The dismissal was clear.
Grayson’s jaw flexed and his breathing thinned as he carefully pulled the knife out of his hand, trying not to make the damage worse. He had no bandage, so he simply put his glove back on. His hands trembled and sweat beaded at his hairline by the time he was done.
A smear of blood remained on his father’s desk, and he had a feeling the king would leave it there, letting it stain the wood.
Grayson wiped the bloody blade on his thigh and returned the dagger to his belt. His hand throbbed, but he refused to show even a flicker of pain as he bowed to his father.
Henri did not look up from his letter, and Grayson would have believed he was completely absorbed by the missive—except for the smile teasing his mouth.
Grayson left his father’s study, his jaw tight and his hand on fire. He had succeeded in gaining more than he’d ever thought possible, and he knew he should only be grateful his father had conceded so much, yet there was a metallic taste on his tongue. Not because of the agony in his bleeding hand, or even the vicious taunts his father had so cruelly thrown.
No, it was because after years of fighting, his father had finally won. Grayson had willingly become what Henri had always wanted—a ruthless monster. The Black Hand. And because of the bargain he had made, that is what he would always be.
It made his insides clench and his blood pound in his ears. He felt raw as he rounded a corner and caught movement at the end of the shadowed corridor.
Tyrell.
Every emotion that had been pounding through Grayson narrowed on his brother, heating his veins until he felt only a thirst for revenge.
His brother was one year older than him and wholly sadistic. He had dark features; dark hair, dark eyes, and a completely black heart. He had inflicted countless pains on Grayson, but when he spied Tyrell now, he wasn’t thinking of the scars he bore. All he could think about was the last time he’d seen his brother.
He could still hear Mia’s screams.
Tyrell’s gaze was aimed down, a furrow between his tightly drawn eyebrows as he walked, but when he glanced up and caught sight of Grayson at the end of the hall, his steps faltered. It was a brief hitch, but even though his expression locked down quickly, Grayson had seen the flicker of fear.
Good.
Grayson’s boots whispered against the stone and his hands hung at his sides. His right one sparked with pain, but that only fueled his anger.
Tyrell now stalked toward him with a confidence Grayson didn’t fully believe—not after that hesitation he’d shown.
The hall was deserted except for them, and the muted gutter of the torches was the only other sound besides their soft footsteps and thin breaths.
With only a few paces left between them, Tyrell’s mouth curled and he veered to the right.
Grayson blocked his path.
His brother’s eyes narrowed and he drew to a stop.
Grayson stopped as well, leaving a small space between them.
“Get out of my way,” Tyrell said, his voice dangerously low.
“No.”
Tyrell’s fingers twitched, clearly wanting to draw one of the knives at his belt. But his eyes darted to Grayson’s hands, which also hung near his weapons.
Do it, he nearly begged.
His brother set his jaw and Grayson could make out the edge of a bruise. The area around his nose was also mottled blue and purple, spreading under his eyes. Satisfaction flared in Grayson’s chest, but the darker part of him craved more. He wanted Tyrell to bleed. Needed him to bleed, after what he’d done to Mia.
His older brother lowered his chin, menace in his voice. “Step aside.”
“Make me.”
As the two youngest Kaelin princes, they had been pitted against each other since birth. Grayson didn’t always win a fight with Tyrell, but he would win this one. He knew it.
He thought Tyrell knew it, too, because his brother did not immediately strike. He was rarely cautious, but of course the one time Grayson wanted his brother to attack, he didn’t.
The fates hated him.
Tyrell grit his teeth. “Father has summoned me.”
“He hates to be kept waiting.”
His brother made a scoffing sound in his throat and stepped to the right.
Grayson stepped with him, blocking him again.
Tyrell’s teeth flashed as he growled. “I will kill you if you don’t get out of my way.”
“Doubtful. You’re the one who almost died during our last fight.”
A flush crept up Tyrell’s neck, spreading over his cheeks. “I was following orders. Fates, you’re losing your mind over some pathetic girl—”
His left hand was around Tyrell’s throat in a split second. He shoved his brother until his back crashed into the stone wall.
Tyrell’s hand shot to his belt, but before he could draw a weapon, Grayson had the tip of a blade against his stomach.
His heart thudded in his chest, echoing in his ears until they pounded. His bleeding hand screamed in pain as he clenched the hilt, keeping the blade steady. “You will not speak of her,” he hissed. “Ever. Don’t even think of her.” His fingers dug more tightly around Tyrell’s throat and he leaned in, letting his rage seep into his eyes so Tyrell would see it. “I will kill you for what you did. Not now. I want you to dread it. I want you to look twice at every shadow. I want you to feel my blade hovering between your shoulder blades every time the hairs on the back of your neck lift. I want you to know I’m coming.”
A vein throbbed near Tyrell’s temple and tendons flexed beneath Grayson’s hand as he glared, unable to speak past the stranglehold at his throat.
Grayson leaned in, applying the pressure of the blade at Tyrell’s navel until his brother hissed and Grayson could see a drop of blood seep through his shirt. “You will regret ever stepping foot in that cell,” he told Tyrell. “Every pain you caused her will be returned to you a thousandfold.”
Tyrell’s glare sharpened. He snatched Grayson’s wrist, attempting to snap the bones and draw the knife away from his body, but Grayson broke free, swiping the blade across Tyrell’s face.
His body jerked, blood seeping from the cut that sliced over his cheek. A scar that he would always see and remember. A scar like the one he’d given Grayson not too long ago, though Grayson’s blade hadn’t been dipped in Syalla.
Pity.
“Well, this looks fun.”
Grayson released Tyrell and stepped back, his eyes flashing toward the voice while Tyrell doubled over, coughing and clutching his throat.
Liam stood at the end of the hall, a single eyebrow raised. “Do you need some help, Tyrell?”
Tyrell shot Liam a glare, blood dripping down his angular jaw. The cut on his cheek would definitely scar, and that filled Grayson with a sick sort of satisfaction.
Tyrell straightened, his breathing a little ragged as his hand dropped from his throat. The skin was red. It would probably bruise.
Good.
His brother stalked away without a word, his shoulder smashing into Grayson’s as he passed.
Grayson’s mouth twitched, though admittedly the rush of emotion he felt wasn’t exactly happiness. He’d scared Tyrell, but it wasn’t enough.
It hadn’t changed what Mia had gone through.
Farther down the hall, a door thumped closed as Tyrell disappeared into the king’s office.
“What was that about?” Liam asked.
Grayson shoved his knife back in his belt. His right hand pulsed with pain, and he grit his teeth. “I had a message for him.”
Liam’s brows lifted. “Quite the message.”
Liam was the middle Kaelin brother, and at twenty years old, he was easily the most well-traveled. He was Henri’s spymaster, the Shadow of Ryden. Rumor said he could bring down a kingdom with a well-placed whisper. He had a closely trimmed brown beard and sun-bronzed skin from his extensive travels. Grayson had been spending more time with him since Henri had ordered them to go
to Mortise together; his brother had been training him on everything from Mortisian politics to the foreign language.
Liam fiddled with the leather bracelet on his wrist as he eyed Grayson. “Are you all right?”
“Are any of us all right?” he asked.
The thin smile his brother cracked was not exactly mirthful. “We’re Kaelins. I doubt we’ll ever be all right.”
Grayson snorted. That was certainly the truth.
Chapter 5
Desfan
Serjah Desfan Saernon Cassian, heir to the throne and current regent of Mortise, let his head thud against the desk. The scattered papers and endless piles of reports cushioned the blow, but his head still ached.
It had been aching for months.
Alone in his father’s office, lamps burning through the night, he knew he needed to give up and retire. His best friend and bodyguard, Karim, had finally left an hour ago; he needed sleep so he could function during daylight hours and keep Desfan from doing anything stupid—like run and board the nearest ship leaving the harbor.
Ruling a country was exactly the nightmare Desfan had thought it would be. Give him his swords and pit him against pirates any day. A sea dragon, even.
Politics and paperwork would be the death of him.
The endless meetings. The blatant disapproval of the council. Waiting for a bride he had not met but was obligated to marry. Overshadowing everything was the agony of waiting for his father to recover, or finally succumb to the illness that had sent him into a nearly catatonic state and dragged Desfan back here, to the place he swore to leave behind forever.
When he lifted his head, a single paper stuck to his brow. He swatted it away, his focus moving to the painting on the far wall.
It had been commissioned soon after his mother and sisters had died, and the weight of that grief was clear in the slump of his father’s shoulders. The serjan of Mortise had turned gray overnight. The fates had left him with only Desfan—a poor trade, certainly.
In the portrait, the serjan sat with eyes turned forward, his jaw stern. An eleven-year-old Desfan stood beside him, a hand placed gently on his father’s shoulder, as if he were afraid to press too hard. His bronzed skin was the same as that boy’s, though he had more scars now. The curling locks of hair were a bit longer now, too, but just as thick and dark.
Looking into that boy’s wide brown eyes, Desfan could remember exactly what it had felt like to be him. The gnawing, incessant grief that plagued his every waking moment—and his nightmares, too. The ache that felt like it would swallow him whole. The tightness in his chest when he sobbed at night, wishing more than anything that his mother would come rushing through the door, gather him in her arms, and tell him it had all been a lie.
Nine years separated him from that boy, and despite the resemblance, he was a different person now. He’d had to become someone new to stop the pain from crushing him.
This was the last portrait Desfan had posed for. He’d refused all others. He didn’t need another painter capturing his inner torment.
Fates, why hadn’t he torn it from the wall yet? Maybe because he was usually too busy to look at it, or because he didn’t want to change anything in this room because that might make it feel like he was settling in to stay.
Or maybe you left it up as punishment, a voice in his head whispered.
There was a knock on the door and Desfan turned eagerly toward the distraction. “Enter.”
A middle-aged man strode in and it took Desfan a moment to place him. Manusch Arcas. He was a kiv in the city guard, and the soldiers under his leadership primarily monitored the docks and surrounding area. The man wore a red uniform, a gold-lined kurta that fell almost to his knees. He stopped in front of Desfan’s desk and bowed deeply. “Your Highness.”
“You’re working late, Kiv Arcas.”
“As are you.” The soldier held out a piece of parchment, which Desfan took. “This is a matter of some urgency, so I would appreciate your immediate approval.”
Desfan scanned the words, his pulse picking up. He straightened in his chair. “This is approval for a raid.”
“Yes.” Arcas gripped the hilt of his curved sword, which was sheathed at his side. “I have been monitoring this warehouse for some time, and I believe a shipment of stolen goods was just unloaded there. I have contacts at the harbor, and they swear to it.”
Desfan glanced up. “You’ve already called up your men?”
Arcas nodded. “We leave as soon as you sign the notice, Serjah.”
“Very well. But I do ask for one revision.”
The man frowned. “And what is that?”
Desfan’s grin stretched wide. “I’m leading this raid.”
Desfan crouched lower to the ground as he picked his way to the back end of the alley. The smell of refuse, rotten food, and worse burned his nose, and he tried not to think about the puddles lapping the sides of his boots. That briny scent definitely wasn’t seawater.
He was glad the weak light of the moon didn’t reveal much; he didn’t want a close look at what hid in the shadows of this forgotten alley.
He reached the corner and raised a closed fist. The silver light was dim, but the men behind him halted at once and followed his lead as he pressed his shoulders against the stone wall of the warehouse. A breeze swept up from the harbor, delivering a breath of fresh, salty air. He closed his eyes and could almost imagine he was back on his ship.
Adrenaline pumped through his veins, and his grin was unstoppable.
He only felt a little guilty that he hadn’t woken Karim, but his bodyguard had become even more protective of Desfan since he’d been named regent. He was a year older than Desfan, and had been his bodyguard since Desfan was fifteen. There was no way Karim would have allowed him to join this middle-of-the-night excursion. But Desfan refused to miss it. Not when he was so desperate to do something.
He strained his ears and, after a moment, determined there were at least two guards on the warehouse door. They weren’t speaking, but one shuffled his feet restlessly, and one a little further away kept clearing his throat.
Desfan lifted two fingers. From his periphery, he saw the nearest soldier nod.
His pulse thrummed with a fast tempo he loved. Danger, adventure, risk—he needed this.
With a flick of his brown fingers, Desfan sparked the attack. He was the first to round the corner, simultaneously drawing the two swords sheathed across his back. The twin blades cut through the air as he shifted his grip on the leather-wrapped hilts.
The two guards at the door were startled by the sudden appearance of the city guard and reacted too slowly. Desfan’s swords tapped both their throats, stopping their shouts.
He smiled. “Keep quiet, and you can keep your heads.”
The man on the left gulped.
“How many men are inside?” Desfan asked, his voice low.
The one on the right stammered. “I—I don’t know.”
“Hm. How disappointing.” Desfan shifted his blade, increasing the pressure until a drop of blood appeared.
The man hissed. “Six. There are six men inside.”
“Excellent.” He eased back and one of the soldiers moved to take his place. “As long as they don’t fight, they live,” Desfan said.
Kiv Arcas arrived at his side. “Perhaps you should stay back during the initial sweep, Serjah.”
He shot the man a grin, lightly swinging his dual blades. “Where’s the fun in that?” He used his shoulder to shove open the door to the warehouse and the city guard poured in with him.
A warning shout went up and the cluster of men in the warehouse scrambled for weapons. The lamps hanging on hooks revealed that there were far more than six smugglers. Desfan’s glance placed the count closer to twenty, which would make this a more even match.
Perfect.
“By order of the regent,” Arcas boomed, “this warehouse is being seized for inspection on suspicion of illegal activity. Stay where you are and surr
ender your weapons!”
The smugglers didn’t seem impressed. One lifted a crossbow and Desfan dodged left to avoid the fired dart. The clang of steel rang out as the guards crossed swords with the smugglers, the sound echoing high in the lofty warehouse.
One of the smugglers bolted for a side door and Desfan ran after him. He leaped over a row of crates, rather than skirt around them. As he came down, his booted heel caught the edge of one and he stumbled—but he didn’t stop.
The smuggler had nearly reached the exit when he glanced back and saw Desfan. The middle-aged man glared, but there was an edge of fear. Even without a crown, it was clear the man knew who Desfan was. The distinctive double blades were a pretty easy marker.
Besides, after almost five years patrolling the sea, every smuggler from Zennor to Ryden knew of Desfan Cassian.
The man raised his sword just in time to meet Desfan’s downward swing.
The blow vibrated up to his shoulder. “Going somewhere?” Desfan smiled.
The smuggler only growled. He was wider than Desfan, with thick arms that bulged with muscle. But Desfan was tall and lithe, and he used that to his advantage as he fought with both swords, slowly maneuvering until he blocked the man’s path to the nearest door.
Fury sparked in his eyes and he battered Desfan’s parrying blows with more power, striking fast and hard.
Desfan ducked and spun, making a shallow slice to the man’s left side. The smuggler snarled, but before he could retaliate, Desfan delivered a kick in his back, sending the man crashing into a pile of crates. The wood buckled beneath his weight, snapping loudly as the pile collapsed. The smuggler’s legs were visible in the wreckage, but he wasn’t moving.
Desfan moved forward to check on the man, praying he was only unconscious—the kiv would want him for questioning—but movement from the corner of his eye drew his attention to a nearby table. A small shape huddled underneath. In the dim light of the lamps, it looked like a child.
Royal Spy (Fate of Eyrinthia Book 2) Page 6