. Clare pulled her feet up, knees pressed against her chest. Her toes curled into the cushion, safe off the floor, and a tremor shook her. Her thoughts—which had been consumed by the terror of the spiders—were now racing. Tripping.

  Bennick, Wilf, and Venn spoke in low tones in the other room, their words an indistinguishable murmur.

  Vera’s face was pale in the semi-darkness. “First the Night Sigh, now this—how is someone getting so close?”

  Clare’s fingernails bit into her palms. “Wilf said the spiders are from Mortise.”

  “Night Sigh is, too,” Vera murmured. “Do you think that’s a coincidence?”

  Clare’s lips pursed. “Wilf knew about the spiders and he wasn’t afraid to kill them.”

  “Wilf isn’t afraid of anything,” the maid snorted.

  Clare’s expression didn’t change. Her thoughts were no longer jumbled, but perfectly clear.