The Heir and the Spare

by Kate Stradling

  “But—”

  “Out, I said. And shut the door behind you.”

  He couldn’t defy a direct order, though the look he gave Iona as he left conveyed his regret. The door latched into place with an ominous click. Lisenn stalked forward like a rabid wolf. She seized Iona’s bodice and shoved her against the worn, dark wood, the knob digging into the younger woman’s back.

  “You thought you could humiliate me?” she asked, her nose two inches away.

  Iona’s head swam. “No! I didn’t—”

  But Lisenn only yanked her forward and shoved her backward again, slamming her shoulders against the door. She got into Iona’s face again. “You’re not necessary, and you never will be. You’re a worthless placeholder, and if you do anything—and I mean anything—to wreck this treaty, I will pull your toenails out one by one and force you to eat them. Do you understand?”

  “Yes,” Iona breathed. The fist against her chest pushed harder, digging knuckles into her sternum.

  “How well does the Prince of Capria know you?”

  “Hardly—not at all.”

  “And how well do you know him?”

  “Lisenn, I don’t—!” The back of her sister’s free hand struck her face, and she bit the inside of her cheek.

  “You keep away from him, from all of them. This treaty will happen. I will sit on the combined thrones of Capria and Wessett, and you will know your pathetic place.”

  Iona mutely nodded, but the fist in her dress tightened.

  “Say it.”

  “Yes.”

  “Yes, what?”

  “Yes, Your Royal Highness.”

  Lisenn slammed her against the door one more time for good measure. “If I have to remind you again, you’ll regret it. I still have the necklace I made from your milk teeth. I’m happy to add to the collection should the occasion arise.”

  On that threat, she flung her sister away. Iona landed hard on the stone floor, gasping for a full breath, clutching at her chest as her older sister vanished into the hall. Purposeful footsteps receded up the corridor, and soon after, another set crept back.

  Aedan knelt beside her. “Are you all right?”

  Dazed, Iona met his concerned gaze and nodded.

  He clucked like a mother hen and pressed a handkerchief into her limp grip. “Your mouth is bleeding. Did she hit you?”

  “Not hard enough to bruise. I just bit myself.”

  Again he clucked, and then he gathered her up from the floor.

  “I’m all right,” Iona feebly said as he helped her to an old couch in the corner. “It could have been so much worse.”

  “Sure, you could be strung from the highest tower.” Aedan deposited her with a scowl. “And your sister skirts away without a word of censure and marries the dashing heir to a neighboring crown.”

  Iona caught at him before he could withdraw. “I hope she does,” she said, suddenly fervent on that single point. “I hope she marries him, and they’re both awful to each other. He’s horrible, the worst, most selfish bully you can dream of.”

  “Worse than her?” Aedan asked.

  “Just as heartless, if not as unhinged. He once put another student in the infirmary for daring not to bow low enough when he passed.” She paused, memories flitting before her in nonsensical order. That injured student had been Neven, who apparently still cowered to the imperious Jaoven’s command.

  Despite her offered evidence, Aedan remained unconvinced. “Anger on a whim is nothing to your sister’s malice. She always plans her attacks ahead of time.”

  Even so, Iona wouldn’t concede the worthiness of the match. Jaoven and Lisenn deserved to wed. Perhaps one would kill the other and inadvertently bless the world. At the very least, their union would spare any other prospective partners from a terrible fate.

  As soon as the door to the diplomatic common room closed, the Caprian delegation fell into disarray. Prince Jaoven, an anguished cry upon his lips, strode across the marble floor, pacing between a pair of ivory silk couches as his entourage fanned out along the walls.

  He raked one long-fingered hand through his hair and turned. “Did any of you know?”

  Heads shook, and voices murmured denials, though each member looked to the others for clues of a forthcoming confession.

  “How could we, Jove?” Elouan asked. “We would have warned you if we had.”

  As the others echoed this sentiment, the prince huffed in despair. “I’ve ruined everything already, and it hasn’t even been an hour. Riok, can we sail home tonight?”

  Their senior delegate, a man of only thirty-four, frowned at this inquiry. “Is that truly necessary, Your Royal Highness?”

  “It will be, if we’re not all cast into prison before noon,” Jaoven said darkly, and he began to pace again.

  With far more experience in diplomacy, Riok of Arraven maintained his equilibrium among the younger Caprian nobles. He delicately cleared his throat. “Am I understanding this situation correctly? The second princess of Wessett once attended Capria’s Royal College under an assumed name?”

  “She called herself Yanna of Ghemp,” said Elouan bitterly.

  Riok observed the hunched shoulders and downcast gazes of his fellow delegates and the continued pacing of his prince. “I take it something occurred there to cast you in her bad graces.”

  Jaoven pinched the bridge of his nose, a headache pulsing in the space above his eye sockets. “You attended the Royal College in your own time. You should be well versed with the social pecking order that once existed there.”

  The man digested this statement. “But surely a princess of Wessett—”

  “We didn’t know she was a princess,” Elouan interjected.

  Beside him, Denoela of Rosemarch shook her head and added, “She only had one meager servant and a set of drab gowns with the hems constantly lowered, and she studied the arts exclusively. Who would expect the child of a king to claim kinship with Ghemp? If there was anyone we ranked lower in the school, I can’t remember them.”

  At last Riok grasped the seriousness of this situation. He sank onto one of the ivory couches and looked to his prince, as though steeling himself for the worst. “Exactly how vicious was your cohort during her time there?”

  Jaoven met his gaze and immediately averted his eyes.

  Riok twisted to the rest of the group, mutely demanding a response. In the thick and stifling silence, Neven cleared his throat.

  “She wasn’t treated well,” he said quietly. “None of us in the lower ranks were.”

  “And did her ill treatment extend into the yearly Hunt?”

  The atmosphere grew thicker still. When no one else responded, Neven said curtly, “Yes.”

  “It was only a game.” Elouan tossed his head and threw his hands in the air. “We were practically children—stupid and conceited, perhaps, but never with intent to cause serious harm.”

  Several voices echoed his, feeble justification on their lips.

  “Shut up, all of you,” Jaoven said, and he slammed a fist against the plastered wall. “It might have been a game to us, but only because as hunters we had the upper hand. I guarantee that anyone forced to hide felt much differently about the experience.” His hazel eyes sought Neven, who met his gaze and quietly nodded.

  Riok, usually reserved, uttered an oath under his breath. “Did you cause any specific injuries to her, or was it only general mistreatment?”

  Glances exchanged, people again reluctant to speak.

  “There was a sprained ankle,” Neven said, “but the worst injury was her arm.”

  “We didn’t know it was broken,” Elouan snapped. “She never said a word, and the swelling was hidden beneath her sleeve. We didn’t know until we tossed her in with the rest of the captives and she couldn’t catch herself.”

  “I broke it.” Jaoven’s quiet words cut like a knife through the air. When Elouan started to protest, the prince forestalled him with a raised hand. “Not on purpose, not directly, but i
t was my fault. She’d been in the woods for three days, the last person we still had to catch, and it was raining and cold, and we were tired. By luck I saw the hem of her dress in an oak tree. When I tried to force her down, she fell and landed wrong on her arm.”

  Riok buried his head against his palms, a groan escaping his lips. For a long breath, no one spoke. At last, the elder diplomat rubbed his brow with the heels of his hands and said to the floor, “You must apologize.”

  Jaoven scoffed at the futility of this counsel. “What apology can compensate for a broken arm and the hundred other ills she must have suffered by us?”

  “A sincere one, we may hope,” said Riok. He looked up, meeting his prince’s despair with a somber gaze. “We haven’t lost this gambit yet, Your Highness. Consider that the Crown of Wessett gave no indication of ill will over our correspondences this past month. It’s possible the princess never told her parents the truth.”

  “The crown prince’s assassination occurred not three weeks after that final Hunt,” Jaoven replied. “If that was the point she returned home, she did so in a splint. And from her father’s words today, he knows of the injury at least, if not its source.”

  But his advisor only shook his head. “I’ll lay odds she never told him how it came about. She was at the college for how long, a year? And never revealed her true status despite the treatment she received?”

  “It was four years,” Denoela spoke up. “We were the same age, and she was there from the start, always in her quiet corner of the dining hall, sketching or reading by herself. She carried the charade for four years.”

  “She didn’t go home for summers, either,” said Neven, though haltingly. “She spent them at the dorms, she and her maid together.”

  “Which begs the question why,” Riok concluded. He pinned his newly crowned prince with a pointed stare. “It’s entirely possible that the King of Wessett used a Caprian boarding school as punishment for misbehavior here. Something happened to bring her to our shores, and her quiet acceptance of a rank far beneath her touch indicates it was an act of penance. She couldn’t call upon her family’s strength to deliver her. If we can discover why, it may give us leverage in the negotiations yet to come.”

  Jaoven contemplated this, turning the possibility over in his mind. It didn’t sit right, but neither could he afford to dismiss anything that might benefit Capria.

  “How would we even discover such a thing? Our informants have brought back not even a hint of scandal about the Wessettan royals.”

  “Then we dig deeper,” his advisor said, standing. “But first, you apologize, and the sooner the better. Make amends with the second princess, and she may divulge the truth to you herself.”

  “She won’t meet me. She ran into us only by accident this morning, and her path was headed away from the great hall, not toward it. I think she intended to skip the reception entirely.”

  “Send your apologies to her, then. Request her presence. Allow her to come on her own terms.”

  The prince glanced around the room, measuring each face in turn. His attention rested on Neven. The man, a year his junior, was the obvious choice. He had studied alongside Yanna of Ghemp, had shared her classes and misfortunes of rank.

  “Will you carry that message?” he quietly asked.

  Neven licked his lips, nervous. “I can try.”

  “You don’t have to grovel. If she’s willing to hear me out, I’ll do that myself.”

  “Jove, surely not—” Elouan began, but the prince silenced him with a glare.

  “We’ve all sacrificed for Capria, Elou. It won’t hurt me to sacrifice such a pittance more.”

  Chapter 3

  Aedan remained with Iona through the afternoon, listening to her run exercises on her clavichord, cajoling her to work on her current still life, even sketching in the garden alongside her for an hour. His presence calmed her nerves, so that by the time the daylight shifted to its golden tones she felt almost herself again.

  “Shouldn’t you be getting ready for your dalliance tonight?” she asked at last, though reluctant to give up his company.

  He swatted her arm. “It’s not a dalliance. Don’t make it sound sordid.”

  A smile tugged at her lips. “Then what is it, a tryst?”

  He suppressed a laugh, but the grin manifested anyway, along with a blush upon his cheeks. “I wish I could bring her to castle events.”

  “You can. You just have to marry her first.”

  “Trust me, I’m working on it.” He stood from the grass and offered her both his hands. Iona rose and tucked her sketchbook beneath one arm. Together they trekked from beside the fountain where they had settled, back toward the sprawling castle in the distance.

  A pair of liveried servants met them halfway. One wordlessly proffered Aedan a sealed note. The other bowed to Iona and said, “Your Highness, your father the king requests your attendance at a state dinner tonight, in honor of the visiting delegation.”

  Her heart sank like a stone in a lake. She nodded her mute acknowledgment. Of course there would be a state dinner. Of course her father would insist that she attend. He didn’t always, but why should she escape the one delegation she most wished to avoid?

  Her servant retreated alongside his fellow, leaving the younger pair behind. Aedan was wrapped in his note.

  “Oh, don’t get your puppy eyes on yet,” he said, his mouth twisting in disappointment. “My father the duke requests my attendance as well, in his stead. Apparently he’s been summoned for an urgent matter at the estate, and the House of Gleddistane must have representation. Independent of your mother, I mean.”

  “I’m so sorry,” Iona said, even as her hope renewed.

  He bumped her shoulder. “No you’re not. I mean, sure you are, but not really.” He slapped the refolded letter against his open palm, looking around them in disgust. “I have to jot a note to Bess, see if I can change our meeting time. Dad must’ve figured me out, but that doesn’t mean he can thwart me. Will you be safe heading back on your own?”

  “I do live here,” she said.

  “And so does your beastly sister.”

  “She preens for at least two hours before any event, so I’m in the clear until well after dark.”

  A breathy laugh escaped him, and he flipped a lock of her hair that had worked itself loose. “You might consider some preening of your own. Be careful, all right? I’ll see you soon.” After a farewell kiss on the cheek, he trotted away in the direction of the stables. Iona ambled toward the castle, watching from the corner of her eyes until he disappeared. She picked up her pace, then, headed for the entrance nearest her own rooms. A body stepped out from beneath the shadowed arch, and she stopped short.

  It was Neven of Combran. How long had he been waiting for her? Had he spied on her that afternoon, so that he could lie in wait for her return?

  “Your Highness—”

  She tried to skirt around him, but he stepped into her path, words tumbling like a waterfall from his mouth. “Your Highness, please. Please give us a chance to offer our sincere apologies—”

  “Your apologies?” she interjected, unable to contain her disbelief. “Your apologies? Does your crown prince know you’re here? Are you even a ranking member of the Caprian government? Or do I only merit the lowest sycophant in his entourage?” How cruel those words sounded, but this man had played his own part in her undoing today. He deserved none of her pity.

  “Please,” Neven said, still actively blocking her progress, his hands raised as though he would catch her, although he exercised caution never to touch. “Please, the prince sent me because he assumed I could find more favor in your eyes than anyone else of our party.”

  She stepped decidedly backward, folding her arms tight as she glared. “Did he? Why, pray tell?”

  Neven squirmed under her pointed gaze. He floundered for words, his voice growing smaller. “Because we were… back then, in that time… you and I were ranked the same.”

 
“Yes. We were, weren’t we. And here you are, still doing his bidding.”

  “I’m a viscount now.”

  She tipped her head in acknowledgment. “So you’ve moved up in status. My congratulations.” When she attempted to pass him again, though, he persisted in waylaying her.

  “Please, Your Highness—”

  “I don’t want your apologies, Neven, and I don’t want his, and certainly not from a proxy.”

  “He will deliver them himself if you are willing to listen. Please, Yan—Your Highness, if you will but allow us to make amends!”

  Iona opened her mouth to deny him once and for all, but a new thought occurred. Jaoven of Deraval, lowering himself to apologize? The very image defied belief. “You know what? I would like to see that,” she said.

  Relief flooded Neven’s face. He motioned her into the archway, eager to convey her to his prince, no doubt worried she would change her mind en route. She kept pace alongside him, adjusting her sketchbook in her arms, heedless of the pencil perched behind one ear. In the past she would have squirreled away such implements. Art students were lesser creatures, unworthy of those who studied science or athletics. Only the useless second-borns could have such luxury, to pursue a frivolous pastime instead of strength or greater wisdom.

  In Iona’s case, at least, that much was true. She dared a single member of the Caprian delegation to sneer at her for it, though.

  The diplomatic quarters lay along an adjoining corridor. Neven, too wary of losing his quarry within sight of his goal, motioned her ahead of him. A silhouette retreated within an open door halfway down the hall, and conversation in the room beyond cut short. Iona entered to deathly silence, all eyes in the room upon her. They had sent their attendants and advisors away, so that only the official delegates remained. Three of the four in addition to the prince had kept regular company with him at the Royal College, back when he had been only the son of a duke.

  It seemed the newly ascended King Armel had let his precious heir stack his entourage with cronies.