“Then why did you come as his emissary?”
“I couldn’t refuse a royal order.” He leaned in until his sour breath fanned her face. She eased back on instinct; the sudden light in his eyes was nearly manic. “Desfan’s rule is temporary. The serjan will recover from his illness and he’ll undo all of this. There will be no wedding. There will be no peace—” Ser Bahri jolted back against his chair with a startled cry, a dagger buried in his chest.
Clare recoiled, slicing a look to the main floor.
Entertainers were hurling their daggers into the crowd. A woman shrieked, the sound ringing sharply against the stone walls.
Clare shoved from her chair, lungs burning as she watched Amil grasp his father’s shoulder, screaming for aid.
A hand slammed down on Clare’s shoulder and she spun to see Venn towering over her, his expression locked. “Stay low.” He didn’t give her another choice as he hauled her toward the servants’ passage behind the head table, one hand pressing between her shoulder blades. The king was also being herded to the narrow passage and so was Grandeur. Chaos had overthrown the room. Everyone was running, and—
Bennick.
Clare nearly stumbled. She threw a look toward the main doors, which had been shut, and her blood ran cold. Guards wearing blue uniforms were piled on the floor, their bodies unmoving. They’d probably been among the first killed.
Her heart wrenched. Was Bennick one of them? Dirk? Gavril? She tripped on her own feet but Venn held her up and propelled her forward.
The nobles screamed as they darted for safety. Some cowered under tables while others dashed toward the shadowed corners, and others still pushed to follow the king’s retreat. Beside Clare, a middle-aged woman wearing a beautiful violet dress suddenly fell, a crossbow bolt buried in her back. The snap and twang of firing bolts seemed louder than the screams. A flash of heat scorched inside Clare, a mix of fear and panic. Sweat coated her body, sticking her dress to her back.
Venn cursed and dragged Clare to a stop. His grip bruised her arm, but that throbbing pain was nothing when she saw what he’d seen.
The king’s guard was being cut down by men with swords who poured from the servants’ passage. Three, five, ten—too many attackers to count. Screams of alarm, pain, and death lit the writhing room.
Venn shoved Clare against the stone wall, his arms landing on either side of her head as he caged her in, shielding her with his own body. His throat jumped as he swallowed. “There’s another passage across the room,” he gritted out. “We’ll—”
He slammed against her and Clare choked on a scream. Her arms came around his waist on instinct, though he was far too heavy for her to hold.
Clare crashed to her knees with him and when he slumped against her, she saw the bolt buried in his back. Blood bloomed, spreading between his shoulder blades. It only took seconds for the blood to reach her gloved hands, soaking into the white material. Panic exploded in her gut. “Venn!”
He didn’t move.
A sob caught in her throat. Her arms trembled as she tried to lift him. From the corner of her eye she saw Wilf charge toward them, shoving people aside. She opened her mouth to scream for his help, but her muscles locked at the snarl on his face.
The darkness in his eyes was a physical attack and Clare’s breath caught when he drew a knife from his belt and threw it, spinning it through the air—right at her.
Clare couldn’t move, pinned beneath Venn’s weight. Her arms tightened around Venn, as if that would somehow protect them.
The dagger thudded into flesh and she flinched. A gurgled cough sounded beyond her and Clare whipped around. An attacker crumpled, Wilf’s dagger lodged in his chest. His outstretched hand fell so close to her, his curling fingers brushed her skirt.
Wilf dropped into a crouch before Clare, his large hand braced against the nearby wall. “Are you hurt?” he demanded.
She stared at him, heart thudding. Wilf had saved her life.
He vented an irritated breath. “Are you hurt?”
“No.” She tightened her hold on Venn. “But—”
Wilf dragged Venn off her and made a quick study; the bolt was angled and had impaled closer to his shoulder than his heart.
Clare’s eyes darted to movement over Wilf’s shoulder. Another attacker was coming up behind him. Clare stiffened. “Look out!”
Wilf spun. His massive body slammed into the attacker, sending them both crashing to the floor.
Clare’s heart thundered in her chest, deep and aching. Forcing herself to think past her fear, she dragged up her skirt and drew out Eliot’s dagger. Clutching it in her bloodstained hand, she darted a look over the room. It was pandemonium. The attackers weren’t obvious at first glance, though most seemed to wear the bright costumes of the entertainers. Not all the entertainers were attacking, though—Clare could see their bodies on the ground, too, some of them so small . . . the children who had handed out gifts and flowers.
It was too much. The death. The screams. The terror. Clare couldn’t drag in enough air. She couldn’t think. She couldn’t leave Venn, even though instinct cried for her to seek shelter. Feet pounded the stone floor and screams stabbed the air.
Beside her, Venn groaned.
“Venn?” She bent over him, her free hand touching his right shoulder—the furthest from the bolt. “Don’t move. You’ve been hit.”
“You don’t say,” he gasped, hissing out a sharp breath.
Tears burned her eyes. “You’ll be fine.”
He shifted a little and his entire body shuddered. He swore hoarsely, hands curling against the stone floor. Swallowing past the pain, he ground out, “You have to get out.”
“But the passage—”
“Then hide,” he cut in. “Get under the table. The palace guard will come, but you need to hide until then.”
“I’m not leaving you.” A glance revealed Wilf was fighting yet another attacker. Her skin crawled and the dinner she’d just eaten swam uneasily in her belly.
Venn tried to push himself up, but his shaking arms couldn’t manage it and he cringed.
“You need to stay down,” she told him. “It’s a fates-blasted miracle that bolt didn’t pierce a lung. You need to—” She cut herself off the moment she locked eyes with a man standing mere feet from her. He was one of the entertainers, dressed in a bright red costume. He held a knife and the second he saw her, he stalked forward.
Clare surged to her feet, gripping her knife. Venn cursed as he struggled—and failed—to rise. Clare stepped over him. She tried to think past the panic swelling inside her. There was nowhere to run and she refused to leave Venn.
The approaching attacker grinned at her fighting stance and flipped the blade in his hand. She realized too late he wasn’t going to fight hand-to-hand—he’d only come closer so he wouldn’t miss.
Clare tensed and the man drew back his arm, prepared to hurl the knife.
A soldier plowed into him, toppling them both to the ground. The movement was a blur, but Clare knew it was Bennick. Her chest squeezed painfully as Bennick and the attacker rolled on the hard floor, Bennick ending up on top. He cocked back a fist and slammed it into the man’s face.
Dirk skidded to a stop in front of Clare, blocking her view. “Are you all right?” She jerked out a nod and some of the strain left Dirk’s face. He grasped her arm. “We need to find cover.”
“But Venn—”
“The others will get him.”
Arguing would only prolong the danger for all of them, so she moved with him, Dirk sheltering her as they ran to the nearest table. Clare crawled underneath it, jostled by others seeking safety. Elbows caught her ribs and back but she pushed against them to create more space.
Dirk didn’t join her, though. He crouched beside her, one hand grasping the table’s edge. For the first time she noticed the drawn sword in his hand. The blade was streaked red.
Though it felt like an eternity, it was only a few moments before Dirk lurched aw
ay so he could help Bennick haul Venn under the table.
Bennick breathed hard, his face slick with sweat. He knelt beside Venn, but his eyes tracked over Clare, catching on her bloody gloves.
“It’s Venn’s,” she said before he could ask. She made her own quick study of Bennick; he seemed unharmed, except for some swelling on his jaw where he must have taken a hit.
A vein in his temple pulsed as his attention dropped to Venn and the bolt stuck in his back. Without warning, Bennick gripped the bolt and tore it out.
Venn howled. Clare jumped, nearly hitting her head on the table.
Bennick snagged a linen napkin that had fallen to the floor and pressed it over the wound. “You’re going to be fine,” he told Venn, who was trembling.
Clare set a comforting hand against Venn’s head.
“I hate you so much right now,” Venn rasped at Bennick.
“I’m saving your life.”
“If you really cared, you could’ve let him shoot you instead.”
Bennick ignored him and darted a look at Clare. “Can you keep pressure on the wound?”
She nodded, though her stomach knotted. Bennick backed out from under the table to rejoin the fight. Dirk remained beside her, though the way he kept shifting his weight told Clare he itched to help the others.
Shrieks and yells continued as people fought and died. The clash of longswords rang out in the vaulted hall and the thud of bodies falling always seemed to follow the snap of a crossbow. The crash of the main doors flying open made Clare jump and she pressed closer to Venn as new shouts rose above the roar of the fight. Footsteps pounded the stone floor—more palace guards had arrived.
Clare murmured soothing words to Venn, ignoring the strange looks of the nobles huddled nearby. If they thought Serene wouldn’t help Venn, they didn’t really know her.
The fighting was brutal, but after another couple of minutes it was over. Weeping and pained cries filled the room and soldiers shouted orders as they rounded up the surviving enemies.
Bennick ducked under the table. Seeing him safe swept a wave a relief over Clare. He darted a look at Venn. “How is he?”
“I’m not dead,” Venn grunted. “You don’t have to talk over me.”
Wilf and Dirk crouched on either side of Bennick. Wilf eyed Venn and grunted. “You’re supposed to dodge them, idiot.”
Venn growled low in his throat.
“He needs a physician,” Dirk said.
“Wilf,” Bennick ordered.
The pox-scarred soldier nodded and sheathed his weapons.
“Not him,” Venn groaned.
Bennick ignored his friend and wrapped a hand around Clare’s fingers, easing her hand away from Venn’s wound so Wilf could drag the young soldier up into his arms and carry him off.
Bennick’s thumb brushed over her wrist. “Are you all right?”
They were alone under the table now. The nobles had scrambled out, and Dirk stood beside them. Clare’s hands felt weighted with Venn’s blood and she was still trembling. She was alive—all her guards were, but . . . “I thought you were dead,” she whispered, voice roughened with emotion. Bennick stiffened beside her, but she forced herself to continue. “I saw you and Dirk walking toward the main doors with Gavril, and when I saw the soldiers lying there . . .”
Bennick’s eyes softened. “Gavril had a feeling he couldn’t shake. He asked me to come with him to search the nearby servants’ passages, but we didn’t even make it out of the room before the strike happened.” His jaw flexed, his eyes focused on her. “When I saw that man coming for you . . . Fates, I didn’t think I was going to make it.”
Clare swallowed. “Maybe my next lesson should be in throwing knives.”
He huffed a weak laugh and helped her out from under the table. He let go of her arm but remained close at her side.
Clare scanned the room, taking in the damage. Tables had been overthrown, dishes, chairs, and food scattered. Bodies were stretched out on the ground, loved ones kneeling beside them, crying. Guards carried the wounded from the room, leaving the dead on the floor. Clare’s attention lurched over all the bodies, trying not to see the details, but then her eyes snagged on Amil. He was hunched over his father’s body, his shoulders shaking with sobs.
King Newlan stood near the head table, his face flushed and his eyes livid. Grandeur stood at his side as they watched the guards gather the entertainers and force them to kneel in the corner. The men and women clung to their small children, their eyes darting to the soldiers standing over them.
Newlan’s attention sliced to Clare, relief momentarily pushing through his rage. He motioned for her to join him as he moved toward the entertainers.
Dread curled inside her, but she couldn’t disobey. She stepped forward, Bennick and Dirk moving with her.
One entertainer shuffled forward on his knees. He had gray hair, his colorful cape a horrible contrast to the panic carved into his upturned face. “Your Majesty, I assure you, we’re innocent. The attackers are not from our troupe. We joined with them for this occasion only, by your order—”
“Silence!” Newlan towered over the man, his jeweled hands fisted at his sides. “You consorted with killers. You took part in this attempt to destabilize my court. You helped attack my royal person!”
The children shook before his wrath, tears streaking their faces. Clare’s eyes skipped over them, past the weeping parents to the guards who corralled them. They still had their weapons drawn, mostly swords, but one held a crossbow—Gavril.
Clare felt a blast of relief at seeing him unharmed.
His gaze shifted, and his eyes met hers. She gave a small smile, not thinking about the fact that Serene probably wouldn’t have done so.
Gavril’s scarred face tightened. In one fluid motion he lifted the crossbow, aiming it at her.
Clare sucked in a breath.
Bennick cursed when Gavril discharged the crossbow. The small bolt cut through the space between them, shooting at Clare’s chest.
Chapter 41
Grayson
Tyrell was with Mia.
The knowledge stabbed through Grayson as he ran, jarring him with each step. He shoved servants and nobles aside as he tore down the hallway, his breathing ragged and his pulse riding high. The bloody dagger was still clenched in his hand, the spray of blood still on his skin. His whole body shook and the knot in his core burned.
Tyrell was with Mia.
Grayson’s nostrils flared and the dagger in his hand suddenly felt more solid than the stones flying beneath his feet. His father had sent Tyrell to hurt Mia. All to control him.
King Henri wanted Grayson to be cruel. Cold. Merciless. In this moment, he was.
Fletcher stood before the cell door. He snapped to attention when he saw Grayson charge down the narrow corridor. He didn’t even have to give an order—the old guard was already grabbing his keys.
Grayson skidded to a halt before the cell. Every muscle in his body jerked, willing him to keep moving, to break through the thick door even though that was impossible. Rage flexed his throat and his hold on the dagger was strangling. “How long?”
“Several minutes,” Fletcher ground out.
Beyond the closed door, Mia screamed.
Grayson roared.
When Fletcher’s hands fumbled, Grayson snatched the keys and grabbed the longest one. He thrust it into the lock and twisted harshly. There was a solid click and he kicked the door in, eyes cutting over the room.
Mia knelt on the floor, her wrists tethered to a post at the foot of her bed. Her shoulders were hunched as she cried, unable to escape Tyrell’s folded belt. It flew even as Grayson watched, the leather striking her back with a violent snap. Mia shrieked, her ragged breaths catching on a sob.
Grayson’s vision hazed.
Tyrell’s eyes rounded when Grayson lunged. He tensed a split second before Grayson’s shoulder punched into his middle and slammed the air from his lungs. They crashed onto Mia’s bed and Gra
yson knocked Tyrell’s hands aside as he straddled him. Clutching the bloody dagger, Grayson used the added weight in his fist to pound Tyrell’s face.
His brother grunted and hissed, bucking beneath him, but Grayson kept him locked against the bed. He kept hitting him. The need to make Tyrell bleed controlled every brutal movement. Scarlet blood streaked his brother’s pale face and it coated Grayson’s knuckles, but the beating didn’t slow. It escalated. Because he could still hear Mia crying and the snap of the belt hitting her body was trapped in his head.
His chest exploded and he vented a wordless scream. He raised the knife, blade aimed down.
Tyrell’s breath caught, dark eyes flaring with fear.
“No!” Mia’s shout ripped through Grayson, halting the knife. From the corner of his eye he saw her, still on her knees, wrists tied to the bedpost. She trembled, brown curls spilling around her tear-stained face.
Grayson’s blade wavered.
His hesitation cost him. Tyrell kneed him in the back and Grayson pitched forward. Mia cried out as Grayson landed hard on the stone floor. He rolled with the impact and sprang to his feet. He slid in front of Mia as Tyrell levered up, shoulders squared, his face already swelling and his nose and mouth dripping blood.
“You’ll suffer for this,” Tyrell sneered. “I obeyed father’s orders. I did nothing wrong!”
Grayson snarled and dove for his brother. Tyrell fell back, hands flinching to the knife belted at his waist.
He didn’t get to draw it. Grayson’s fist plowed into Tyrell’s temple and he crumpled to the stone floor.
Breathing hard, Grayson stared down at his brother’s unconscious body. He wanted to rip him apart for what he’d done to Mia. He wanted him to suffer as much pain as Mia had—a thousand times more. Rage filled him and he needed to get it out.
Mia’s shuddering breaths were behind him, breaking the silence in the cell.
She needed him more.
Clenching the knife in his hand, Grayson twisted away from Tyrell and dropped to a crouch beside Mia, murmuring useless words of comfort as he sawed through the rope binding her. Her wrists were red, the soft skin horribly abraded. Her sleeves ended just below her elbows, revealing already-forming bruises on her forearms where Tyrell must have grabbed her.
Royal Decoy (Fate of Eyrinthia Book 1) Page 31