Royal Decoy (Fate of Eyrinthia Book 1)

by Heather Frost

  “The rebels could deliver a message,” his friend said slowly. “It could be written in your hand. Make it clear if she doesn’t help us, you’ll be tortured. Killed. Would she help then?”

  For the first time today, Eliot worried he’d drunk too much. Because even though something inside him protested the thought of putting Clare in any sort of contact with the rebels, a larger part of him thrilled at this idea. Would she betray the princess—Markam—if it meant saving Eliot?

  He shouldn’t be tempted, but it was hard to think with ale swimming in his blood.

  Michael leaned in. “I’ll only take this plan to Paven if you’re willing, Eliot.”

  He stared at the stained table, scraping his forehead with the heel of one hand. He stared a long, long time before he gave his answer.

  Chapter 39

  Grayson

  “That’s new,” Liam said.

  “What?”

  “You. Smiling.”

  Grayson forced his mouth into a line. “I’m not.” But he had been. He’d been smiling every time he got lost in his thoughts and remembered Mia’s kisses.

  The corner of Liam’s mouth curved. “Very well. Keep your secrets.” He leaned back against the stone wall, his slumped posture at odds with the rigidness the other Kaelin princes stood with. Grayson knew Liam was no less dangerous, however.

  Grayson and Liam had been summoned by their father and they stood across from each other in the corridor outside the king’s study. Henri loved to keep people waiting.

  “That’s new, too.” Liam lifted his chin to the red slice on Grayson’s face. “Tyrell?”

  Grayson only grunted.

  Liam shook his head and twisted the armband on his wrist. Designs were pressed into the dark leather. Grayson couldn’t see well in the flickering light, but he thought they were twisting vines.

  “Tyrell sees you as a threat.” Liam eyed Grayson, his bearded face suddenly serious. “Enemies are all around you. Never forget that.”

  The door opened. Liam pushed from the wall and strode into the king’s study, leaving Grayson to trail him.

  Henri’s study was a wide room with a large dark blue carpet. Bookshelves were cradled in one corner, leaving the rest of the walls bare. Lamps hung on the walls and sat on the desk. There were no windows, since they were in the heart of the castle, but there were three exits, each guarded night and day against any intruders foolish enough to strike at the king. Maps of Ryden, Mortise, Zennor, and Devendra were strewn on a side table. The one on top was a heavily marked map showing the southern mountains in great detail, with villages, passes, and Devendran outposts all noted. The room was musty and smelled of leather, wood, and melted wax—his father had just sealed several letters.

  Grayson hated the trapped feel of the space. Without the vaulted ceiling of the throne room, King Henri loomed larger as he sat behind his enormous wooden desk.

  When Henri’s heavy gaze landed on Grayson, he was stabbed with the sudden fear that Iris had betrayed him—that Henri knew Grayson had aided the escape of Hogan’s wife and children. But if his father were going to punish him, surely Liam wouldn’t have been invited.

  Whatever Henri wanted, it concerned both his spymaster and his enforcer.

  Grayson and Liam paused before the desk and bowed before sitting in the empty chairs across from Henri.

  The king’s attention shifted to Liam. “I received a royal invitation this morning from Prince Desfan. He believes we’re considering peace talks and has invited our presence in his court. I’m sending you as emissary.”

  Liam dipped his head. “When do I leave?”

  “One week.” Henri’s gaze slid to Grayson. “You will accompany your brother.”

  His body flashed hot. “What?”

  “You will serve as Liam’s bodyguard in Mortise and do anything he asks.”

  Grayson’s muscles locked, a thousand protests on his tongue that he couldn’t speak. “How long will we be gone?”

  “I don’t expect it will be more than a year,” Henri said.

  His stomach dropped. “A year?”

  “Circumstances will dictate your mission’s timeframe.” Henri spread his hands on his desk, looking at both of his sons now. “Learn all you can in Mortise, influencing the court where you’re able. Create animosity between Mortise and Devendra without tipping your hand. When the time is right, Grayson will assassinate Princess Serene and frame Mortise for her death.”

  The order stole Grayson’s breath.

  Henri continued easily, as if he hadn’t just ordered a woman’s murder. “A war will ignite between the two kingdoms. They will weaken each other until they’re ripe for picking.”

  “It will work,” Liam murmured, fingers steepled against his mouth. “The distrust is there. We only need to fan the flames.”

  Henri glanced at Grayson. “Well?”

  It was a struggle to find his voice. “I don’t know if I’m ready for this.”

  The king’s eyebrows drew together. “You’re the Black Hand.” As if that answered everything.

  “I’ve never left Ryden,” Grayson said, his voice tight. “I don’t know enough about Mortise to help Liam.”

  “I’ll train you in the ways of the Mortisian court,” Liam said. “It will take us a month to travel to Duvan—two weeks by horse to the coast, then two more weeks by sea. You’ll be ready.”

  Henri leaned back in his cushioned chair. “Liam, I wish a private word with Grayson.”

  Liam cast a quick look at Grayson before rising, and the moment the door clicked shut behind him, Henri spoke. “You don’t want to leave the girl.”

  Tension bunched Grayson’s shoulders. His father rarely referenced Mia. When he did, every battle instinct Grayson had flared to life.

  Henri thumbed the desk’s edge. “You’ll go to Mortise,” he said levelly. “You’ll do what’s expected, or I’ll kill her.”

  “You wouldn’t.” The words snapped out, desperation and panic fissuring his chest.

  Henri’s eyebrows lifted. “I wouldn’t?”

  “You’ve kept her all these years for a reason,” he said. “She means something to you. You won’t kill her.”

  “You think I have some hidden purpose in keeping her?” Henri’s lips slowly bent in an edged smile. “Why do you think I brought her here?”

  The question caught him off-guard. “I don’t know.”

  “You must have wondered.”

  He had. But he couldn’t say anything, not with his father staring at him. He shook his head.

  Henri’s eyes narrowed. “Figure it out.”

  Grayson ground his teeth. “There’s no reason for her to be here.”

  Henri chuckled. The sound was so dark it raised every hair on Grayson’s body. “You’re the Black Hand. The Scourge of Ryden. You’re feared across all of Eyrinthia, and yet you’re ruled by your own fear. Your fear for her.”

  Grayson said nothing but a charge thinned the air, making it hard to breathe. He was on the edge of learning something and he knew it was going to be bad.

  King Henri leaned forward, eyes sharp as a falcon’s, long fingers splayed against the dark desk. “I knew who you were going to be before you left your mother’s womb. I made you. I know your thoughts. I know each of you better than you know yourselves. Peter follows every command without hesitation because he knows he’ll inherit the domain he’s helping to build. Carter’s only goal is to be in the shadow of greatness—to stand beside the one who will always take care of him. Liam serves me because he thrills at the challenge and Tyrell is addicted to the power he wields. Then there’s you. You serve me because I hold the one thing you care about—the girl.” Henri tilted his head. “Did you really think it was fated?”

  Grayson’s pulse kicked. He clutched the arms of his chair, knuckles screaming. Denials ripped through him, but he couldn’t find his voice.

  “You were struggling, Grayson,” Henri said quietly. “You weren’t trying to reach your potential
and every motivator I tried failed. Praise, pain—none of it meant anything. You needed something to fight for. Someone.”

  “No.” His body vibrated with tension. “You didn’t plan this.” The brightest and most real part of Grayson’s life couldn’t be the product of his father’s manipulation.

  “Why would I arrest a child near your own age? Why give her a cell close to the dungeon entrance? Why encourage your brothers to turn against you so you would be forced to find sanctuary where I wanted you to?”

  Grayson’s chest rose in a sharp inhale. “No.”

  “She was small. Weak. Helpless. In need of protection.” Henri grinned. “I knew you wouldn’t be able to resist her.”

  Everything inside Grayson roared, refusing to believe Mia was part of his father’s twisted design. That Henri had brought her here solely for the purpose of controlling him—to force him to become evil. It was impossible. It meant Mia’s life had been ruined because of him. He couldn’t believe it. “You didn’t know I found her,” he said, gritting the words out. “You were angry when you found out I’d befriended her. You made me burn her doll. You kept me from visiting her!”

  “The doll was a test. You must know that by now. Everything with that girl has always been a test. And I kept you from visiting her only so you would be motivated to fight for me.”

  Grayson’s ears rang. His grip on the chair was so tight, his fingers were numb.

  Mia’s imprisonment had never made sense. She’d been imprisoned at seven years old, for fates-sake. There was no crime she could have committed to merit that.

  As a child he’d feared her friendship, thought every kindness was some trick. But Mia would never trick him. No. She was the trick. His father had stolen a little girl from her life, her family—all to manipulate Grayson. He’d dropped Mia in hell, certain Grayson would fight to shield her from the flames.

  And he had.

  Every part of him rebelled. This was too calculated. Too elaborate and heartless. But hadn’t his father proved his cruelty knew no bounds?

  All his life Grayson had been controlled. Tortured. Forced to become the monster his parents wanted him to be. Of every pain he’d suffered, this manipulation cut the deepest. He’d kissed Mia and she was here because of him. She’d lost everything, and it was his fault. His stomach rolled.

  “I control you, Grayson, because I control her,” Henri said. “So when I threaten to end her life, I mean it. Her purpose begins and ends with you. If you don’t work as intended, she’s useless to me.”

  Fury snapped inside him; he could feel the storm raging in his gray eyes. “I’ll do as you ask. I always have. There’s no need for threats.”

  “You’ll do whatever I demand?”

  “Yes.”

  Henri stood, fingers grazing the desk as he rounded it. There had been no knock on the door, but he barked for someone to enter.

  Grayson sprang to his feet, dread knifing his gut.

  A guard entered the room, hauling a man inside. The prisoner’s clothes were in tatters, his long gray hair thin and oily. His foul stench snared the room in seconds.

  The guard tossed the old man to the floor and the dirty prisoner coughed blood against the carpet, whimpering. “Please,” he rasped. “I beg mercy.”

  “Kill him,” Henri said.

  Ice bolted down Grayson’s spine.

  The king’s eyes narrowed at his hesitation. “Kill him, Grayson.”

  It was the doll all over again. It was Mia’s tear-stained face, begging him not to take Tally.

  Henri’s lip curled. “I won’t kill the girl this time, but if you hesitate even one more moment, I’ll cut off her hands.”

  Bile scorched Grayson’s throat. He knew his father’s words were a promise. His fingers wrapped around the hilt at his waist and he tugged the dagger free.

  The old man keened. He tried to scramble away but the guard planted a boot on his back, pinning him to the floor. The man sobbed, tears dripping down his pale, dirt-streaked face. “Please! I beg mercy!”

  Grayson grabbed a fistful of the prisoner’s stringy hair and jerked the man’s head back until his bulging neck stretched. Blue eyes swollen with moisture looked right at him.

  Murder. That’s what this was. Not killing in self-defense or even an execution. Murder. Grayson’s heart wrenched at the difference.

  “Please, no!” the man cried. “Mercy—!”

  Grayson jerked the blade and blood sprayed. The pleas stopped. The entire room went silent.

  Grayson dropped the limp head and rocked back on his heels. Droplets of blood speckled his chest, arms, and face. Crimson blood pooled and rolled over the blue carpet, leaving the dead man and spreading toward Grayson’s boots.

  Henri’s voice crawled from behind him. “Perhaps you are ready to kill Princess Serene.”

  Grayson’s lungs clamped and the dagger shook in his hand. Sharp pain dug into his skull, radiating from his temples. The droplets of blood were already cooling on his face.

  “You should go to her,” Henri said quietly.

  The back of Grayson’s neck prickled and he twisted slowly toward his father.

  Henri’s chin lifted. “You needed a reminder you wouldn’t soon forget, not even in Mortise.”

  Grayson’s heart tripped. “What have you done?”

  His father’s voice was flat. “I sent Tyrell to her.”

  Hatred. Terror. Rage. They blinded him. His hand spasmed around the bloody dagger, but he didn’t have time to plunge it into his father’s heart—if the king even had one.

  Tyrell was with Mia.

  Grayson bolted from the room.

  Chapter 40

  Clare

  King Newlan spared no expense for Princess Serene’s farewell banquet. The vaulted dining hall was lined on three sides with long, dark wood tables, leaving the center of the room open for the entertainers. Musicians, dancers, acrobatic tumblers—colors swirled as they danced about the space, doing tricks and playing loud music that relied on strings, flutes, and drums.

  Each table was decorated with garlands and flowers. Elaborate iron candelabras were spaced evenly between the spread feast. Cut fruits were arranged artfully on trays, ranging in colors of yellow, orange, green, blue, and red. Platters with fresh wheat bread sliced around bowls of golden honey, tinged crimson with the candlelight. Spiced drinks and meats scented the air along with buttered carrots and roasted potatoes. Every seat was filled, mixing the cloying smell of perfume with the savory and sweet scents of the food.

  The king sat at the head table, his guards poised behind him. Seeing his face cast in the glowing candlelight, smiling and drinking, Clare wondered at the evil inside him. Despite everything he’d done to her personally, she never would have guessed he’d murdered his wife. He laughed at something one of the nearby lords said and Clare wondered how Serene had stayed sane the past two years.

  Clare sat at one of the long side tables, about midway down the room. Grandeur was seated at the opposite table, across the room from her. Newlan wanted them to mingle with the nobles in an effort to help them feel the excitement of the coming alliance. Grandeur seemed to be doing his part; he had the nobles around him enthralled as he talked and they all laughed together. His charm was almost palpable. As if he could feel Clare’s gaze, he glanced up and shared a conspiratorial smile. She couldn’t quite manage the same before looking away.

  She knew the conversation at her table wasn’t as lively as the king wanted, but he’d placed the Mortisians beside her, which rather killed conversation with the surrounding nobles. Clare understood the king’s reasons—Serene needed to be seen beside the Mortisians, openly displaying trust in them. But Clare didn’t trust Amil or his father. Bahri Havim sat on her left with his son beside him, so at least Amil wasn’t right next to her. He hadn’t sought her out since their encounter in the stable, but the covert threat in his final words lurked in her mind.

  Clare knew Bennick, Venn, Dirk, and Wilf were all gathered somewhe
re behind her, watching the Mortisians closely. It made her feel a little better.

  Applause burst around the tables as brightly costumed entertainers scrambled atop shoulders until a pyramid of ten men was built. The top man launched himself into the air, rolling toward the hard stone floor. Clare sucked in a breath with the rest of the watching crowd, but the man landed in a crouch, a grin splitting his face. Clare clapped with the others in the room.

  Dancers milled around the tables, presenting flowers or other small trinkets to the guests with an entertainer’s flair. Many were young children and they seemed to thrive on the attention. A blonde-haired girl—maybe seven—grinned as she spun to a stop beside Clare’s chair and drew out a long-stemmed daisy from her sleeve. “For you, Princess.”

  Clare took the simple white flower with a smile. “Thank you.”

  The young girl beamed and danced away.

  Clare lifted the flower to her nose and shot a quick look over her shoulder. Her guards stood along the wall behind her and Bennick caught her eye. He sent her a short smile, which she returned almost shyly. Clare treasured each stolen kiss they’d shared this week, though she longed for more. Perhaps once out of the castle they’d find a little more time alone.

  Before she turned back in her chair, she saw Gavril sidle up to Bennick. The man’s head was down as he spoke in a rush to Bennick, the ridged scars along his face and neck catching in the flickering torchlight.

  Bennick frowned at whatever Gavril told him, then signaled for Dirk to follow him and Gavril toward the doors, leaving Venn and Wilf to stand guard over Clare.

  “Daisies don’t grow well in Mortise, Princess,” Ser Bahri said suddenly.

  Clare laid the flower beside her plate. “Is that a threat, Ser Havim?”

  With the loud music and pounding applause, Clare knew no one could hear them—probably not even Amil, since his father had angled toward Clare, putting his back to his son. The crowd cheered when men stepped out onto the floor, juggling daggers until they blurred in the air.

  “Not a threat,” Ser Bahri said carefully, swirling the red Zennorian wine in his glass. “Merely an observation. Serjah Desfan is making a mistake in bringing you into his court.”