His right hand, still barely healing from when he had been forced to stab it two days ago, ached at the thought of how it had all been for nothing.
But how could he murder Liam? His brothers had all hurt him, but Liam had been almost kind at times. He wasn’t like the others.
Iris turned fully to face him, her arms folded over her chest. Her chin tilted up. “You know Henri will punish you for what happened in Gevell.”
“He’ll also punish me if I return without Liam.”
“Yes, and you’ll survive his wrath as you always do.” Her head tilted to the side, her gaze piercing him. “But there are three people who won’t survive if you fail to kill your brother.”
A churning started in his gut, though he tried not to reveal his growing horror.
Iris’s voice was horribly soft. “I sent a few of my men to Kevid. They found a physician who was paid handsomely for tending a widow and her two children. The physician was only too eager to share that the woman and children journeyed south, to Valn, to make a new home. The younger boy still struggles with a cough. Perhaps his lungs will never fully heal from his illness. But he’s happy. And so is the older boy. Apparently, he plays with the other children in the village and tells stories of how a heroic stranger saved them one terrible night.” Her lips curved upward, a horrible facsimile of a smile. “What a charming boy, that Brant.”
Grayson wasn’t breathing. Fates, he’d never told anyone the boy’s name. That alone convinced him that she was telling the truth. He hadn’t known where the family had ended up—helping them escape Gevell had been the end of it.
Saving their lives had been one of the only decent things he’d ever done, and all he’d really succeeded in doing was making them targets.
He felt sick.
Iris continued smoothly. “The widow recently found work at a tavern in town. She works every day, leaving the boys alone for hours. Anything could happen to them. But I wouldn’t worry too much—they’re all being very closely watched.” Her chin dipped, her smile dropping. “I think you misunderstand, Grayson. If you don’t kill Liam, I will find someone else to do it. He will die. That is a fact. But Brant doesn’t have to. Neither does Garyn, with his poor lungs. And they don’t have to watch their mother die.” Iris stepped forward, and Grayson’s instincts roared for him to run. Fight. Something.
He did nothing as she came to a stop in front of him.
Her hand lifted, her fingers tracing the line of the newest scar that cut across his cheek. Her voice was a whisper. “You are so striking. Your harsh beauty is stunning. My scarred prince. And yet, you don’t want anyone to know how soft you are underneath the cruelty they all see.” She suddenly gripped his chin, her fingernails digging into his skin.
Grayson stiffened in pain but made no sound. He held her gaze, his skin crawling as he stared into her cold gray eyes.
“Do not make the mistake of failing me, Grayson. More than your life is at stake.” She released him with a shove and he was a little surprised there wasn’t blood on her fingernails. His jaw ached and his skin stung from her punishing grip.
Iris moved back to the window, the hem of her white skirt dragging over the stone floor. “Safe travels,” she said over her shoulder. “I look forward to your successful return.”
Grayson ground his teeth, heart pounding against his ribs as he strode from the room, the bottle of Ieannax in his fist.
“You’re forgetting one,” Liam said from across the small table.
Grayson tightened his grip on the back of his neck, eyeing the maps and papers spread before him. “I named them all.”
“No. There are twelve seats on the Mortisian council. You named only eleven.”
“I don’t remember, then.”
Liam sighed. “Ser Omar Jamal. He’s the youngest on the council, and the newest.”
“I won’t forget,” Grayson said, his tone a little too stiff.
His brother leaned back in his wooden chair, which creaked. They were in the castle library, a somber place that smelled of dust and mold. Sporadic windows let in the vibrant light of a dying afternoon. Grayson had always enjoyed the large room because most everyone in his family avoided it. That made it an ideal place for their current studies because they didn’t have to worry about being disturbed.
“Would you like to talk about what’s troubling you?” Liam asked.
Iris’s face flashed through his mind, tightening his jaw. “No.”
It had only been a few hours since she had ordered him to kill Liam, but it had already felt like an eternity. The two paths that stretched out before him both held death.
If he didn’t kill Liam, his mother would betray him. The Hogans would lose their lives. Mia would lose her chance at freedom.
If he killed Liam, the Hogans lived and Grayson might somehow be able to convince his father to set Mia free, despite his failure to bring Liam back to Ryden. But he would have to live with killing his own brother.
It wasn’t much of a choice.
Liam studied him in silence, twisting the leather bracelet that encircled his right wrist. His brother was tanned from all the time he spent abroad, and his carefully maintained beard—short, by Ryden standards—added a foreign flair to his features. He was only three years older than Grayson, and yet he always looked confident and in control. “You haven’t paid attention to this lesson at all.”
They’d started with memorization drills and then moved to solving riddles and puzzles. “You need a sharp mind,” Liam had said, and that was the only explanation Grayson got before he was given another thing to solve. As their lesson moved toward an end, Liam had switched to quizzing Grayson about the Mortisian council.
Grayson hadn’t done well at any of it.
Liam eyed him from across the table. “You’re often quiet, but today is worse. What’s on your mind?”
“Nothing.”
Liam snorted. “I can tell.” He looked to the towering bookcase beside them and shook his head, then fingered the nearest shelf, watching as the dust built against his finger. When he spoke, his voice was quiet. “Sometimes I think the cruelest thing our parents ever did to us was kill our ability to trust. Least of all each other.”
The words were low, but there was a vehemence to them that made Grayson wonder if Iris was right about Liam.
His brother withdrew his hand from the shelf and brushed the dust against his leg. “I think that’s all we’re going to manage today. I’ll continue to train you during our travels.” He pushed to his feet and stepped around the table. He paused there, then twisted back to face Grayson. His mouth opened, closed, and then he shoved his hands into his pockets. “Enjoy your last night in the castle. I’ll meet you in the courtyard at dawn.” He strode from the room without a further goodbye, leaving Grayson alone.
The silence pressed around him. His skin felt too tight. Anger, grief, and hopelessness rushed through him.
In another life, he and Liam might have been friends.
In this one, he would probably have to kill his brother.
Grayson didn’t know how long he sat at the table, smelling dust, moldy leather, and aging parchment. But the maps and papers spread out before him held no answers, and neither did any of the thousands of volumes surrounding him.
When he finally pushed up from the table, the scuff of the chair against the stone floor grated loudly in the cavernous room. He left the maps spread on the table. He wondered if anyone would even come in here to put them away, or if they’d still be here when he returned from Mortise.
Because he would return. Despite all the uncertainty and confusion he felt, that was something he knew. Nothing could keep him from coming back to Mia. Even if it was only to see her freed.
He would have to learn how to be strong enough to let her go.
His boots clipped against the floor, the setting sun that streamed through the dirty glass of the tall windows cast the rows of books in a reddish glow. The harsh light was broken intermittently b
y the shelves, so each step Grayson took was in shadow, then light.
He was nearly to the exit when the hairs on the back of his neck lifted, instinct screaming that he was no longer alone.
His steps slowed and he looked to his left.
At the end of the row of towering shelves, Carter stood, watching him.
Carter was the second oldest Kaelin. His long dark hair brushed his shoulders and he always reeked of herbs and potions.
Grayson drew to a stop, his pulse kicking. Not in fear—he could easily beat Carter in a fight. But dread wormed inside him, because nothing good ever came from one of his brothers seeking him out.
Carter started down the aisle, drawing toward Grayson on nearly silent feet. As he got closer, he reached out with his left hand and ran his fingers over the leather spines. His forefinger was mostly gone; Peter had cut it off years ago.
“I thought you might still be here,” Carter said.
Grayson’s jaw tightened. “What do you want?”
The corner of Carter’s mouth twitched up, but he didn’t answer.
Grayson stiffened as a light scuff of a boot sounded behind him. Twisting a look over his shoulder, he saw Peter at the end of the other aisle, slowly walking toward him.
They were hemming him in.
Chapter 10
Grayson
Grayson could have run. Carter and Peter were drawing closer, but he wasn’t surrounded, and the library’s exit was near. But he had stopped running from them years ago.
Tension climbed his back, but he didn’t let anything show in his expression.
“So glad we managed to catch you,” Peter said. The signet ring on his right hand glowed in the red light of sunset, the emerald eyes of the snakes flashing. The crown prince was the shortest brother, but his ruthlessness was something they had all felt over the years. He had brown hair and an angular face, and intelligence shone in his light-brown eyes.
He would make a terrifying king one day.
Carter and Peter both drew to a stop. Grayson eased back a step so he could view them both.
Peter crossed his arms over his chest. “We want a quick word before you leave us.”
“Peter has a request,” Carter added.
Fates, not another request. Grayson was already drowning in them. He gritted his teeth and eyed his older brothers. “What?”
Carter’s gaze narrowed. “Be careful of your tone. He is your future king.”
Perhaps it was being pushed into a corner that made him reckless, but Grayson lifted his chin, one hand dropping to rest on the hilt of one of his belted knives.
A spark of fear lit Carter’s eyes, but he managed not to shift back a step. Impressive, because Grayson could feel the mask of the Black Hand drawn over his face. Most would run from him. He forced himself to edge out a thin, dangerous smile. “I’m well aware of what you both are.”
Carter’s mouth pressed into a thin line, but his eyes flared.
Peter clucked his tongue. “Easy, Carter. The Black Hand merely wishes to stretch his dark wings.”
A muscle popped in Carter’s jaw and annoyance flashed in his eyes, but the fear was still there.
Grayson’s sharp smile spread a little wider.
Peter propped a shoulder against the overstuffed wooden shelf. “This request is to remain private. Do you understand?” Grayson didn’t bother giving an answer, and Peter didn’t wait for one as he said, “I have no wish to marry Yemma.”
That wasn’t exactly a secret. Peter had grown bored with his betrothed by the time he was fourteen.
Carter seemed unable to help himself, so he jumped in. “He wants to end the engagement, but Father will only allow it if Peter can find a better match. I’ve been helping him.”
“What a lovely matchmaker you must be.”
Carter scowled.
“Yemma’s father will not take ending the betrothal lightly,” Peter said. “So Father must be in total agreement that my new bride would be of greater advantage.”
“You’ll not find better in Ryden,” Grayson said. “Her name is nearly as old as ours.”
Peter smiled thinly. “True.”
Grayson’s skin itched. This was not where he wanted to be right now, and it certainly wasn’t a conversation he wanted to have a part in. His breath came out sharply. “You want a foreign bride, then?”
“Yes. And you’ll meet her in Mortise.”
Grayson’s dark brows drew together. “Princess Serene?”
Carter snorted. “Peter is intrigued by the tales of her beauty, but no.”
Peter shot Carter a silencing look and he snapped his mouth shut. Peter then shifted his focus to Grayson. “I want Princess Imara.”
Grayson’s knowledge in foreign politics was limited—that was more Peter and Liam’s territory—but he knew Princess Imara was one of the Zennorian royals. Since King Zaire Buhari had half a dozen daughters, that didn’t really narrow things down.
“I know Father isn’t concerned with Zennor right now,” Peter continued. “But I’ve been there and they’re ready for the taking. All we have to do is snatch the opportunity.”
Carter leaped in, eagerness edging his words. “The oldest two princesses are married, but the third—Imara—is not. She’s betrothed to a man named Skyer, a leader of one of the Zennorian clans, but that is of little consequence.”
“You intend to marry her, then?” At Peter’s nod, Grayson barely held back a snort. Or perhaps he didn’t succeed, because his brother’s eyes narrowed. “And you think she—and King Zaire—would negate the betrothal so she could marry you?”
Carter’s fists tightened at his sides. “They’d be fools not to accept the match. As the third daughter, she could have never dreamed of such an honor. To be the future queen of Ryden?”
“A position you covet, no doubt.”
His face flushed darkly, but Peter’s voice was cool. “Negotiations will not be an issue and Father would not be able to find fault with the match. After we take over Devendra and Mortise, we will be close neighbors with Zennor. Forging a marriage alliance is in our best interests.”
Grayson folded his arms over his chest, more than done with this conversation. Mia was waiting, and he would much rather spend his last evening in Ryden with her. “Congratulations on your perfect match.”
Peter smiled thinly. “Thank you. But you’ll have a part to play in this.”
“How?”
“Jahzara came by some interesting information,” Peter said.
Grayson was not social by nature, but he’d met Jahzara several times. Peter’s mistress was a calculating woman who watched everyone around her with sharp eyes and a cruel smile. She and his brother were perfectly suited, which was probably why Peter hadn’t dismissed her, even after two years—certainly longer than any other mistress had lasted. They’d met when Henri had sent Peter to Zennor to meet with King Zaire. From what Grayson had gathered, Peter had found Jahzara to be a perfect ally; the noblewoman came from a strong Zennorian line, but her family had fallen out of favor with King Zaire and she thirsted for revenge and power. Peter had probably promised her both.
Peter’s eyes brightened as he continued. “Some of her contacts in Zennor sent word that Imara is not in Zennor at all.”
“Wait.” Grayson stared at his brother. “Your mistress helped you choose your future bride?”
“Yes.” Peter’s expression didn’t change.
Grayson could only shake his head. “I’m sure you, Jahzara, and Princess Imara will all be very happy together.”
Peter ignored that. “Imara has left Zennor and gone to support Princess Serene’s betrothal in Mortise, which means your paths will cross in Duvan.”
Grayson’s eyebrows drew together. “You want me to share your proposal with her?”
Peter laughed, the burst of sound echoing loudly off the library’s tall ceiling. “Fates, Grayson. She’d probably take one look at your scarred face and run away screaming. No.” He set his hands on hi
s hips, chin tilted up; it was strange how he could be the shortest one in the room, but still look down on them all. “If I wanted a message delivered smoothly, I’d send Liam. I could have ordered him to seduce her, even, but that’s not how I want to play this hand. I’ve met Imara. We didn’t speak much while I was in Zennor, but she knows me, and she does not . . . Well, she doesn’t exactly like me.”
Grayson felt a prickle of unease. “Then how do you intend to—”
“When it’s time for you to leave Mortise,” Peter overrode him calmly, “I want you to bring her back with you.”
Grayson blinked. “You . . . wish me to abduct Princess Imara?”
“Yes.” Peter didn’t even have the decency to look the least bit ashamed.
His fingers dug into his crossed arms, a hundred protests on his tongue. He settled for the one Peter might understand. “There’s no way I’ll be able to do that. Father’s orders—”
“I know Father’s orders,” Peter cut in. “You and Liam are to play the part of peace-seekers until the moment is right. Then you will assassinate Princess Serene and start a war between Mortise and Devendra. It is during that chaos that you will take Princess Imara and bring her to me.”
“This would start a war with Zennor—a war Father doesn’t want yet.”
“Peter and Imara will be married before Zaire Buhari even learns she’s gone,” Carter said. “It will be too late. He’ll have no choice but to accept it.”
“Jahzara and my other sources in Zennor all indicate that King Zaire would not be able to muster an army in time to save his daughter,” Peter added. “Besides, Zennor will already be pulled into the conflict between Mortise and Devendra, or risk losing their alliance with Devendra. Zaire’s hands will be tied. He won’t be able to do anything.”
Carter nodded, his long black hair brushing the sides of his angular face. “By the time a threat could even reach us, Imara will probably be carrying Peter’s child. What could the king do then?”
Make Princess Imara a widow, Grayson thought. But that was not the argument he used. “Even after Liam and I complete our mission, we’re supposed to keep our covers—Ryden isn’t supposed to be implicated in Serene’s death. Abducting a foreign princess would be impossible.”
Royal Spy (Fate of Eyrinthia Book 2) Page 10