Vera saw the steadiness in Clare’s eyes and read the thoughts there. Her features pinched. “You think Wilf had something to do with this?”
Clare swallowed past the dryness in her throat. “As a guard he has access to the room. He was on duty when the Night Sigh was brought in. And he seemed to know where to purchase those spiders.”
“That doesn’t make any sense,” she protested softly. “Wilf is a trusted bodyguard!”
“Doesn’t he make you uneasy?”
“Of course! He’s terrifying. But he’s no traitor.”
Ice needled through Clare’s veins. “He doesn’t want the alliance.”
“He’s not alone in that,” Vera pointed out. “People are fighting in the streets about it.”
“But he’s unstable—volatile. I watched him attack Bennick, Venn, and Cardon on the training field.” Not to mention she still clearly remembered the fury in his gaze as he’d strangled her the night she’d saved Serene’s life.
What if Wilf’s anger hadn’t been because he thought Clare was one of the assassins, but because she’d saved Serene’s life? What if Wilf had been allied with the assassins? Would he go that far to stop the peace? Did his hatred run that deep?
Vera shook her head. “It doesn’t make sense. Wilf can’t be trying to kill Serene—he knows you were the one in that bed.”
She nodded slowly. “You’re right. But if I die and he can frame Mortise, then the peace is ruined. And he wouldn’t even have to sacrifice Serene to do it. Just me.”
“You’re forgetting something,” Vera said.
“What?”
Vera eyed her. “Bennick trusts Wilf. Don’t you trust Bennick?”
“Of course I trust Bennick. But I know what Wilf means to him. He may not see things clearly.”
“And you do?” she asked.
Clare had no answer. Adrenaline still spiked through her and she wasn’t sure if it sharpened her thoughts or made her jump at shadows.
But when Bennick and the others stepped out of the bedroom, declaring it safe, Clare couldn’t ignore the prickle that rushed over her skin when her stare connected with Wilf’s.
Something dark lived in his eyes, and it stared back at her.
Chapter 22
Eliot
The Thorn was packed tonight. People swarmed the common room, voices booming, and music poured from the musicians in the corner. There were no empty tables, so Eliot stood against the back wall. With the King’s Ball set for tomorrow night, the whole city was in a festive mood.
Eliot couldn’t fight his scowl as Michael, his best friend, went to grab them drinks at the crowded bar. He’d been scowling since he’d received the letter from Clare, each word pounding inside his skull. Snatches of it repeated constantly. I’m doing well. The princess’s bodyguards have my confidence.
Eliot didn’t trust anyone to keep Clare safe in that den of vipers—certainly not the princess’s lead bodyguard, Markam.
Don’t worry. I’m safe.
She wasn’t safe. Eliot knew the danger anyone close to the princess faced. Fates, the same day Clare had left to live at the castle, Eliot had learned about an attack on a royal carriage. He’d known it was the carriage that had taken her away. He’d quizzed his captain in the city guard until he’d learned that a castle maid had been involved in the attack, but that she had escaped with her life.
Eliot hadn’t had a good night’s sleep since.
“Are you going to tell me what’s bothering you?” Michael asked, his voice rising over the din.
Eliot straightened and accepted the offered tankard. He’d been so distracted by his thoughts he hadn’t noticed Michael’s return. “Nothing. I’m fine.”
Michael was a head taller than Eliot and his accent was slightly rounded from growing up near Mortise. He had a thicker build and lighter skin, but they were brothers in all but blood. His brown hair curled over his brow, nearly shielding his green eyes. He usually wore a grin, but at the moment his square face was pulled into a frown. Eliot hated lying to him, but he didn’t want Michael to know about Clare’s new position in the castle.
When Michael continued to eye him, Eliot snorted. “It’s nothing. One of my moods. You know me.”
“I do, which is why I’m worried.” Michael shifted, thumbing the mug’s worn handle. “You’ve been moody for weeks. If the concern is more coin for your family, I’ve always said you can take some of my wages.”
Eliot took a sip of the biting drink. Temptation licked at him, but he knew Clare wouldn’t reconsider, even if he could give her more coin. She was too stubborn. “No, thank you.”
Michael’s brow furrowed, but he didn’t press. Eliot took another swallow and the ale warmed through him, bringing him muted peace like a good drink always did.
Men shifted around them, laughing and bellowing at each other, elbows and shoulders knocking. Eliot shielded his drink from a red-faced man who staggered close, and by the time he passed, Geflin and Paven were standing before them, gripping drinks of their own.
Eliot straightened. The ale he’d drunk settled in his empty stomach and exacerbated the hollowness that had been there since he’d read Clare’s letter, but he needed to put that from his mind and focus on the issue at hand—because certainly, there was an issue. Paven and Geflin wouldn’t have arranged this meeting otherwise.
Geflin was middle-aged with ample muscle covering his body. He was a blacksmith who did occasional work in the castle prison. He smelled like his smithy—smoke, metal, and leather. His wild red hair and thick beard drew as much attention as his size, but the glances were passing. He made people nervous, even when he edged out a smile.
Paven was older, his gray hair gathered at the nape of his neck in a short ponytail, and wrinkles framed his eyes. He’d been a soldier before losing his arm during a bout of border violence with Mortise. The stump ended just below his shoulder. His captain had given him a handful of coins, courtesy of the king, and he was required to turn in his uniform. A soldier without a sword arm was useless. He hadn’t been able to find decent work since.
“You weren’t followed?” Geflin asked, his voice barely heard over the crowd’s roar. There was a reason they met here; any private conversation was lost in the roaring noise of the tavern.
“No,” Michael assured him.
Paven darted a look around, but no one paid them any attention. They were a rugged group of men like any other collected in the room. “As you know, our last attempt against the princess failed.”
“It should have worked,” Geflin muttered. “The keys I made were good. The princess must have had an increased guard, even for walking down the fates-blasted hallway.”
Eliot threw back another drink, wincing as it burned his throat. He’d known the rebels had been planning a strike, but he hadn’t known his sister would stumble into it. It was a fates-blessing she hadn’t been hurt, but it had gotten her into a mess, hadn’t it? Now she was the princess’s blasted maid. Guilt soured on his tongue.
Paven ignored Geflin’s muttering. “We’ve been blessed with a new opportunity.”
Michael perked up, anticipation lending a rasp to his voice. “You have a mission for us?”
“Nothing concrete,” Paven said, shooting another look around—he was always wary. “We can’t risk using you too soon.” Because Eliot and Michael were soldiers. Valuable. Their time would come. “For the first time in two years, we have an opportunity to recruit someone close to the princess.”
Geflin took a pull from his tankard, then spoke just over the swarm of noise. “She has a new maid.”
Every part of Eliot locked. His body. His breath. His thoughts. The common room rippled with bodies and laughter, but it was muted to his ears.
The rebels knew about Clare.
Eliot wanted to curse the fates, or Clare—or, better still, himself. He should have realized the rebels would find out. They were always looking for any change around the princess.
The others seemed ob
livious to his stiffening. “What do we know about her?” Michael asked, his green eyes nearly glowing in the lamplight.
“Not much,” Paven said. “That’s where you come in.”
“Use your palace connections to ask some basic questions,” Geflin said. “We want to know who she is, who her family is, where her sympathies lie. If she can be turned or bought—” He grinned a little. “Or threatened.”
Eliot’s jaw hardened, but Michael nodded beside him. “I’ll play dice with Bevins tomorrow and ask what he knows about her.”
Bevins wasn’t a rebel, but he was an idiot. The palace guardsman didn’t know it, but he was one of their best informants.
“Don’t rush this,” Paven said. “We want results, but we want good ones. Ever since the princess’s marriage was announced, we’ve been plotting the best options. This girl could play into our plans nicely.”
A war rioted inside Eliot. He wanted to go to Clare now and demand she go home. But he’d already tried every persuasion he could—what else could he do to convince her, short of telling her about his involvement with the rebels? He couldn’t do that. It would put her in danger, and he couldn’t betray the rebellion.
He could tell the rebels that Clare was his sister. If he did, they might feel more confident that she would join the cause. They wouldn’t hurt her. Or would they? The rebels could be ruthless—they had to be, to fight a ruthless king. But if Eliot kept silent, Clare would surely get hurt. The rebels would try to recruit her, and if that failed . . .
His eyes drifted to Geflin and Paven, his body tightening. There was no easy answer. And whatever he did right now would carry serious consequences. Silence, or confession? Neither one felt right.
“Eliot?” Michael frowned at him, finally picking up on his tension.
He forced his teeth to unclench. “I’m fine.”
Geflin’s eyes narrowed. “You don’t look fine.”
Paven’s mouth also tugged into a frown. “I can see your thoughts spinning, boy. Let’s hear them.”
Eliot lowered his mug, fingers clenched around the worn handle. The danger surrounding Clare was growing. He had to protect her, at least from the rebels. “The new maid is my sister.”
Shock splashed their faces, but the emotions that crossed afterward varied. Hurt flashed in Michael’s eyes; Paven began to smile, and Geflin eyed him with suspicion. “Why didn’t you come to us about this?” the blacksmith asked roughly.
“I only just found out,” Eliot lied, his throat dry despite all he’d drunk.
“Do you think she would join our cause?” Paven asked.
“Yes.” Another lie. Clare wouldn’t be able to stomach the grittiness of the rebellion, and Eliot would never put her in that position. But they didn’t need to know that. “I can sway her to our side, but I need time.” Time to convince her to return home.
Geflin scowled, but Paven nodded. “We can offer whatever assistance you need.”
“Thank you,” Eliot said.
It wasn’t long before Paven wandered away. A few minutes later, it was Geflin’s turn. Before leaving, he pinned Eliot with a look. “I eagerly await your report, Slaton.” Warning edged his words, but Eliot ignored that.
Once they were alone, Michael turned on him. “You just lied through your teeth!”
“I don’t know what you’re—”
He choked on a hoarse laugh. “You’ll recruit her? We both know you won’t.” He shook his head. “You’re walking the edge of treason.”
Eliot snorted. “That’s sort of expected in a rebel.”
“This isn’t a joke.”
“No,” he agreed. “This is my sister’s life.”
A man hooted across the room and bursts of laughter rose.
Michael hesitated, dropping his voice even lower. “We’ve never had anyone that close to the princess. She wouldn’t have to do anything dangerous. Just leave a door unlocked, or pass us information.”
“No. I’m going to convince her to go back home.”
Michael stiffened. “You’ve known for weeks. That’s why you’ve been so irritable. You tried to convince her to leave, but she wouldn’t listen.”
“That holds no bearing—”
“Of course it does! She isn’t going home. Don’t you want to make her as safe as possible?”
“You think recruiting her will keep her safe?”
“If she knows about the attacks, she’ll know what to avoid.”
“My sister isn’t a traitor. She doesn’t have what it takes to make those decisions. To sacrifice people. Recruiting her would be a mistake.”
Michael exhaled sharply, reluctant acceptance in the sound. “Paven and Geflin will expect a report.”
“I’ll stall for time until I can convince her to leave.”
Michael used his free hand to rub his temple. “This is going to bite you faster than a rabid dog.”
“Better me than her.”
Michael’s hand dropped suddenly. He blinked. “Oh, fates.”
Eliot’s defenses rose, tension flooding him. “What?”
He glanced at Eliot, mouth pursed.
Unease danced up Eliot’s spine. “What?”
“Trust me, it won’t improve your mood.”
“Michael . . .”
He exhaled slowly. “I think I saw your sister today, on the training field. I thought maybe it was just another castle maid, but now I think on it, she resembled you.”
Eliot’s blood chilled. His sister was on the training field, squaring off against a soldier who was probably double her size? But then, he should have realized she’d be trained; every direct servant to the royals learned to fight, in case they were required as a last line of defense.
Eliot pinched the bridge of his nose. “Perhaps it’s a good thing. Maybe this will convince her of the danger.”
Michael sipped at his drink, gaze wandering.
Eliot’s scalp prickled. “What aren’t you telling me?”
His friend eyed him. “I saw who she was training with. It . . . it was Markam.”
The name hit Eliot with all the power of a boulder. He was a little surprised he didn’t stumble back. Sparks of anger and protectiveness leapt over his skin, tightening every nerve in his body. His tone darkened. “Did he hurt her?”
Michael searched Eliot’s hard face, caution sparking in his eyes. “Not that I saw.”
That didn’t reassure him. The image of Markam coming at his sister, even with a practice blade, infuriated him. Markam had already hurt Clare, Eliot was sure of it.
His vision hazed red and he shoved his free hand through his hair, cursing. He needed to get her out of there. Away from the princess and the rebels—and from Markam.
Chapter 23
Grayson
Every muscle in Grayson’s body ached, but as he made his way down into the castle dungeon, his stiff movements came faster. It was late, but he was home. He’d made a rapid report to his father before leaving Reeve to make his private report to the king. He prayed Reeve wouldn’t mention his suspicions about Grayson saving the Hogan family. After saving Reeve’s life, he hoped the captain would keep that between them—a lie for a life.
Whatever happened, he’d deal with it later. Right now, he needed to see Mia.
Fletcher said nothing as he unlocked the cell door and Grayson stepped inside the dimly lit room. His eyes hadn’t even adjusted before he was hit with Mia’s body. Her arms swung around his neck and he latched onto her, holding them both steady. His throat was tight; no words could squeeze out. He buried his head in her shoulder, inhaling her lavender and jasmine scent and warming his bristled jaw against her smooth cheek. His hand slid up and down her spine, bringing her even closer.
She squeezed him so hard her slender arms trembled. “I missed you so much,” she said, voice cracking.
A muscle feathered along his jaw. He pressed his forehead into the curve of her neck and shoulder. Her skin was soft and hot against his chilled body. “I missed you,
too.”
Mia continued to crush herself against him, arms locked around his neck, a frantic edge spiking her words. “I had so many nightmares. I saw you die.” Her breathing hitched. “You could have died and I’d never know. No one would tell me. I—I can’t lose you. I’ll go mad, I know I will. What if you never came back?”
The panic fraying her voice forced him to pull back. He held her face in his hands and thumbed away the tears that leaked from her wild brown eyes. “Mia, I’m fine. I’m here. I’ll always come back to you.”
“I can’t go back to a life without you,” she whispered, blinking rapidly. “I can’t.” A shudder wracked her body.
A bolt of unease shot down Grayson’s spine. He slid his hand up to her brow, and even through his leather glove, heat warmed his palm. His heartbeat stuttered. He tore his glove off with his teeth and pressed the back of his bare hand to her forehead.
She was hot with fever.
He swore. He should have realized it sooner. Would have, if not for the chill still in his bones and his cursed gloves. Grayson swept her into his arms, cradling her against his chest. Her grip around his neck didn’t loosen and her tears fell against his shirt as she continued to cry.
“Fletcher!” he roared.
The lock fumbled before the door swung open. The old guard’s eyes rounded at the sight of them.
Grayson strode forward. “Out of my way,” he barked.
The old guard’s throat bobbed, but he held his ground in blocking the doorway. Grayson might have been impressed, if he wasn’t ready to snap the guard’s neck.
“What’s wrong with her?” Fletcher asked.
Grayson grit his teeth. “She has a fever.”
The old man’s eyes darted over Mia, frowning. “That can be treated here, by her caretaker. Those are the king’s orders.”
Grayson’s nostrils flared. His rage was only partially for the man in front of him. Years ago, Grayson had once begged Henri for a physician to tend Mia—she’d been throwing up, unable to eat anything. His father had made it clear no resources were to be wasted on Mia unless she was on her deathbed. Henri had also kept Grayson so busy with extra training he couldn’t be with her while she struggled to recover with Mama’s sporadic care.
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