The Heir and the Spare

by Kate Stradling

  Footsteps echoed in the adjoining corridor. The sound snapped the queen from her stupor; she hissed and motioned them to hide. Jaoven ducked within a dimly lit room and behind the open door.

  “Put me down,” Iona whispered.

  He glanced at her as though she were crazy, but his own fatigue must have spoken in her favor. Gently he lowered her to stand on her unbroken leg, though she shamelessly clung to him for balance.

  From the hall, the queen’s voice carried. “My dear, have you seen Iona? I have looked everywhere for her.”

  “I have not,” King Gawen said with a note of impatience. “I was looking myself for the prince of Capria. He’s not in the diplomatic quarters.”

  Queen Marget clucked. “I do hope they’re not together. That would be highly improper.”

  “I see no reason why they should be. Iona’s probably taking a stroll about the gardens. You needn’t worry on her account.”

  “I will look for her there. And where do you suppose Prince Jaoven has gone?”

  “I hardly know, but if he thinks to betray Wessett this late in our treaty arrangements, he shall dearly regret it.”

  “Oh, my dear, no! He and Lisenn are besotted. Perhaps he’s the one strolling about the gardens. Men often do need a moment of solitude before they wed, I am told.”

  The king grunted. His footsteps resumed, drawing closer.

  “If you see Iona, you will tell her I am looking for her, will you not?” Queen Marget called.

  “Yes, of course.” His figure passed the slit of space between the door and its jamb, his attention fixed ahead and a stony expression upon his face. Queen Marget’s lighter footsteps followed, though they slowed until she drew alongside the open door, where she paused.

  “For heaven’s sake, get her out of here,” she said in a low voice, and then she walked on.

  A knot loosened in Iona’s heart. Whatever other betrayals she had suffered this day, her mother at least was not in league against her.

  Jaoven shifted his stance, the only warning she had before he swept her up into his arms again. Her breath caught in her throat as she braced against another wave of pain in her throbbing leg.

  “It won’t be much longer,” he murmured, crossing back around to the doorway. “We’re not far.”

  He angled enough out into the hallway to check that it was clear and then strode swiftly in the opposite direction as the pair of elder royals. At the corner he peered down the adjoining hall. It was empty, an open path to the stairs. When they started that direction, however, a hiss to their left caught him off-guard.

  One of the castle servants peered out from a narrow door, beckoning. Jaoven dashed for the nook and slipped inside not a moment too soon. Footsteps thundered up the stairs, signaling a company of castle guards on patrol. The door shut.

  “This goes down through the servants’ passages,” said their impromptu gatekeeper. “Follow the stairs and keep to the walls. There will be others along the way to safeguard your escape.”

  “Thank you,” Jaoven said, starting down the narrow stairway.

  “Princess,” the servant called. Iona cast her gaze back up, to an honest face etched with concern. “Stay safe, please.”

  She allowed a wan smile, the best encouragement she could muster under the circumstances.

  As they reached the bottom step and Jaoven paused to peer down the passage beyond, he said, “Clervie told me the servants here were in raptures over my marrying Lisenn. We should have realized something was rotten when they all wanted to get rid of her so badly.”

  “Until a couple days ago, I thought they all held her in awe,” Iona quietly said. Then, “You can stop to rest, if you need to.”

  He met her gaze, a hardness to his eyes that shocked her. “I’ll rest when we’re clear of this maze.”

  Before she could respond, he started into the hall, and from there down another flight of stairs, where clinking dishes and warm smells floated upward. The landing below opened to a broad doorway, the brightly lit castle kitchen abuzz with activity.

  A servant kneading bread looked up and saw them. A split-second later, the whole room went dead, only to flurry into motion.

  “This way.” A cook gestured him to a door across the kitchen while a couple of apprentices bolted to the adjoining halls to act as sentries. Jaoven didn’t question their loyalty, instead hurrying between their stations to reach the offered egress. Iona tightened her arms around his neck, conscious of the many stares upon her, of the concern reflected in their faces.

  How many held hopes that she would ascend the throne of Wessett instead of her sister? And she was on a path to abandon them all for her own survival, heedless of the future that loomed and the consequences that would befall them should her father or Lisenn discover that they had helped her escape.

  Tears stung her eyes, a new wave that had nothing to do with the pain that yet thrummed through her.

  Daylight spilled into a mudroom next to the kitchen. Five steps led upward and out of the castle. Jaoven paused at the door to check that no royal guards patrolled that stretch of the exterior.

  The narrow side courtyard and the stables spread before their view, the first place they had encountered one another when the Caprians arrived in Wessett. Across the gravel, grooms and stable boys worked, and flashes of red cloaks passed through their midst.

  Within the mudroom, Jaoven grunted. He eased Iona down, and they perched together on that top step, her clinging to his wedding finery for balance and both of them resigned to wait until the patrol had moved on.

  “I should’ve told Elouan to have the carriage ready here.”

  “You were probably planning to leave by the front entrance,” she dully said. “If you want to go on without me and find him—”

  He silenced her with a stern glance. “You think I’ve carried you this far to abandon you?”

  She held his gaze, keeping her own as steady as her fluttering nerves would allow. “You can if you must.”

  A charged silence fell in the scant space between them. He studied her as though trying to decipher a particularly difficult sum. She, on the other hand, experienced a heightened awareness of his nearness—the same awareness that had struck her on the porch in Straithmill. Ridiculous. Of course he was near. For whatever reason—guilt, obligation—he’d taken on the burden of toting her from the castle.

  Even so, she didn’t look away this time. And she didn’t actually want him to go without her.

  Jaoven ducked his head closer. “Why—?” he started to say, but a hiss from the opposite door caught their attention.

  A kitchen boy waved them on. “Patrol’s coming through.” Beyond him, a clatter arose as a guard called orders for everyone to stop their work.

  “Hold on tight,” Jaoven said. “We’re going to run.”

  Before she could respond, he’d already picked her up again. She clamped her arms around his neck and buried her chin at his shoulder. They exited to a wave of blissfully cool air, and he bolted for the castle’s front aspect.

  A shout sounded from the stables. Jaoven didn’t look back, but Iona had a perfect view of several royal guards breaking toward them. Several more emerged from the kitchen entrance, red cloaks flooding into the gravel yard.

  They weren’t going to make it. The guards would converge upon them, surround them, and wrest her away. Her father would throw Jaoven into prison and declare war against Capria for such an offense. He could combine the kingdoms yet, through bloodshed instead of marriage.

  Rather than turn the corner at the end of the yard, Jaoven bolted straight into the strip of gravel that connected the side court to the front. Yells sounded from a patrol approaching unseen along that wall. Jaoven veered, and Iona glimpsed the open carriage that was supposed to convey him and Lisenn to the docks that afternoon. Elouan, atop the driver’s perch, hopped down.

  The distance was too far. Already, royal guards spread along the wall and blocked the gateway, their ultimate exit. The f
lood of red cloaks burst from the smaller courtyard, and more surged from the main entrance.

  A bellow thundered above the din, her father’s voice. “STOP!”

  Guards fanned out in a broad perimeter. Jaoven slowed and then halted a mere five feet from the open coach. Reluctantly he turned, his hold upon Iona loosening enough for her to lower her feet to the ground. The arm around her waist remained steady, a source of security to her as they surveyed their plight together.

  Red cloaks surrounded them on all sides, and King Gawen pushed through the line, with Kester, Queen Marget, and Princess Lisenn in his wake. The crown princess in her bridal wear looked as though she had swallowed a cup of vinegar when she recognized her intended groom and her sister together.

  The king’s eyes met Iona’s across the gap, but he averted his gaze to the prince. “What is the meaning of this?”

  Jaoven edged forward, as though he could hide Iona from view. “You tell me. Do you countenance an attack against your own daughter?” Beyond the ring of guards, commoners gathered—servants from within the castle, citizens who had come to watch the wedding fanfare through the gates.

  Conscious of the growing audience, the crown princess of Wessett stepped forward. Her voice trembled, her eyes limpid and her hands clasped in fragile pleading. “Please, Jaoven, whatever she told you, she’s lying. She’s schemed against me since we were children—”

  “I pulled her from your torture room myself, Lisenn.”

  The statement cut through her tragic act. She froze, a heightened color rising on her cheeks.

  “I told you that you acted prematurely,” King Gawen murmured out the side of his mouth.

  She flashed a venomous look upon him before twisting back to her betrothed. “You trespassed into my private quarters? Why? In hopes of playing hero again? You know that poor, helpless Iona hates you, right? All of you Caprians: she thinks you’re lower than the dirt beneath her feet.”

  Iona stiffened, but the arm around her waist only pulled her a fraction closer.

  “If that’s true, she’s justified,” said the prince. “We made her life miserable when she lived among us—nothing comparable to your acts against her, though, so I’m told. If torture is your hobby of choice, princess, you should’ve contracted a marriage with Tuzhan instead of Capria.”

  “We may yet,” said King Gawen, a steely glint in his gaze. “Surrender now, and perhaps we can negotiate you a graceful exit.”

  “Surrender?” Jaoven barked a laugh. “So you can murder your second-born in cold blood, like you murdered your own brother?”

  The king scowled, his attention flitting beyond the ring of guards to the commoners that witnessed this tense exchange.

  His beautiful heir had less concern for the royal family’s reputation. “Iona’s worthless, an unnecessary spare,” she said, a snarl upon her lips, “and you will hand her over for proper disposal.” She stalked forward, the promise of death upon her, but Jaoven’s free hand flashed outward as though cracking a whip.

  Lisenn stopped short in the middle of the courtyard. Eyes huge, she slid her gaze downward to the knife hilt that stuck in her gut. Blood, almost black, blossomed against the cream-colored silk of her wedding dress.

  Her scream shattered the air, a hideous shriek as she sank to her knees. Royal guards converged upon her, and King Gawen roared.

  “This is war, Capria!” He lunged, hand upon his sword, but Kester caught his arm, waylaying him. With trembling fingers, the steward pointed.

  Jaoven had already pulled a second knife, which he held to Iona’s throat. The younger princess, barely breathing, hardly knew where to look. In an instant she had turned from rescued victim to useful captive, a pawn through which the prince could ensure his own escape.

  In the charged atmosphere, Lisenn’s shrieks escalated. “Father! Father, help! Help me!” Blood coated her hands, her beautiful face grotesquely contorted. Iona had never seen her sister in pain. It seemed unreal, like something out of a disjointed dream.

  King Gawen, meanwhile, only spared his eldest a sidelong glance, his expression one of callous detachment. To the assisting guards, he said, “Take her to the infirmary. Fetch the doctor and make sure she’s comfortable.”

  The crown princess alternated between wails and hyperventilation as guards carried her from the courtyard. Blood soaked her dress, handprints half-pawed upon the exquisite bodice and the skirt, and a trail of droplets pattered behind her. Deathly stillness settled in the wake of her departure.

  “Who’s an unnecessary spare now?” Prince Jaoven asked with nerves of steel.

  The king of Wessett clenched his jaw. “You’ve made your point. Return Iona unharmed and we will allow you to depart.”

  “Forgive me for not trusting your word.” The prince backed up a pace, pulling Iona with him. She maintained her balance only by relying upon his strength, all the while trained upon the blade so near her neck.

  King Gawen growled. “This is an act of war.”

  A cynical laugh broke from Jaoven’s lips. “It was war the instant you conspired for the throne of Capria using the life of your own child as incentive. You only want her back now because your precious line of succession is in jeopardy.”

  The king started forward, snarling, his hands clenched into claws. “Do you think you’ll get more than ten feet from this courtyard?”

  The flat of the knife pressed against Iona’s skin, the blade oddly warm. “Do you think I won’t kill her the instant you come for me? I’ve been through one war already. I know to cause as much havoc as possible if I’m going to die anyway. And then what will you do, King of Wessett? Murder your queen and start anew with a younger woman, so you can begin the whole grisly cycle all over again?”

  Iona’s attention flitted to her mother. Queen Marget stood frozen, a hand to her own throat as though she could block the blade at her daughter’s by proxy. Her husband, never so much as glancing at her, bared his teeth, neither confirming nor denying the hypothetical future that the prince of Capria presented.

  Meaning it was true. The queen was expendable, merely a vessel for ensuring the succession. If Lisenn and Iona both died, Marget would follow close behind in favor of a woman still in child-bearing years.

  A new voice rang out. “Let them go.” Aedan pushed through the crowd of servants and guards, his sword drawn. The young marquess shot Jaoven a reproving glance, but his eyes met Iona’s the next instant. An odd reassurance shone in their depths. He planted himself as an obstacle in front of the king. Dressed in their finest clothes, the nobles of Wessett spread along the edges of the courtyard, weapons in hand. They surrounded the ring of royal guards as though ready for a battle.

  King Gawen started, stiff-backed. “What is this treason?”

  “Treason, Your Majesty?” Aedan echoed. “You wish to discuss treason? You killed your own brother and hid it with a tale of illness. You fostered an inhuman cruelty in Lisenn and would have elevated her to the throne. Do you expect us to honor such villainy in our highest office?”

  “You speak of what you do not know, whelp. Would you have Wessett undermined by rival claims to the throne, gutted like precious Capria?” He spat upon the ground.

  “You gutted Wessett with your own hands when you killed Prince Orran, and you would have done so again today with Iona’s death.” Aedan raised his sword point to his king. Over his shoulder he said, “You shall have safe passage to the docks, prince of Capria. We will reclaim our rightful princess there.”

  Jaoven didn’t ask twice. The blade at Iona’s throat withdrew. Quickly he swept her up into the open carriage and spun into the seat beside her, producing the knife again. “It’s only for show, I swear,” he murmured in her ear. Even so, she held her breath.

  From among the crowd of nobles, Clervie and Denoela dashed for the vehicle, one on either side. Elouan hopped onto the box and snapped the leads. As the horses broke into a run, the pair of girls climbed over the doors as though accustomed to such unconvention
al ascensions. They plopped into the seat facing Iona and Jaoven.

  “Not exactly how you pictured using this cart, is it,” Clervie said, grinning.

  The guards at the open gate scattered and the carriage passed through. Behind them, the courtyard erupted into chaos.

  The knife at Iona’s throat vanished again. She breathed a shuddering sigh.

  “I’m sorry,” Jaoven said, stowing the blade in a sheath up his sleeve. “It was the only way I could think to bargain us both away from there.”

  “You could have left me behind,” she said.

  He huffed a cynical laugh. “And trust your father to give me a free pass, even after I punctured your sister’s gut? Do you trust him?”

  A shiver racked her frame, her pulse jittering faster than a hummingbird’s wings. She didn’t have to voice her thoughts aloud: they all understood that she would never trust her father again.

  Clervie grasped Iona’s hand across the aisle, a smile gleaming in her eyes. “You look so nice in blue.”

  That comment, at deep variance with the tension of the past hour, elicited a feeble chuckle from its recipient. Iona caught her breath, covering her mouth in a physical block of the emotions that slammed into her.

  Control. She needed control. Now was not the time to succumb to hope or despair—both of which surged to clash within her soul.

  From the castle, a warning bell pealed, its clanging hardly different from the church bells that should have rung to signal the marriage of the crown princess. The carriage flew through the capital along the route it was meant to travel later in the day. Its wedding decorations drew attention from citizens and left confusion in its wake. Conscious of her leg, Iona slouched lower in her seat.

  “So Lisenn truly was a monster,” Clervie said to Jaoven.

  He shook his head. “That doesn’t begin to describe her. You should have seen the collection of spikes and skewers she had.”

  Both girls looked sharply to Iona, who waved off their concern. “She chose the breaking wheel for me. More realistic for when she tossed me out a window later.”