Royal Spy (Fate of Eyrinthia Book 2)

by Heather Frost

  Applause broke out, and Clare watched as Bennick held out a hand to Finch. The nobleman took it at once, allowing Bennick to haul him to his feet.

  The game master took the staff, thanked them for their participation, and called up the next match.

  Bennick and Finch walked together off the field, and Clare pushed up from her chair, Lady Paltrow and Imara only a moment behind her.

  Sweat dotted Finch’s forehead, and his hands were braced on his hips as he breathed raggedly. “That was more exhilarating than expected. Thank you, Captain.”

  “You’re stronger than I expected,” Bennick admitted, smiling a little.

  Finch huffed out a laugh, still breathing hard. “Yes, well, I’m afraid my boyhood dream to become a soldier never quite went away. I spend more hours training than I should.”

  “What a thrilling match!” Lady Paltrow enthused, her hands clasped in front of her. “I think you lasted longer than any other today. Perhaps you’ll choose to participate in another round?”

  “I don’t believe I’m up to it.” Finch pushed the hair off his flushed forehead. “In fact, I think I’ll excuse myself to recover.” He bowed to the ladies. “Until our paths cross again.” He offered a final nod to Bennick and then strode away, heading back toward the manor.

  Lady Paltrow smiled after him. “Such a charming boy. It’s nice to have him back in Lindon. He rarely stays long. He’s always off traveling. It’s a shame when he leaves the house locked up.”

  “What of his sisters?”

  “Oh, he—”

  “Lady Paltrow!” A servant darted up, pale and breathing hard. The shock and fear in his eyes made Clare’s stomach drop.

  “Fates, what’s wrong?” the woman asked.

  The young man’s throat bobbed as he swallowed, his eyes darting to Clare. “It’s the prince. He’s just arrived, along with twenty Mortisian prisoners.”

  Lady Paltrow blinked quickly. “The prince? Prince Grandeur?”

  “Yes. He’s inside.”

  Clare shot a look at Bennick, shock freezing her blood. What was Grandeur doing here?

  The servant wasn’t done. “There’s also a city guard commander in the courtyard with the Mortisian prisoners—you know, for the exchange—and he wants to know where he can put them during their stay.”

  “Their stay?” Lady Paltrow fairly squeaked.

  Bennick stiffened beside Clare, his gaze focused on the boy. “Commander Markam?”

  The servant shrugged. “I don’t know. I didn’t ask.”

  “Oh, dear.” The lady’s fingers twisted together, her shoulders stiffening. “I haven’t the faintest clue where to put prisoners. Go find Lord Paltrow at once.”

  The boy nodded. “I will, but . . .” He glanced at Clare, bending into a slightly awkward bow. “Forgive me, Princess, but the prince is demanding to see you. Now.”

  Nerves twisted inside her as Clare stepped into the drawing room, Bennick, Venn, and Wilf behind her, and Imara beside her. Confusion and anxiety threaded through every rapid beat of her heart as her eyes cut right to Prince Grandeur.

  The Devendran prince sat on a chair near an open window, sipping from a glass of red wine. His dark skin and even darker hair showed his half-Zennorian heritage, but his usual smile was absent, making his handsome features oddly cold. He was seventeen years old, but he looked far older in this moment. Two bodyguards stood behind him, their shoulders back as they stood at attention.

  Grandeur slowly pushed to his feet, still clutching his wineglass as he eyed their approach. “Quite the entourage, when all I asked was to see my sister.” The emphasis on the word made it sound derisive, as well as the fact that it was unnecessary; everyone in the room knew who Clare really was. The hostility in his voice tightened every muscle in Clare’s body. She had a horrible sinking feeling that something bad had happened, and that, somehow, she was to blame.

  The prince’s focus turned to Imara. “My father and I were quite surprised when news of your presence here reached Iden.”

  “You know me,” she said with a tight smile. “I love surprises.”

  The tension between the cousins was clear, and Clare’s concern about the prince’s strange mood only grew. She cleared her throat. “Your Highness, we didn’t expect you.”

  “The king deemed it necessary for me to come,” Grandeur said, fingering the stem of the wineglass as he eyed her. “Considering recent events, he thought it best to show our lack of fear of the rebel mob, as well as demonstrate our strength. We can’t have them think we can be hurt.”

  Clearly, Grandeur and Newlan blamed Clare for her injury. Fates knew they would truly blame her, if they knew about Eliot’s involvement.

  She swallowed, her mouth suddenly dry.

  Grandeur wasn’t finished. “I will attend the road dedication with you in Halbrook, then make my way to Lythe.”

  “Why Lythe?” Imara asked.

  Grandeur set the wineglass aside and straightened, lifting his chin. “I’ll be taking over the hunt for the rebels as well as review our forces. A large part of our army is stationed there, and we don’t want them to become lax just because the alliance is all but secured.”

  “A prince visiting a military fort positioned near the border during these tenuous times sends a strange message, don’t you think?” Imara asked.

  Grandeur forced a thin smile. “Aren’t you supposed to be getting married to some primitive tribal lord?”

  Imara’s answering smile was sharp. “Don’t worry, Cousin. I wouldn’t dream of letting you miss the occasion. After all, you haven’t been rejected by every woman in Zennor. Yet.”

  The prince’s eyes narrowed.

  Bennick took a step forward, breaking the glare between Imara and Grandeur. “Forgive me, Your Highness, but the king’s latest letter said nothing of this. I don’t know if having you, Serene, and Imara at the same place is advisable.”

  Grandeur’s gaze cut into Bennick. “Your concern has been noted, but I suggest you keep your focus on your job, where it is clearly needed.”

  A muscle in Bennick’s jaw ticked. “Of course. But I do have concerns about the Mortisian prisoners.”

  Grandeur expelled a breath. “It was my father’s wish that I travel with them to this point, for added security. Now that I’ve joined you, Commander Markam will continue with the prisoners to Stills. After tonight, you won’t see them again until the border. Does that satisfy you?”

  Bennick inclined his head, though the motion was a bit stiff. “Thank you, Your Highness.”

  The door opened behind them and Clare turned to see Commander Markam stride in. Her body reacted by stiffening, and she wondered if that would always be the case. This was the man who had interrogated her, and then decided she could be the decoy. He had brought the king to her cell, and convinced him, too. In many ways, this man had stolen her life. He had certainly changed the course of it. And while she had gained much, it was hard not to look at him and only see what she had lost.

  The commander’s expression was grim, his jaw set. The hair at his temples seemed grayer than before, as if he had aged in the weeks they had been away. His stern gaze was just as fierce, however, as he scanned them all, his focus falling on her. She was startled at the reminder of how similar his eyes were to Bennick’s—and yet so fundamentally different. Because while Bennick’s eyes were always warm, his father’s were cold, even as he turned to view his son.

  “Captain,” he said in greeting.

  Bennick’s shoulders tightened. “Commander.”

  Commander Markam’s focus shifted to the prince. “The prisoners are secure in the stable. They’re being fed and watered.”

  “Good.”

  Clare chafed at the way the prisoners were being discussed. And clearly she wasn’t alone, because Imara’s eyes narrowed. “They’re not animals. They should be given better accommodations.”

  “They’re no doubt being treated better than the Devendran prisoners,” Grandeur said, his throat
working on a swallow of wine.

  “They follow the Garvins Treaty,” Imara said. “As we all do.”

  Grandeur snorted. “Do they? We got the names of the prisoners Desfan’s releasing, and do you know what was different about their list? Ours held the names of men. Theirs belong to men and women, and barely a soldier among them. They were simple farmers, captured by the enemy during the border skirmishes.”

  Imara stiffened. “Devendra is not without blame in this. My father has been asking Newlan to release all Mortisian prisoners for years, and your father wouldn’t listen.”

  “No. He refused to give them up without Saernon Cassian’s promise that the Devendran prisoners would also be released.”

  “And the serjan refused to give up his prisoners without a promise that all Mortisians would be returned,” Imara retorted. “So you were both locked in a years-long debate because neither one of you dared to offer any trust, and innocent people lost years of their lives trapped in prison cells. I believe my father even volunteered to be an intermediary, and Newlan flatly refused.” One eyebrow arched. “An insult no one in Zennor’s court has forgotten, I might add.”

  Grandeur’s knuckles whitened as he tightened his grip on the wineglass. “It was not meant as an insult.”

  “Of course not,” Imara said, her smile thin. “A refusal to trust one’s ally is never an insult.”

  “Zennor insulted Devendra when your father refused to cease trade with Mortise during the border wars.”

  “Your skirmishes with Mortise were your affair. And if you’ll recall, my father begged your father to consider the consequences of such a useless battle.”

  “Useless?” Grandeur leaned in, his jaw hard. “Mortisians were stealing Devendran lands. We had to act.”

  “Saernon Cassian insists it was Devendran farmers who were taking Mortisian land.”

  “A lie,” he snapped. “One that should never have been believed by our family in Zennor.”

  Clare eyed the two cousins, shocked by how rapidly the argument had escalated. Their distaste for each other had been clear from the beginning, but this had moved far beyond that. Both royals were clearly incensed, and it was difficult to say which one seemed the most out of character—the always cheerful Imara, or the mild-tempered Grandeur who had been Clare’s first friend at the castle.

  But then, hadn’t Clare learned by now that everyone wore a mask?

  Commander Markam cleared his throat, the low sound cutting through the tension. “Perhaps this discussion should take place at another time.”

  “I’m not sure this is a discussion that will ever lead us anywhere.” Imara turned to Clare and took her arm. “We should return to the fair.”

  “I require a word with Clare,” Grandeur said. “A private word.”

  A chill skated down her spine, and she wished she could refuse. The Grandeur before her was so different from the man he had been at the castle. This version of the prince was cool. Detached. And his eyes, which used to spark with kindness and humor, were sharp as he stared at her.

  Her fingers curled in her skirt but she nodded. “Of course.”

  Imara crossed her arms over her chest, and Clare knew instinctively the princess would not leave—even if Grandeur dared to order it. So she turned to face her. “Please rejoin Lady Paltrow. I would hate to disrupt the fair any more than we have.”

  Imara’s shoulders dropped as she expelled a breath. “Very well.” She shot a last look at Grandeur, and Clare’s heart warmed at the protective gesture.

  Beside her, Bennick also seemed intent to remain. But before he could voice any protest, his father spoke. “Captain, I’d like a word with you.”

  Bennick’s mouth pressed into a line and he eyed Clare. “Wilf and Venn will be just outside.”

  She gave him what she hoped was a reassuring smile, then watched as the guards filed out. Even Grandeur’s bodyguards left, leaving her alone with the prince as the door clicked shut.

  Grandeur dropped back onto his seat and lifted his wineglass, taking a generous swallow. His throat worked on the wine, and then his gaze raised to meet hers. “Sit.”

  Clare moved to the nearby settee and perched on the extreme edge, her hands shaking a little in her lap. She needed to latch onto Serene’s confidence so she could make it through whatever this was.

  The dipping in her stomach told her it wasn’t going to be good. It felt like an interrogation, and it hadn’t even started yet.

  The prince’s face was smooth, revealing nothing of his thoughts. But the corners of his mouth were drawn. “Why didn’t you send me a message about Imara’s arrival on the tour?”

  Clare’s tongue darted over her suddenly dry lips. “I . . . didn’t think it mattered. And she had a letter from Newlan, so I assumed you—”

  “Which was it? You didn’t think it mattered, or you thought I already knew?”

  Her heart pounded, the fine hairs on her arms rising. “Both, I suppose. I assumed you knew, since Imara had that letter. And I truly didn’t think her presence meant anything to you.”

  The wineglass clinked as Grandeur set it on a side table, the small sound amplified in short silence. “My cousin is a talented forger.” His voice was carefully measured. Quiet.

  Dangerous.

  “I didn’t know,” Clare said, her voice nearly a whisper.

  “Perhaps you didn’t. But that’s not what troubles me, Clare. What troubles me is that you didn’t tell me that my sister’s greatest friend and confidante was unexpectedly now traveling with her.”

  “She hasn’t even seen Serene yet—”

  “That isn’t my point.” Grandeur leaned forward, his eyes narrowing. “You promised to watch Serene for any signs of treason, any sort of plotting. And yet you failed to inform me about Imara’s arrival. They could be exchanging letters. They could have laid plans even before this. And they will most certainly be planning something the moment they see each other. The fact that you didn’t see the danger raises some concerns for me, as I’m sure you can understand.”

  “I do. And I’m sorry, I didn’t think of Imara in that way.”

  His head listed to the side. “In what way?”

  Clare blinked. “As . . . dangerous. To Devendra.”

  His lips twitched, and Clare honestly couldn’t tell if he was amused or upset as he shook his head. “You’ll need to do better, or you won’t even know the moment Serene strikes. She can be devious, and with Imara’s help?” He waved a hand toward the closed door. “You saw how incendiary she is. She thinks little of Devendra, and even less of my father. She would help Serene in any scheme. She is exactly the sort of person I need you to watch.”

  “Of course.”

  Grandeur leaned back, his elbows propped on the arms of the chair, his fingers laced as he studied her. “It seems Imara likes you. That will work in your favor. Get closer to her. And when she and Serene are together, you need to tell me what they discuss. I need to know what they’re planning.”

  “I don’t think they’re planning anything.”

  “You’re not thinking at all.”

  Clare’s mouth snapped shut.

  His shoulders tightened. “Fates, Clare, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that.” One hand stretched over his eyes, rubbing gently. “I don’t mean to be upset with you at all. I’m not. Not really. I’m upset with . . .” His voice trailed off and his hand dropped. This time when he looked at her, she could see the prince she’d first befriended, though a graver version of him. Regret twisted his features as he shook his head. “I’m grateful for your friendship, for all you’re doing for me. For Devendra. I shouldn’t have let my frustration get the best of me. I just fear that Serene is already laying her plans, and Imara being here only confirms that.”

  A voice in her head cautioned her to tread carefully; to simply nod and leave it at that. But something had happened to Grandeur. Something had changed in him, and she needed to learn what it was. Serene would want to know. “Grandeur,” she said
carefully. “Is something wrong?”

  His eyebrows drew together, his eyes shifting to the half-empty wineglass beside him. “A friend of mine delivered some . . . difficult advice. I don’t want to accept it, but I may have no choice.”

  Clare’s lungs tightened and she was suddenly back in the castle garden, overhearing Grandeur and a stranger discuss things like killing Serene and threatening Clare’s brothers. She wasn’t sure if that was who Grandeur referenced—or if she was simply being paranoid in hearing the danger of his words—but terror flashed through her, making her mouth dry. “This friend . . . do you trust him?”

  “Completely. At times, I feel he is the only one I can trust.” Grandeur glanced up at her, a slight smile tugging the corner of his mouth. “It makes me all the more grateful that I have you on my side.” He nodded to her. “Now. Tell me everything that has been going on.”

  Chapter 28

  Bennick

  Bennick closed the door of his bedroom and turned to face his father. The commander had asked for privacy, and this was the only place that would give them that during the Paltrow’s charity fair.

  As much as Bennick didn’t want to talk to his father, at the moment, his biggest reason for dreading this was because he wanted to be with Clare. Leaving her with the prince when Grandeur was clearly in a bad mood didn’t sit well with him. His skin itched and his movements were stiff. Knowing Wilf and Venn were watching her helped only marginally.

  The commander was scanning the room, his hands clasped behind his back. Though the window was closed, the excited shouts from the fair below still drifted in, filling the otherwise quiet space.

  They hadn’t spoken a word since leaving the drawing room.

  Their relationship was beyond complicated. Showing his father any deference or respect always filled him with the urge to break the commander’s nose, but he had no choice but to keep his hostility in check. Commander Markam was one of the king’s most trusted military leaders. He commanded the city guard and oversaw the king’s prison. And while he wasn’t Bennick’s direct superior, he could not blatantly ignore him—or attack him.