“You could kill any of them, couldn’t you?”
Grayson shot his brother a look. “Why do you ask?”
Liam shrugged a shoulder, still looking at the gathered men. “I suppose it wasn’t really a question. More of an observation.” He eyed Grayson. “You really are a legend, you know. And not just in Ryden.”
Grayson’s gut knotted. He told himself it was from the ship’s rocking, and not the memories that assailed him. All the times he had made arrests, pulled families apart, overseen executions—killed.
Or when he had willingly become the Black Hand so he could threaten his father.
When he’d cut a blade into Tyrell’s skin purely because he could.
Or when he’d made the decision to kill Liam, because the alternative was to see innocents suffer.
Grayson knew Liam was waiting for some response. He cleared his throat. “You sound like Father.”
The corner of Liam’s mouth twitched. “You mean prideful and possessive with a touch of insanity?”
He wasn’t used to hearing King Henri insulted; not that he disagreed with his brother’s assessment. “You seem happier since leaving Ryden,” he commented.
“I’m not sure happiness is an emotion we’re suited for.” Liam fingered his bearded jaw. “But it’s freeing to be away. For me, anyway. It seems to disagree with you. Thus my reason for wandering over here—you look pensive. Maybe even upset.”
“I don’t like sailing.”
Liam almost smiled. “The whole ship has heard how violently you hate it—several times a day. You’re wasting away, little brother.”
“I’m fine.”
“I’ll try to fold my mothering instincts away, then.” He reclined against the railing, obviously not worried about the ship pitching him over the side that dug into his lower back.
Grayson looked back out at the horizon. He didn’t like turning his back on the deck, especially now that the fights were underway and he could hear the strike and scrape of swords. The space between his shoulder blades itched, but staring at the horizon helped ease the churning in his stomach.
Liam watched the fights for a moment before speaking. “I remember the first time I left Ryden. I was so nervous, I made myself sick.” He shook his head a little, his eyes trained on the fight but clearly not seeing it. “You were young, so you probably don’t remember that.” His eyes darted to Grayson, a thin, humorless smile twisting his lips. “I’d been sent to train with father’s best spies in Ryden before then. Forced through endless tests and shoved full of information that I could repeat in my sleep—or withhold when . . . questioned.”
Shock flashed through Grayson, but he really shouldn’t have been surprised at the way Henri would treat a young boy. Fates knew he had enough firsthand experience. But even though he’d seen each of his brothers tortured by their parents, he had never heard them talk about it.
Liam’s voice was just loud enough to be heard over the rush of water as the ship cut through the sea. “I was twelve when they gave me my first mission and dropped me in Devendra. I was alone with no support. It was winter. I was freezing and starving. I got lost, and I remember wandering around, knowing I was going to die. I felt like . . . like I was drowning.”
Grayson’s scalp prickled. That was exactly how he felt. He tightened his hold on the rail as he shifted toward his brother. For some reason, he needed to know. “How did you survive?”
“The only way anyone ever actually survives—I had help.” His eyes grew hooded. “I managed to stumble upon an estate. A wealthy Devendran family took me in and nursed me back to health. They showed me kindness.” His throat bobbed as he swallowed. “They thought I was Devendran—I’d mastered the language and accent. I told them I was an orphan and I was given a position in their house as a kitchen boy. By then, I realized who they were.”
Dread curled in Grayson’s veins. This was not going to be a good story.
“I served in their house for two weeks. The lady of the house checked me personally every day. She wanted to make sure I had enough to eat and that I fully recovered from my illness. Knowing her habits made it easy for me to sneak into her chamber. I stole the letters Father had wanted all along—documents that proved she was a traitor to King Newlan. I completed my mission when I placed them in the hands of one of Father’s spies.” Liam’s jaw tightened. “I later learned that the lady worked for Father. Her son had been captured during a raid years ago. He was a Devendran soldier, and Father threatened his life as a way to control her. She turned spy against her own kingdom, without even her husband’s knowledge, all to preserve the life of her imprisoned son. When she failed Father in one of her missions, he didn’t only execute her son, he also betrayed her to Newlan with the letters I stole.” Liam’s eyes flashed with some unnamable emotion and his voice dropped low. “Newlan had her beheaded.”
The sails overhead snapped with a stiffening gust of wind. Grayson’s voice sounded hollow, even to his own ears. “I . . . don’t know what to say.”
Liam’s stare was intense. “There’s not really anything to say.”
There wasn’t.
His brother scrubbed a hand over his bristled jaw, and when he exhaled, the sound was rough. “I know what it’s like to be a prince of Ryden, Grayson. I know what it’s like to be controlled. Hated. Feared. I know what it’s like to hate yourself, the very blood in your veins. But there is one thing I’ve learned out here—Father’s reach is not as long as he thinks.”
Grayson looked away, toward the rippling water that glittered in the sunlight. There were so many things he wanted to say—to ask. Are you a traitor? Do you know Mother suspects? Do you know there’s a bottle of Ieannax in my bag and I’m supposed to use it to kill you?
And then the most dangerous question of all . . . If you are a traitor, do you have a plan to defeat them?
Grayson didn’t voice any of his thoughts. He didn’t dare. Because if there was even a chance that Liam was loyal to Henri, Grayson couldn’t risk it.
Liam shoved his hands into his pockets and pushed off from the rail. “Meet me here tomorrow after breakfast and we’ll continue your studies.” His eyes flickered to a spot behind Grayson, and he grimaced a little. “That is, if you decide to eat breakfast.”
Grayson turned to see an ominous roll of darkening clouds on the horizon.
His stomach twisted and he cursed.
Liam chuckled, though pity shone in his eyes. “Sorry, Brother. I don’t think your outlook on sailing is going to improve any time soon.”
Chapter 26
Mia
The next time Tyrell came, Mia was ready. When he stepped into the cell, she lifted two books. “Choose between these and I’ll read aloud.”
Tyrell lifted an eyebrow as he kicked the door closed. “Anxious to avoid another conversation with me?”
“Choose, or I will.”
His mouth twitched and he strolled forward, leaning in to read the titles. His eyes narrowed. “Those sound like the two most boring—”
Mia tossed one of the books to her bed and moved to the table. She sat, flipped open the book, and started to read. “The study of moss can lead to great insights into our natural world—”
“Why is there a whole book about fates-blasted moss?”
“—which can in turn lead to a greater understanding of our natural selves. My journal documents my—”
“Is he a gaffer, or a philosopher?”
“—thoughts on moss, and details my intense study of it.”
She paused for breath, and Tyrell asked, “Where did you even find this?”
She ignored him. “Moss may be seen as insignificant, but it is more widespread and fascinating than anything else I have heretofore studied.”
“Hmm,” Tyrell said, his voice lower than before. Speculative. “Insignificant but fascinating . . . Reminds me of someone.”
Mia swallowed, her mouth suddenly and uncomfortably dry. “Moss is soft, but fierce. It clings to the groun
d, stones, trees—whatever it can attach itself to—and is the most resilient form of flora, in my opinion. It is surprisingly vibrant in its shade, and . . .” Her voice faltered when she saw movement from the corner of her eye—Tyrell was strolling toward the bookcase near the table, putting him slightly behind her. “And the scent of moss is actually quite pleasant to me. While others may disagree, I find moss to be strangely compelling.”
“Strangely compelling. Huh.” From her periphery, she could see him leaning against the bookshelf. His hands sank into his pockets, and Mia could feel his eyes on her.
Her scalp prickled, and she tried to ignore his stare. “Moss is unassuming, but I think it controls more than a casual observer might expect. For instance, it may be overlooked in the shadow of a giant tree, but it surrounds the trunk and even the roots, more a part of the mighty tree than one might suspect. I first began my study by observing moss near water. Streams, rivers, and ponds are all fine places to discover the wonder of moss. There are—”
“Did you do these?”
Mia looked over and her stomach plunged.
Tyrell had twisted toward the shelf and plucked down one of her many sketchbooks. It lay open in his hands.
She dropped her book onto the table. “Put that down.”
Tyrell ignored her and flipped to another page. His brows drew together as he studied the drawing. “You’re quite good.”
Mia shoved to her feet and snatched for the book, but he held it aloft in one hand.
He smiled down at her. “What about the moss? I was so intrigued.”
“Give me my book.”
“No.”
She grit her teeth, her fingers curling to fists as her pulse thudded. “Those are mine. You have no right to look at them.”
“I’m a prince of Ryden and you’re my father’s prisoner, so I have every right and you have none.”
He flipped the book open again, still raised above her head. The page was tilted down, so Mia could see the simple sketch of a daisy. Grayson had given the flower to her long ago, his cheeks turning pink as he’d held it out. The white daisy was still pressed in one of her thickest books, along with other flowers he’d given her over the years.
“How old were you when you did this?” Tyrell asked. When she didn’t answer, he shot her a look.
She glared. “Twelve or thirteen.”
“Really?” Surprise colored his tone. “Can I see your current work?”
“No.”
He clucked his tongue. “So stubborn.” He flipped to the next page, which was a large, detailed spider. He blinked. “That’s terrifyingly realistic.”
“You’re afraid of spiders?”
“I’m not afraid of anything.” He studied the image. “Your skill really is incredible.”
Mia clutched the pebble hanging just below her throat, her heart pounding. “I don’t want you to look at my drawings.”
Tyrell ignored her and turned the page, revealing a drawing of a fluffy kitten who was missing half of his left ear.
Mia had been nine when she’d seen the poor creature. Grayson had found him in the castle yard, limping on a torn paw, his fur streaked with blood that spilled from his torn ear and multiple scratches along his ribs and legs. Grayson had been bleeding himself, Mia remembered. He’d just finished a training session, and his eye was bruised and swelling shut, shallow cuts on his arms and hands oozing blood. He’d plucked the kitten out of the weeds and smuggled him down to Mia’s cell.
Her heart had broken for the little cat, who was clearly traumatized and hurting. “Hold him gently,” Mia had ordered Grayson.
The ten-year-old boy’s grip loosened a little, and he watched Mia as she rushed to pour water in a bowl and find a clean towel.
She had known Grayson for about two years. He was the youngest prince of Ryden, and his father was absolutely terrifying, but Grayson had never scared her. He was generally quiet, and he watched her intently, but she was never uncomfortable around him. Sometimes, she thought she made him uncomfortable. Even though he was older and bigger, there were times she would touch him and he would flinch. She’d never hurt him, though. He was her best friend.
She carried the bowl of water to the table, where Grayson sat. She pulled a chair in front of him and sat so close their knees touched.
Grayson tensed, but he didn’t shift away. The kitten in his hands was muddy, fur matted with blood. He’d clearly fought for his life.
Tears stung Mia’s eyes and her chest cracked. “Here, let me clean him.”
Grayson passed over the kitten, and the moment Mia’s fingers wrapped around the fragile thing, it hissed and raked its claws over her skin.
Pain flashed and Mia gasped, dropping the kitten on reflex. The small thing bolted under the bed.
Grayson cursed and grabbed her bleeding hand.
“I’m fine,” Mia said in a rush. The scratches welled over with blood, and they stung fiercely. She swallowed back her tears, not wanting to make Grayson—or the cat—feel badly.
Grayson snatched the towel she’d carried over and pressed it to the cuts.
She sucked in a breath, but bravely pursed her lips. She felt her chin tremble, though.
Grayson had gone pale, which only made the bruising around his left eye more stark. “I’m sorry,” he gritted out. “I don’t know why he did that. He didn’t hurt me when I picked him up.”
“He didn’t mean to,” Mia said, her voice tight with swallowed pain. “He was just scared. It’s all right.”
Grayson’s forehead creased. “I’ll take him away.”
“No!” Mia shook her head, brown curls dancing around her shoulders. “I want to help him.”
Indecision sparked in his gray eyes, but he finally nodded. “Let’s clean your hand first.”
Mia wanted to argue that the kitten needed help more than she did, but she knew from the stubborn set of his jaw that Grayson would not budge on this. So she didn’t protest as he tended her wound.
Once the bleeding stopped, he dabbed the residue away with a wet corner of the cloth, then gently wrapped a bandage around her hand. When he was finished, he leveled a serious look at her. “He might have only hurt you because he was scared, but that doesn’t make it all right. No one has the right to hurt you.”
No one had the right to hurt Grayson, either. Or that kitten.
It didn’t stop any of them from being hurt.
Heat rose in Mia’s face as the memory vanished. She still gripped the necklace Grayson had given her as she watched Tyrell thumb through her sketches.
She didn’t want him to see these things. They were glimpses of her past, windows to her thoughts. They were private. And no matter what he said, he had no right to rifle through them.
She released the pebble, her hands fisting at her sides. “Give me the book,” she said firmly.
Tyrell glanced at her. “Or what?”
“I’ll take it from you.”
Something like intrigue sparked in his eyes, even as he cracked a cruel smile. “Didn’t you already try that?”
Her fingers itched to grab the nearest chair and hit him with it. Grayson had taught her to see everything around her as a potential weapon.
She didn’t think she would win the fight, but she would make him drop the book.
Tyrell glanced at the next page, which had fallen open. His eyes narrowed, and she followed his gaze.
It was a sketch of Grayson. He was probably fourteen in the picture, and he was staring into the distance, lost in a memory. Shadows were under his eyes, and her pencil had traced out the scars on his face. His shoulders were up, slightly hunched. He somehow looked both weary and alert. Vulnerable. Haunted.
Disgust curled Tyrell’s lip. “Fates. Is this what you see when you look at him? He’s pathetic. What a waste of paper.”
Mia grabbed the chair and slammed it into Tyrell’s side.
The prince stumbled at the unexpected blow, the sketchbook knocked from his hands. It slid acros
s the floor and Tyrell whirled on Mia, a muscle ticking by his temple. “Strike me again,” he said lowly, “and I will strike back.”
Mia gripped the chair so hard, her knuckles protested. But she still held it in front of her—a shield and a weapon. “Get out,” she ordered, her voice vibrating with fury. “Now.”
“No.”
Her breaths came too quickly, too sharply. “I don’t want you here,” she said.
“I don’t really want to be here, either, but the king will be obeyed.” Tyrell set his hands on his hips, his shoulders high and tight. “I think we’re done with moss and drawings, and you clearly want a fight. So we’ll train for the rest of the hour.”
Her stomach lurched. “No.”
He ignored her, turning to push the table to the wall to create more space in the room. “I’m assuming Grayson focused your skills on hand-to-hand combat. If you had a weapon, you would have drawn it on me by now.”
She kept the chair between them, but her arms were beginning to tire from the weight of it. “I’m not training with you.”
Tyrell finished moving the table and faced her, his eyes unreadable. “We’re doing this, Mia. I have my orders to stay with you for an hour, and I refuse to spend it in silence while you glare at me. So we train.”
“No.”
He shot forward.
She swung the chair, but he batted it aside.
Her empty hands stung and her pulse snapped. Sweat broke out on her body and her lungs seized. She fell back a step, pure instinct, and then she attacked him.
She managed a punch to his gut, but he moved with the rapidness of a striking cobra. His hands snatched her wrists, halting her next hit, and he propelled her back until her spine hit the bookshelf. Items on the shelves rattled and her heart thudded painfully as he towered over her, his legs pressed against hers, his arms pushing hers up above her head, holding her immobile.
“Let go,” she gasped, fear and adrenaline rushing through her body. She bucked against him, but he had caged her in completely with his body.
Royal Spy (Fate of Eyrinthia Book 2) Page 24