Royal Spy (Fate of Eyrinthia Book 2)

by Heather Frost

  “Let go of me.”

  He did, though he was still fuming and he remained far too close to her. “I’ll buy you canvases.”

  “I don’t need anything from you.”

  His teeth clenched, but he didn’t stop her when she stepped around him and dragged the brush over the canvas, slowly obliterating the mountainside in white.

  Tyrell twisted away, moving to sit back at the table. His back was a rigid line and he shuffled the cards in his hands. She was half-surprised he didn’t stalk from the room. But he’d left early only once, and she wondered if Henri had found out. A threat from the king would explain why he was still there, when he clearly wanted to be anywhere else.

  While the white on the canvas dried, Mia sorted through her paints and arranged a scene in her mind. She wanted to paint a peaceful scene, something that would calm her. Her thoughts turned to Grayson. To where he was now—or would be soon.

  Where she wished she could be.

  She grabbed her blue paint and began to mix it with white on the stained palette.

  She worked in silence, the ache in her chest slowly loosening as she brushed paint over the white canvas, slowly coaxing life back onto it. Movement. Color.

  She was so attuned to her art, she didn’t notice Tyrell move to stand behind her. Not until he spoke. “That is . . . beautiful.”

  Mia eased back, studying the image. It was a beach at midday. Sunny, bright, and warm. Golden sands against clear blue water, tipped with white foam. Green fronds encroached the side of the beach, along with smooth boulders that children would rush to climb.

  But the beach was empty. Beautiful, but deserted.

  Mia stretched out her fingers, only now registering the cramps. “The sea isn’t right,” she said. “I can’t get the right shade.” She shook her head. “The blue is old and doesn’t mix well.”

  Tyrell said nothing, just continued studying the painting. His scrutiny was a little unnerving. Then his gaze turned to her, and she was even more unnerved.

  He hesitated, then lifted a finger toward her cheek.

  Mia stepped back before he could touch her, her heart hammering.

  His hand rolled to a fist as it dropped and his jaw tightened. “You have some paint on your face.”

  Without another word, or even a backward glance, he strode from the room.

  Chapter 30

  Grayson

  Duvan was an impressive city. Sprawling up from the wide bay were hundreds of sandstone buildings, all painted in vivid blues, reds, yellows, and greens. The streets twisted among the towering structures, filled with people who looked like little more than skittering bugs. Even from this distance, Grayson could see the ropes crisscrossing the streets overhead, hung with brightly colored clothes left to dry under the bright sun. Everything about the city seemed colorful, crowded, and chaotic.

  It was nothing like Lenzen, with its dirt streets, poorly thatched roofs, and the depressive gray fortress that loomed over the city. His skin itched at the thought of entering the madness, being surrounded by it, but he was anxious to leave the rocking ship.

  He stood at the side rail near the gangplank, Liam beside him, both of them waiting for Prince Desfan—or Serjah Desfan, as Grayson should call him. Liam had told him it would be best to use the Mortisian term for prince. It showed effort. Respect.

  It would help hide the real reason Henri had sent them here: to assassinate Desfan’s bride-to-be and launch a war that would probably see the Mortisian prince dead and his kingdom conquered.

  The continual sway of the ship made Grayson long to step onto the docks, but they’d been told they could not leave the ship until Desfan came to greet them.

  They’d already been waiting almost two hours.

  Grayson had known other kingdoms operated on grand ceremonies and traditions, but he had never imagined they could be so ridiculous and stifling. He’d never appreciated the cold efficiency of his father’s court until now.

  The men on the ship were not happy either. They’d just learned they would only be allowed to leave in rotations of ten men at a time, which meant emotions would run high in this wooden prison. The restricted shore-leave could end dangerously, but luckily it was a problem Grayson would not have to deal with.

  Just as well. He already had more problems than he could handle.

  His eyes were pulled to the royal palace, seated on the southeastern side of the bay. It was raised above the city, a rocky cliff-face keeping it well above the sea. It was beautiful. A light tan stone had been used to craft it, and even from here he could see that sections had been painted in bright colors and designs, the pillars and arches carved elegantly. There were even statues set on—and in—the walls.

  “I often fantasize about Mother visiting Duvan,” Liam said suddenly. “The criticisms she would deliver would be amusing. The smaller coastal villages are even more colorful, as are the islands.” He clapped his brother’s shoulder. “You’ll grow used to it.”

  Grayson was not so confident. His black clothes were stifling in the heat and he imagined he looked as out of place as he felt. This was the sort of place someone like Mia belonged. It was vibrant. Alive. She had never confirmed where she came from, but he had guessed Mortise. Looking at the brown skin of the people milling on the docks, hearing the rolling accent on the air, he assumed he was right. Perhaps she had even been to Duvan—seen this very view.

  For some reason, the thought calmed some of his anxiety.

  A trumpet sounded, alerting all to the royal presence now entering the docks. Grayson watched as an enclosed carriage came into view and then rolled to a stop. He followed Liam’s lead to the plank of wood that had been laid against the dock. The harbor was deep enough that all the large ships were able to anchor near the docks.

  They stood at the top of the plank and waited some more. The sun beat down and Grayson barely held back his growl of annoyance.

  Finally, Serjah Desfan strode onto the dock.

  The man was tall, his build rather narrow, though there was obvious muscle in his forearms. He wore no swords, but Grayson guessed those were his weapon of choice. It was something in the way he carried himself, the way his trim body was shaped. Dark hair curled over his brow and at the nape of his bronzed neck. He wore a gold crown and was dressed as colorfully as the buildings of Duvan, wearing shades of turquoise, red, and ivory.

  “Serjah Desfan,” Liam called out. “Thank you for coming to greet us personally. It is a great honor.” He started down the gangplank and Grayson snapped to follow, his movements less graceful than his brother’s; the wood swayed beneath his feet and he had to concentrate on each step to avoid pitching into the harbor.

  Desfan smiled cordially at them, though perhaps with a hint of caution.

  Wise of him.

  “Prince Liam, Prince Grayson; welcome to Mortise!”

  Liam stepped onto the dock and tipped his head. “It is a privilege to be here.”

  Grayson stepped beside Liam, also inclining his head. But he didn’t stay focused on Desfan, because the heir of Mortise was not alone.

  Several noble men and women dressed in green robes offered courteous bows, their mouths a little too tight. Some of the council members, Grayson assumed. Then there were the guards. Several stood with hands loose by their sides, their curved swords within easy reach. The serjah’s personal bodyguard was easy to spot. The young man looked to be just slightly older than Desfan—maybe Liam’s age—and he stood so close to the serjah they were nearly touching. His eyes had scanned Liam, assessed the Ryden guards trickling into place behind them, and now were narrowed on Grayson.

  He was clearly seen as the biggest threat.

  He tried to keep his face as neutral as possible, even though he felt totally off-balance. The ground was still swaying beneath him, even though they’d left the ship, and he didn’t know what to do, how to act. Everything Liam had imparted had deserted him. He had not been trained for the useless niceties Liam and Desfan were so easi
ly exchanging. He was out of his element, far from home, and missing Mia so intensely he could hardly breathe.

  “I trust your travels were uneventful?” Desfan asked.

  “They were. Just a slight storm several days ago, but we rode through the edge of it.”

  “We’re not to the stormy season yet, thank the fates.”

  Liam nodded. “I hope the weather in Devendra has also been good. Your future bride began her travels, did she not?”

  “She left Iden about five weeks ago, and is enjoying her tour.”

  “Wonderful! As my father wrote to you, we look forward to the official betrothal.”

  “Mortise is also excited for the alliance,” Desfan said. He glanced at Grayson, his brow furrowing. “Are you unwell, Prince Grayson?”

  Liam’s hand clapped his shoulder. “I’m afraid my brother is not suited to a life at sea.”

  “Ah.” Understanding crossed Desfan’s face and he winced in sympathy. “The last couple of weeks must have been most unpleasant for you. We’ll do our best to make you forget all that. We’ve planned a celebratory dinner for tonight.”

  “That sounds delightful.” Liam glanced at Grayson. “Doesn’t it?”

  Not at all.

  “Yes,” he said instead.

  Desfan smiled. “Good.” He gestured toward the shore. “Shall we?”

  “Please.” Liam fell into step with Desfan and Grayson trailed behind, Desfan’s personal bodyguard at his side. The other guards and nobles also made their way off of the dock, and they had nearly reached the carriage waiting at the end when Liam spoke. “Grayson and I would very much enjoy a chance to walk around your city. It is our first time in Duvan, of course, and we’re anxious to see it.”

  “Of course. The carriage can follow us. If you tire, or the heat becomes too much, we can ride back to the palace.”

  The last thing Grayson wanted to do was trudge through the too bright, too crowded city, where curious eyes were already scanning every inch of him—pointedly lingering on the scars on his face. He gritted his teeth and forced himself to ignore them.

  They passed the carriage, and a couple of the older robed nobles climbed inside. Desfan’s guards led the way to a narrow street which took them past some warehouses and into the actual city.

  With the wider street, Grayson no longer had an excuse to walk behind his brother. And Desfan’s bodyguard clearly did not like Grayson anywhere behind Desfan, so he moved to walk on his brother’s other side.

  The cobbled streets were uneven, and the strange swaying and pitching feeling that he’d experienced on the gangplank continued here. It was like he was still on the ship, and he supposed it would take a little time for his body to adjust to life back on solid land. But it was annoying, and heightened his feelings of agitation. The blasted sun glaring down on them didn’t help, either. He was sweltering in the heat.

  The ground dipped unnaturally again and he nearly stumbled. He struggled to keep his strides even.

  “I admire your bravery, Prince Grayson.”

  He glanced at Desfan. “What?”

  The serjah gestured with his chin. “To wear such a dark color during a Mortisian summer.”

  Liam chuckled. “My brother is fond of serious colors.”

  “Well, perhaps I can at least direct you to a place where you could purchase something of a lighter material. It can still be black, but it will breathe easier.”

  Grayson bowed his head, though his spine had stiffened. “That is most generous of you, Serjah Desfan.”

  “Please, I insist you call me simply Desfan. I don’t like to stand on ceremony.”

  He nearly snorted, thinking of all the guards and nobles around them. This was not standing on ceremony?

  Liam, ever the diplomat, smiled. “We thank you for the honor, Desfan.”

  The deeper they moved into the city, the more people stopped to stare. The Mortisian language—which Grayson had barely begun to learn—was spoken so rapidly, he had no hope of understanding anything. The smells were foreign, as well. Foods were being cooked and sold that he didn’t even recognize. Bright orange and yellow fruits that would fit in his fist, a spiky fruit as big as his face and topped with a green frond. Brown spheres that looked hard as wood, but people were drinking something white from them, like milk. There were fried pastries covered in sugar, carts with spices so strong his nose itched and his eyes watered. Seeds, nuts, and berries. Fish of all colors and sizes. There were other creatures from the sea as well; some had claws, and others had tentacles. There were also snakes, goats, chickens, and . . . were those insects?

  He stopped looking too closely at the carts after that.

  Desfan pointed out different things of interest—old architecture, statues, and fountains, facts about the many different markets Duvan boasted—and Liam was a rapt listener, inserting comments, asking questions, always smiling.

  The market they walked seemed to have a little of everything, and the area proved that the streets of Duvan were more chaotic than they had appeared from afar.

  Sheets, rugs, and clothing snapped in the breeze overhead, hung out to dry. Vendors sang out their wares and prices, merchandise spilling out of the tents, carts, and stalls that clogged the street. Children shrieked with laughter, darting around the crowds. Mothers yelled and bartered. Shirtless men carried heavy burdens while others walked leisurely in their finery. Others knelt on the ground, heads down, empty hands cupped in supplication, wordlessly begging for food or coin. Mercies that would never come in Ryden. Not because there was nothing left to give—though there wasn’t—but because begging was a criminal offense, punishable by imprisonment or a rotation at one of the many work camps.

  Grayson hung back, watching one old man in particular. The thin white hairs on his head barely covered his age-spotted scalp and his flabby arms trembled, hands empty, but still he raised them. As if he knew something good would be placed in them, even if it took some time.

  “Prince Grayson?” Desfan asked.

  He jolted. He had stopped walking at some point, and the whole procession had paused to eye him. Liam frowned slightly at Desfan’s side, his fingers twitching with the subtle signing language he had been teaching Grayson. Are you all right?

  Warmth infused his cheeks and he opened his mouth to apologize for the delay, but before he could speak, someone crashed into him from behind.

  His reaction was ingrained. Unstoppable.

  Even as he stumbled from the surprising blow, he jerked the dagger from his belt. His free hand snatched for a grip on his attacker as he wheeled around, raising the knife to strike.

  Horrified wide brown eyes stared up at him and his heart stopped.

  Mia.

  No. Not Mia. A Mortisian child. A young girl, no more than ten years old, terror stricken into every angle of her face. Tears pooled in her eyes and she gaped up at him, trembling, clutching his wrist with thin fingers.

  “P-please,” she gasped in Mortisian. “I’m sorry.”

  Grayson was frozen. Everyone stared at him—spectators on the street, the nobles, the soldiers, Desfan, Liam—but he couldn’t move. His heart thundered against his ribs, fingers still wrapped in the collar of the girl’s orange dress.

  He heard the anxious whispers stabbing the air all around him. Ryden demon. Bloodthirsty killer. Kaelin monster.

  In that moment, he felt the slicing truth of every hissed word.

  “Please.” The girl’s lips quivered as she begged again, tears rolling down her rounded cheeks. “Don’t kill me.”

  Grayson released her as if he’d been burned. He stepped back, pulse roaring in his ears, his grip on the knife so crushing he thought his knuckles would snap within his gloves. The girl darted away, back into the arms of her playmates who had stood back, watching Grayson with mute horror.

  It was not the first time he’d been viewed this way, even by children. As his father’s enforcer, he had been feared and reviled for years. So why did this time feel different? Why
did this time stop his breath and cause his hands to shake?

  That little girl with the deep brown eyes still stared at him, her thin shoulders shuddering, viewing him like a living nightmare. Like he really would have killed her just for knocking accidently into him.

  He knew he would haunt her, and that haunted him.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, struggling to speak the Mortisian words.

  There was a brief pause where no one moved. Then Liam cleared his throat. “Perhaps we should take the carriage the rest of the way.”

  “Perhaps we should,” Desfan said, his voice quiet.

  Grayson realized only now that Desfan’s bodyguard had his sword half out of its scabbard and he watched Grayson as if he were about to attack them all.

  He couldn’t escape the street quickly enough.

  Chapter 31

  Grayson

  “Well, that was quite the first impression you made.” Liam reclined against the pillar beside the tall, narrow window in Grayson’s room. The décor was done in many shades: navy, gold, red, emerald—too many colors, too much opulence.

  Grayson’s head pounded as he yanked the clothing from his bag and shoved it into the open drawer beside him.

  “You know,” Liam drawled, “servants could do that.”

  “I don’t like anyone touching my things.”

  He chuckled, an edge to the sound. “Our mother taught us well, didn’t she?”

  He threw a look at his brother, irritated at being watched. “Why are you here?”

  One of Liam’s shoulders lifted. “I wanted to check on you. Make sure you were all right. It’s been a big day for you.”

  The back of his neck warmed. “I’m fine.”

  There was a pause, and when his brother spoke, his voice was pitched low. “You were startled. It wasn’t your fault. You’ve been taught to react to a threat.”

  “She wasn’t a threat,” he said stiffly.

  “No. But you reacted as you’ve been forcibly taught to react. And once you assessed the situation, you let go. Everyone could see the horror on your face when you released her. No one thinks you attacked her.”