The Heir and the Spare

by Kate Stradling

  “And framed it as suicide?” Denoela asked. A faint nod served as her response. “Is that what happened at the Awinrea? Did she push you in?”

  Iona, self-conscious, averted her gaze to the passing buildings.

  Beside her, Jaoven stilled. His low voice cut through the rattle of carriage wheels and clatter of hooves. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

  She flashed him a scowl. “So you could accuse me of sabotage? She’d never tried to kill me before. I didn’t know about her torture devices or the bargain she’d made with my father, and you already thought she was harmless.”

  “But you returned to the castle where she could get at you again?”

  “I’ve spent my whole life avoiding her when we’re under the same roof. One more week seemed like nothing.”

  “And then I was to carry her away to terrorize Capria instead.”

  She exploded. “I’m sorry, all right? I tried to warn you, but you didn’t want to listen!” She flung her hands in the air. He grabbed her wrists, and for an instant both royals froze. A swarm of butterflies flurried in her stomach. She jerked away at the same time he retracted his grip, and they each angled their back to one another.

  In her periphery, Denoela and Clervie exchanged a knowing glance.

  The carriage turned onto the waterfront road, the smell of salt thick on the breeze. A dozen ships spread along the docks ahead. She picked out the Caprian flag upon one of the masts, blue and black and gold. Elouan reined in the team and sprang from the driver’s box, and Clervie and Denoela scrambled out the door. Jaoven hopped down but turned again to the interior.

  Iona, expecting him to leave her for either her father or Aedan to collect, regarded the prince’s outstretched hand with confusion.

  “We have a ship doctor,” he said. “He can set your leg.”

  Still she hesitated.

  He beckoned with impatient fingers. “I’m not leaving you here. If your father prevailed at the castle, he’ll sink our ship before we’re out of the harbor unless he has good reason not to.”

  “And if Aedan prevails?” she asked.

  “He’ll need time to purge any lingering loyalists that may wish to do you harm.”

  Reluctantly she put her hand in his, and he pulled her down, catching her at the waist before her feet could hit the ground. The awkwardness of this descent ended with her arms around his neck again as though in an intimate embrace. She peered up at him, angry at her own weakness.

  He seemed not to notice. “Do you want to walk up, or shall I carry you?”

  She squelched her thundering emotions and steadied her unbroken leg against the ground. “You’ve carried me enough already.”

  Despite this professed desire for independence, she yet relied heavily upon him as she hobbled all the way up the gangway to the deck. Jaoven showed magnificent patience, especially since her father might have already dispatched guards to intercept their flight. When they reached the stairs that led into the belly of the ship, however, he wordlessly swept her off her feet and conveyed her down a level, where he deposited her on a bed in a private room. The portholes looked out onto the city. In the distance, the castle rose against the sky, the wind billowing the flag of Wessett as though peace and tranquility reigned over the land.

  “I’ll get the doctor,” he said, and he quietly withdrew.

  And not a moment too soon. The stress of her morning crashed upon her, and she folded into herself to ward against its onslaught.

  Chapter 25

  The doctor splinted Iona’s leg and bound it tight, with orders for her not to move from the bed. Accordingly, she lay propped against the headboard, her broken limb outstretched while she dangled the other from the edge of the mattress. The ship rose and fell beneath her, its lazy rhythm in contrast to the grief that possessed her heart. The island of Wessett had long faded into an afternoon haze. Out the porthole nearest her, the sea glittered gold against slate gray waves.

  She’d rather be up top, where she could watch for any ships in pursuit. Had Aedan’s rebellion succeeded, or had he failed? Did he yet live or had her father struck him down?

  And what would be her fate in the aftermath? Her pulse fluttered at the prospect of that impending return.

  A knock sounded on the door, and Jaoven peeked inside. Conscious of the disheveled picture she posed, Iona sat up a fraction straighter. Her eyes stung from the remnants of too many tears, and her hair hung in lank waves around her, long enough for her to play with the ends.

  He graciously pretended nothing in her appearance was amiss. “Are you comfortable?”

  She rubbed the strands of a blond lock between her thumb and index finger, studying it rather than meet his gaze. “Yes.”

  “The doctor said he gave you something for the pain. Did it work?”

  The herbs had helped, but she knew from experience that nothing would fully banish the ache of a broken bone. “I’m sure it did as much as it could.”

  “That’s hardly an answer.”

  “It wasn’t a very good question.”

  With a sigh, he entered the room and shut the door behind him, leaning against it. For a long breath, neither of them spoke.

  She lightly cleared her throat. “Are there any ships following us?”

  “Three,” Jaoven said. “We left before the tide shifted, which slowed our progress out of the harbor, but we’re faster on the open sea. They’ll turn back when they realize they can’t catch up, unless they want to risk engaging with the Caprian fleet on our side.”

  So no exchange would occur mid-channel. Perhaps when the prince and his people were safe in Capria, they would leave her at their docks instead.

  He pushed off the door and started pacing. “The wind is in our favor right now. The captain says at this rate, we’ll be in Capria by nightfall, though we’ll probably remain on board until I can send word to my father of what’s happened.”

  She clenched her hands in her lap and asked aloud the worry that had plagued her since they brought her aboard. “At what point are you returning me to Wessett?”

  He stopped short and stared. “I’m not giving you back.”

  Surprise coursed through her. She dismissed any positive conclusions in favor of the worst possible outcome. “So I’m a political prisoner?”

  Jaoven strode straight for her bedside, the intensity of his expression almost causing her to flinch. “You are free to go wherever you please, but I will have no part in returning you to that den of vipers”—he flung a hand toward the porthole, presumably toward Wessett itself—“not when I can’t guarantee your survival.”

  She blinked, uncertain how to interpret this speech.

  He inhaled deep, as though to contain the sudden flash of feeling. “If you want my advice—which, I realize, you would never seek—you’ll let your cousin’s revolution play out. He can send word if and when it’s safe for you to return. Until then, Capria will gladly grant you asylum.”

  A thousand knots loosened within her soul. She looked to the wall, hopeful that he wouldn’t see the shimmer in her eyes, wary that he might misinterpret it as despair instead of relief.

  The mattress dipped. Jaoven, perching on the edge beside her, silently offered her a handkerchief.

  For the sake of her dignity, she accepted, dabbing at her tears before they could fall.

  “I’m sorry,” he murmured, a phrase she had once believed could never cross his lips and the last thing she wanted to hear from him right now.

  “You have nothing to be sorry about. I’m sorry your treaty failed.”

  “It would be worse if it had gone through.” He grasped her hand, squeezing her cold fingers, that faint transfer of warmth a strange comfort to her.

  Still, an air of regret hovered around him—and little could she wonder. Within the space of an hour, he had shifted from creating an alliance to destroying it. Wessett, plunged into conflict, could offer none of the help that Capria had sought and presumably still needed.

 
Jaoven’s worries revolved around a much narrower sphere than international politics, however. Carefully he said, “There’s a chance your leg won’t fully heal. The doctor says he did his best, but it all depends on how the bone knits.”

  Was that the cause of his deep disquiet? A permanent injury, when she might have otherwise been dead? She waved aside his concern. “It’s fine. You can call me ‘Yanna of Gimp’ like you did that time I sprained my ankle.”

  Anguish twisted across his face. Before she could interpret the meaning behind it, he cupped her cheek and suddenly kissed her. Her senses stood on end, attuned to the movement of his lips against hers, the way that his thumb caressed her cheekbone, the intensity of feeling that surged from deep within her.

  As he pulled back a degree and looked her directly in the eyes, she asked, with quivering voice, “Why did you do that?”

  He didn’t break eye contact. “You know why.”

  She didn’t—couldn’t—move, couldn’t breathe.

  Jaoven, something akin to frustration chasing through him, said, “I understand if you can never see beyond the boy who once delighted in your torment, but you should also know my feelings toward you now.”

  He started to withdraw then, but lightning-quick she caught his shirt. Startled, he met her gaze. Words would not come. She couldn’t articulate the tangle of emotions roiling within her, but she needed him to understand, needed him—

  Her message, though unspoken, hit its mark. His mouth found hers again, demanding this time, communicating his ardor in a way that she could respond. She drew him close, her woes for the moment overcome.

  “I want you,” he whispered, so near that his warmth infused her. “For myself. For Capria.”

  The uncertainty of her future struck her anew. This was not a simple, uncomplicated man. He was a prince who would one day be a king. “What have I to offer Capria?”

  “You have your strength, your resilience, your dignity.” He punctuated this list with a kiss against the corner of her mouth.

  “I have a broken leg and an ancestry full of murderers,” she said.

  “The leg will heal and the ancestors are dead.”

  “You just told me it might not.”

  “Might not fully. Don’t twist my words.”

  “Do you think my father’s dead?”

  He paused, drawing back far enough to meet her solemn gaze. “I don’t know. I don’t know where loyalties lie in Wessett. Your sister is dead—if not yet, then soon.”

  Her eyes widened. He held her gaze, unrepentant. “I know where the knife hit, Iona. The wound will turn septic if she doesn’t bleed out. Either way she’s a dead woman. And I want you to marry me anyway.”

  A huff escaped her, half-disbelief. He framed himself as her sister’s killer and then proposed? An act that, under normal circumstance, should have rendered him her mortal enemy instead recommended him to her. The absurdity struck her full-force.

  She pulled him close to give her voiceless answer.

  They lingered together far longer than proper if the rules of social scandal had been in play. No one from elsewhere on the ship broached their solitude, however, and neither felt inclined to forsake the other’s company for a propriety that others couldn’t bother to enforce.

  Jaoven, amid communions and confessions, said, “I thought, that evening by the lake when you told me not to marry Lisenn, that you would suggest I marry you instead.”

  Iona’s brows arched. “Oh? How disappointing that must’ve been.”

  “It was. I felt like a fool—a stupid, lovesick fool. Even so, I should’ve heard you out instead of hurling accusations to cover up my idiotic hopes.”

  “And I should’ve explained instead of losing my temper,” Iona said, “but I was already betraying Aedan’s plans by speaking of Lisenn like that at all.”

  “You were going to let me marry her,” he said, fixing an accusatory stare upon her.

  She swallowed against a lump in her throat and nodded.

  “My former self would have deserved it. Do I still?”

  Shock and a touch of outrage thrummed through her. “You’re asking me that now? Do you think I hold such trysts with villains?”

  “I certainly hope not.” He leaned in to kiss her cheek, his hand light upon her neck. “But it still begs the question of where I stand in your eyes.”

  He had already admitted his feelings for her aloud. She had carefully avoided any overt declarations, though the state of her heart should have been obvious already. “You’re not going to let it drop, are you?”

  Jaoven shook his head, a hint of a smile playing around his mouth.

  “Vain and arrogant,” she said, and the smile slipped. “You were always so vain and so arrogant. Was it because of your handsome face? Your high marks? Too coddled as a child, perhaps? Ninth in line for your crown was so far away. I was second for mine and I knew I’d never inherit, but you swaggered around the Royal College as if your coronation was imminent. How could someone be so vain?”

  He dismissed the cut, save for one detail. “You thought I was handsome?”

  “I didn’t think it. Everyone on campus agreed. And you know perfectly well what a nice face you have, so it shouldn’t surprise me that you’re still so vain, but you are.”

  “Is that all?” he asked, a touch of wry humor lingering around him.

  She nodded. “Mmhmm.” With averted eyes she added in a small voice, “But also I might find it endearing now, in a way.”

  Skeptically he tipped his head. “My vanity?”

  Iona picked at the quilt on the bed. “Because deep down, you only want to know that people love you despite your faults and past mistakes.”

  “People?” he echoed, trying to catch her eye. “Or maybe one person in particular?” Her flitted gaze met his and then glanced away again. He sighed. “This is like squeezing water from a stone.”

  “I’m still getting used to it myself,” Iona said. “You can’t expect me to blurt some weird declaration when up until a few hours ago I’d resigned myself to you marrying my sister. Oh, of course I’m in love with you, Jove. And you can wipe that half-moon grin from your face, because I don’t know when or how, and I tried everything I could to fight against it. If you were the same as you once were, I’d still hate you.”

  Almost boyishly, he interlaced his fingers with hers and settled next to her, his back against the wall.

  She leaned her head onto his shoulder and stared at her splinted leg. “You hurt my feelings in Straithmill.”

  “Did I?” he murmured. “I’m sorry.”

  “Pawning me off as your sister, outright saying what a nightmare it would be if we ended up tied together.”

  “I didn’t say it would be a nightmare. Besides, I wanted you to contradict me.”

  She lifted her head to favor him with a stink eye.

  “We’re not good at communicating with each other,” Jaoven said.

  “We’re not,” Iona agreed.

  “We should definitely try to improve.”

  “Good thing we have so much time ahead of us.”

  The fingers interlaced with her own squeezed, and both the prince and the princess softly smiled.

  Chapter 26

  Capria by night was nothing but distant specks of light against deep shadows. The tide when they arrived was too low to sail up river, but the king had apparently been watching for his son’s return. The ship weighed anchor off-shore and they rowed in smaller vessels to the beach, with carriages waiting for them on a road beyond. The salt-laden breeze nipped at Iona as she huddled into a borrowed cloak.

  She was lucky to have the garment. Lisenn’s trousseau was on the ship, but it felt wrong to raid it for her own needs, especially after learning of her sister’s presumed fate. Denoela had supplied an alternative, though, and its dark color helped Iona feel more like herself.

  A pair of wooden crutches completed her meager set of borrowed belongings. Neven had discovered them among the ship’s me
dical supplies, as well as a hacksaw to adjust them when they proved too long for Iona’s frame. The princess needed help getting in and out of the smaller boat, but she could manage well enough otherwise.

  “I’ll bet you never thought that sprained ankle would be such good practice for the future,” Clervie said, elbowing her as they stood upon the strand with the sound of the ocean in their ears.

  Neven tweaked the woman’s dark hair in passing. “Leave Iona be. She needs none of your teasing tonight.” He moved on to Jaoven and Elouan, who were arranging with an attendant to send a message ahead to the Caprian king.

  Clervie sighed, her gaze following him. “I’m going to marry that man.”

  Iona, startled, looked to her and then the object of her unexpected adoration. “Who, Neven?”

  The younger woman hummed an affirmative.

  “Does he know that?” Iona asked.

  Clervie’s brow wrinkled. “Sort of. He thinks it’s a passing whim, so he allows it the same way a person lets a strange cat rub against their leg. The thing he doesn’t understand is that cats adopt the people they want, and then they never leave. I was a spy during the war, you know?”

  The abrupt change of subject bewildered Iona all the more, though the revelation itself seemed logical enough.

  “I was young enough to pass as harmless, and of course no one expects cunning from a girl,” Clervie continued. “Over the years, I saw horrible things, images that haunt me when I close my eyes at night: death and depravity, the very worst of human sins. Neven saw such things as well, but he can channel his trauma into song, and when he does, it wipes away the grit and residue of war. It’s a wonderful gift, music. You’re lucky to have it.”

  “You could learn to play,” Iona said.

  An impish smile lit Clervie’s face. “Why should I when I have him to play for me?”

  Denoela joined them in time to hear this last remark. “Are you still mooning over your viscount?”

  Clervie only chuckled, a contained, closed-mouth noise as though she enjoyed a private joke.