Shock blasted through her. “Tyrell?”
There was a low snort, and then a thump. Had Tyrell slumped against the wall?
“What are you doing here?” Mia hissed. “It’s the middle of the night!”
He ignored her question. “You know what you are? Moss.” He huffed out his breath, a weak laugh. “Not funny. Not funny at all . . .”
Was he . . . drunk?
Her grip flexed on the lamp. “You need to go to your room.”
“You’re there, too,” he argued, his voice heavy. “Not fair. This . . . You . . . Grayson . . . Not fair.” He snorted. “Maybe that’s why he did it. Had me come here. All this . . . Fates, I hate him for making me come here. Especially that first time.”
Mia’s heart was still beating faster than normal at his unexpected presence, and she hesitated for a moment, frozen as she wondered what to do. Finally, she set the lamp back on her bedside table and fumbled a little with the match, but soon the lamp was lit. She glanced away from the bright glow and slowly focused on Tyrell.
The prince was indeed slumped against the wall. His shoulders were low, his hands hanging loosely at his sides. His dark hair was a mess and he smelled strongly of ale. He grimaced at the sudden light, blood leaking from a crack in his upper lip. More blood had dried in a streak under his nose. His unfocused eyes sought her out blearily, and she could see the redness and swelling by one eye and along his jaw.
Mia frowned, her eyes shooting to his hands.
The knuckles were bloody.
“You’ve been in a fight? While drunk?”
He shrugged one shoulder, but it moved his whole sagging body. “Wanted to lose.” He grunted and tipped his head back against the wall until it thunked dully. “But I didn’t. I’m too good. Or cursed.” His glazed eyes managed to find her, and she was reminded that she only wore a nightgown.
Thank the fates it was thick and long.
Still, she folded her arms over her chest. “You need to leave.”
“You need to leave me alone.” He shoved a finger in her direction. “You’re one of the fabled witches. I thought they were just part of useless stories for children, but you . . . you’re a witch.”
“If I were a witch, I would have turned you into a toad long ago.”
He chuckled, then choked. After a short coughing fit, he shoved a hand into his messy hair. “You really love Grayson. Don’t you?”
She eyed him, wondering how he was even standing. “Yes.”
His eyes pinched closed and his fingers fisted in his hair. “How do you love someone like him?”
“He’s not who you think he is. He’s a good person.”
Tyrell’s hand dropped and he met her gaze, his eyes bloodshot. His voice was quiet. “He’s not like me, you mean?”
She gripped her folded elbows. “Yes. He’s nothing like you.”
His throat bobbed. “None of us are good, Mia. We’re Kaelins. Evil is in our blood.”
“Evil is a choice.”
He glanced away and when he spoke, his voice was raw. “I made a choice a long time ago and I haven’t doubted it once. Until now.”
Her forehead wrinkled. “What choice did you make?”
His eyes slid back to hers, and there was a sorrow there she had not expected to see. “You asked me if I’d always been cruel, and I said yes.” His chest rose with a deep breath. “I lied. I wasn’t always cruel. But . . . I chose to be. I had to. I didn’t really have a choice. Can you understand that?”
Mia looked at him, and she thought maybe she did understand, at least a little. And it broke her heart, because she wondered how often Grayson had been tempted to make the same choice. To be cruel and enjoy it, rather than be tortured by what he was forced to do. To excel at being a Kaelin prince, rather than take the punishments their parents devised.
Her voice was thin in the shadowy room. “You chose to be cruel because—if you enjoyed doing what your parents ordered—then you didn’t feel as much pain. Right?”
Tyrell’s head dropped, and both hands sank into his hair as he clutched his head. “I am cruel. I’m sadistic. I’m evil. I . . .” His shoulders curved inward. “I’m a Kaelin.”
Something in Mia ached for him. Because in this moment, she saw the child he had once been. A child like Grayson. Tortured by his parents, preyed upon by his brothers, groomed to be a weapon—a puppet. But Tyrell wasn’t Grayson. Grayson had refused to be cruel. He had refused to lose his morality. He cared for others, even when he had to pretend that he didn’t.
“I’m sorry,” she finally said, because it was the only thing she could think to say. And she was sorry for him. She was sorry for all of them.
Tyrell’s legs gave out and he crumpled to the floor, his back still to the wall. With his legs sprawled out and his head in his hands, he looked more vulnerable than Mia would have ever imagined.
“You make me remember things,” he said. “I don’t like to remember.” He looked up at her, hands falling to his lap. “Did you know I had a dog?”
She shook her head. “No, I didn’t know that.”
“I did. I never named him, though.” He huffed a short, hard laugh. “Stupid. Should have just picked a fates-blasted name. But I couldn’t. And so now I just think of him as the dog. My dog.”
Mia lowered herself to the floor so they would be eye level, but she was still a pace away from him. She wrapped her arms around her knees, her eyes intent on him as he continued his story, his voice quiet, his face lit with glowing light on one side, leaving shadows to play on the other.
“I found him when I was nine or ten. My father sent us all hunting. He had us separate, told us each to take down a deer on our own, and he made it clear there would be a punishment if we failed to kill it. I . . . I was so scared I would fail.” He squeezed his eyes shut. “I was tracking a deer when I heard a horrible, pitiful whining.” He shook his head, his eyes still closed. “It was a dog. Just a pup. He had a broken leg. He was in pain, screaming for help. Who knows how long he’d been screaming.”
“You saved him,” Mia whispered.
Tyrell’s whole body shuddered as he released a breath. “He was an ugly, muddy mess, but he looked at me, and . . . I had to save him. He needed me. And sometimes I think that I . . .” His eyes peeled open.
They were rimmed in red.
“I smuggled him back to the castle, kept him in my room. I healed his leg. Stole food for him. Kept him hidden. He was mine. My one rebellion.” His breaths grew thin. “I had him maybe two months before my father walked in and caught me playing with the mangy cur. He’d always known I had it, of course. I hadn’t managed to keep any secret.”
He looked right at Mia. “He put it there. On the mountain. Broke his leg and left him for me to find. He left a dog for each of us and had trackers watching us, to see how we’d react. Peter found his injured dog, and he . . . played with it until it died. Carter found his dog, but he just left it lying there. Liam lingered for a moment before slitting the creature’s throat; putting him out of his misery, I suppose. Grayson found his dog, and like me he picked it up and took it down the mountain. But in Lenzen, he gave the dog to a couple of boys playing outside their house. I was the only one foolish enough to think I could keep it.”
Mia stared at his face, etched in shadow. Sympathy she didn’t want to feel blossomed in her chest. He just looked so . . . broken.
Tyrell sniffed, his head tipping back against the wall. “He let me keep the dog for months, let me bond with it. And then he decided it was time to teach me a lesson. So he made me kill it.”
Tears stung her eyes and her stomach clenched. “I’m sorry, Tyrell. That’s horrible.”
He rubbed the back of his neck, his head ducked. “I learned the lesson, though. Caring about something—someone—is the absolute worst mistake you can make. It causes you nothing but pain.”
“You can’t believe that. You obviously still care about that dog, even after all these years.”
“Yes, but that didn’t stop me from snapping its neck when my father gave the order.” He glanced aside. “He would have given the dog to Peter to torture. I made the choice I had to make.” He lifted his hands, held them up to the glow of the light. They were shaking. “I think I held that broken neck for hours. I couldn’t make myself let go. And I cried. I never cry anymore, but I couldn’t stop then. I buried him in the garden. There’s no marker, but I know. I always know . . .”
Tears spilled over her cheeks, but she didn’t brush them away. She couldn’t move.
Tyrell met her eyes. “My father said I was like Grayson. We both took the dog because we were weak. But when I killed my dog, he said I became strong.” His jaw stiffened. “I won’t be weak again. I promised myself I would always be strong the first time, so I wouldn’t be put in that situation again. Better to ignore the dog, or put it out of its misery, rather than come to love it. Because eventually someone will learn it is your weakness, and the inevitable death will hurt more.”
Mia stared at him, so many emotions swirling inside her.
Tyrell was not Grayson. He was not someone she cared about. But looking at him in this moment, telling her things he would never admit while sober, all she could see was a little boy who had loved his dog, and a father who had destroyed them both.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered.
He just looked at her, his eyes carrying a thousand pains.
“The things your parents did to you . . . to all of you . . . it’s disgusting and wrong,” she told him. “A loving father would have been proud of you for helping that dog. Showing mercy, love, and kindness . . . those are strengths, Tyrell. Not weaknesses.”
He stared at her for a long time, and when he spoke, his voice cracked. “I hate you.”
She recoiled, but there was no venom in his words. Just desolation.
“I hate you so much it hurts,” he continued. “Sometimes when I’m with you, or think about you, I can’t even breathe. I hate what you’ve done to me.” He shook his head, his words growing more mumbling. “You drew him. A waste. Me . . . I’m a waste too, but you would never draw me. Would you?” He tipped his head back until it again bumped into the wall and then he closed his eyes tightly. “Kaelins are a waste . . . A waste of everything. And you . . . you are . . .”
He didn’t finish his thought. He was already snoring lightly, and Mia studied him in the soft glow of the lamp. Silently, she rose to her feet, lifted a quilt off the end of the bed, and laid it over him.
She kept the lamp on as she climbed into bed and closed her eyes, not at all sure what she was feeling in this moment.
She woke hours later when she heard Papa open his door, and her heart jumped. What would he think when he saw the prince sleeping on her floor?
Her eyes darted to the wall, but the spot on the floor was empty. Tyrell was gone, and the blanket she’d given him . . .
It was stretched over her.
Chapter 36
Grayson
They had been in Duvan four days, and Grayson was losing his mind.
The first full day had been filled with extensive tours of the gardens and the castle. Art was everywhere, and they seemed to stop at nearly every painting, sculpture, or tapestry. Liam had used the spy sign language to say it was all about showing off Mortise’s wealth.
But then the tours were over and Grayson had nothing to do. With the exception of over-crowded dinners nearly every night, he had been left on his own. Desfan was occupied, and Liam said tentative peace talks would not begin until after Serene was in Duvan—possibly not until the betrothal was legalized.
Liam had asked Grayson to practice his Mortisian, memorize the palace layout and shortcuts, and consider his offer of alliance against their father.
It seemed all he was doing these days was thinking. And until he had more information, he couldn’t come to any real conclusions.
The inaction made his skin itch.
In the beginning, he had mostly kept to his room. He sharpened his blades. He studied the drawing Mia had given him, though he had already committed it to memory weeks ago. After a while, he asked for some charcoal and paper, and he had begun to draw—something he hadn’t done in years. He tried to draw Mia, and failed. Not because he couldn’t remember every detail of her face, but because he couldn’t do her justice. So he drew landscapes. The pine-covered mountains of home, and the endlessly stretching beaches of Duvan.
Finally, when his blackened fingers cramped, he left his room. He dismissed his guards and wandered the palace, checking his memorization of the layout. He knew he made the Mortisians nervous, but no one told him to go back to his room. They didn’t speak to him at all, actually. Just watched him.
And so here he was this morning, venturing into one of the palace wings that housed what had to be a thousand paintings. In their initial tour, their Mortisian guide had explained that it was a museum, because the Cassian family had long adored art. The gallery was placed near a side entrance into the castle, and sometimes outsiders were allowed in.
Today, the halls were deserted.
Grayson wandered the empty space, the portraits of a hundred men and women staring down at him, and a hundred landscapes taunting him with their views.
He didn’t know if he’d ever felt this trapped. He was surrounded on all sides, by his mother’s order to kill Liam, the bargain he had made with his father to secure Mia’s freedom, and the temptation to join Liam’s rebellion. The reward would be everything—a chance to have Mia in his life forever, the two of them free. But Liam could fail. The fact that Iris knew about his treasonous leanings was proof enough of that.
It didn’t help matters that he was missing Mia. The ache of being without her had grown until it was a multi-layered knot in his gut, a constant pounding in his head. He wished he could talk with her about Liam. About all of this.
There was a scuff on the carpet ahead of him and Grayson’s head snapped up.
A middle-aged man froze when he saw Grayson. He’d just come around the corner, and he clearly hadn’t expected anyone else to be here. The man wore a red kurta and white pants. His scalp was bare, and it wasn’t until the man’s eyes narrowed on Grayson that he remembered. Their first night in Mortise, this man had been at the feast. He had watched Grayson and Liam so intently, it had almost been a glare.
The man was certainly glaring now. “What are you doing here?” he demanded.
Grayson refused to cower in front of this man. He straightened, his chin lifting. “Admiring the art.”
The man’s nostrils flared. “I did not realize you were allowed to wander unsupervised.”
“I am a guest of Desfan’s.”
“You are the enemy,” the man said, his tone sharp.
Grayson forced a thin smile that lacked all amusement. “If you know who I am, then you know that being my enemy is not advisable.”
His eyes narrowed. “I know you, Grayson Kaelin. You’re the Black Hand. Your own people despise you.”
“No. They fear me.”
The man’s jaw tightened. “Our serjah might trust you, but I assure you, the rest of us do not.” He turned on his heel and marched away, his spine rigidly straight as he moved deeper into the gallery.
The hairs on the back of Grayson’s neck lifted, a warning that someone was behind him. He twisted to see Liam striding toward him, his eyes on the retreating man. His voice was low as he reached Grayson. “That seemed like a charming conversation with Ser Sifa. I don’t know much about him yet, but from what I’ve gathered, he doesn’t much like Ryden.”
Grayson’s eyebrows slammed down, his irritation with everything now focused solely on his brother. “Where have you been?”
Liam arched a brow. “I didn’t realize you missed me so much.”
He noticed his hands were balled into fists at his sides. He forced them to loosen, but his voice remained tight. “Sorry, I’ve been having a . . . bad day.”
“I can see that.” Liam put his ha
nds on his hips. “I’ve actually been quite busy these past few days. I needed to get a feel for the palace, gauge the sentiments and mood, from the nobles to the servants. Seeing Sifa reminded me that I need to make time to research him and Anoush, since they’re effectively members of the council right now. But right now I need to go into the city, and sneaking in and out of the palace gets tricky. I thought you and I could publicly attend a play, as an excuse to leave.”
While Grayson was still undecided about his future with Liam, he did need to get out of these stone walls. So he agreed, and within the hour they were on the streets of Duvan. They had several Rydenic and Mortisian guards, but Liam’s fingers moved quickly and discreetly in the spy language, informing him that they wouldn’t have the guards for long.
As they walked in the open air, some of Grayson’s tension seeped away, and with it came a flash of shame. He had slipped into the role of the Black Hand when Ser Sifa had faced him, and he did not like how easily that had happened. He didn’t want to be that person. One who inspired fear. But it was his shield. A mask he had been forced to hone.
“You’ll love this play,” Liam said suddenly, his voice carrying on the slight breeze coming up from the sea. “It’s about a pirate who falls in love with a kiv’s daughter . . .” He spoke excitedly about the play, saying that he hoped Mortisian actors compared to the ones he had seen perform in Zennor. Grayson had a hard time paying attention, and he assumed the guards were losing interest as well.
Perhaps that was his point. His fingers moved even as they walked the crowded streets. We’ll go to the private box entrance, and then our guards will make sure no one knows we aren’t inside. The room will be shadowed—no one will notice we are not there. We’ll have three hours.
Where are we going? Grayson asked.
Liam signed back quickly, still chattering on about the details of the play and the theater. To see some friends of mine, hopefully.
Grayson frowned. You hope to see them, or you hope they’re friends?
Liam flashed a grin, a dimple winking into view against his stubbled cheek. Both.
Royal Spy (Fate of Eyrinthia Book 2) Page 34