Meanwhile, Jamal had just grabbed Yahri’s cane when she swung it, and he yanked it from her. The woman stumbled and fell, hitting the floor with a horrible thud.
She looked stunned as she blinked up at Jamal, who had a knife in his other hand.
“This ends now,” Jamal snarled.
A dagger sliced end over end through the air and slammed blade-first through Jamal’s wrist.
He screamed and dropped his blade, clutching his wounded arm to his stomach, the blade still buried in his flesh.
Desfan’s eyes widened as Prince Grayson leaped from between the row of shelves. He already had knives back in both hands, even though he’d clearly just thrown the one that had stopped Jamal’s killing blow.
He threw both daggers at the same time and they struck the two men who had been advancing on Desfan.
Desfan watched the men crumple. “Impressive.”
Grayson’s gaze snapped over Desfan’s shoulder, and his hands dove for more blades. “Behind you!” he shouted.
Desfan whirled, managing to spin away from the man who had been sneaking up on him. Before he could even raise his knife, Grayson had already thrown another blade and it found the man’s neck.
“This may be a touch late,” Liam Kaelin’s voice rang out as the body fell. “But can we kill them?”
From the corner of his eye, Desfan saw that Karim was no longer fighting alone. Liam fought beside him.
Karim ducked a swinging blade and shouted, “Yes!”
Liam grinned and drew a second knife, spinning it in his hand. “Well, that makes things easier.”
Desfan had no idea why the Kaelin princes were in the library or why they’d chosen to join the fight, but he thanked the fates they were here.
Grayson jumped over Serai Yahri, who was still on the floor, and—on his way back down to the floor—punched Jamal in the face. The councilman slammed into the ground, blood spurting from his nose. Then Grayson whirled and engaged two more attackers, spinning around them with an ease that should have been unnerving.
Would have been, if he hadn’t been on Desfan’s side.
Grayson moved like he was possessed by a demon, fluid grace and deadly accuracy in every powerful movement.
Desfan ducked an enemy blade and jerked his attention back to his own fight, since the man he’d struck with a book had recovered.
And he looked livid.
“I’m sorry,” Desfan said. “Do you not like books?”
The man charged.
Desfan darted to the side, kicking out and buckling the man’s knee. The man fell, and Desfan couldn’t resist when he saw the book sitting on the small reading table. He lifted it and smacked it down on the man’s head.
Karim snarled from across the room. “Stop playing around with books!”
Desfan smiled. “It’s called improvising.”
“No.” Karim ducked a swinging sword and shot a look over Desfan’s shoulder. “That’s improvising.”
Desfan twisted in time to see Grayson jump, his hand grasping the lip of an upper shelf so he could kick a towering candelabra onto one of his attackers. The heavy iron piece—taller than a man and three times as heavy—knocked the man down, pinning his chest to the floor.
Grayson dropped from the shelf, spinning a knife in his free hand.
Liam snorted. “Show off.”
Grayson flashed a thin smile.
“Stop!”
They all turned at Jamal’s shout. The man had hauled Yahri up and held her like a shield. A knife was against her throat. “I’ll kill her,” he said, blood smeared over his face. “You let me walk out of here, or I kill her.”
Desfan’s stomach dropped. He really didn’t know how he felt about Yahri, but he needed her alive if he was going to learn the truth about what had happened to his father.
But Jamal could not walk out of here.
“Do you need him alive?” Grayson asked, his voice a deadly murmur, that knife still in his hand. It would be a risky throw with Yahri there, but Desfan somehow knew Grayson could make it.
“Preferably alive,” Desfan grunted. “But she’s more important.” Yahri knew the truth about his father’s collapse; that mattered far more than gathering the details of Jamal’s treason.
Jamal was backing up, his eyes darting between them all.
Liam and Karim had finished their attackers as well and were slowly approaching.
“Stop!” Jamal said again, his voice edging higher. “Don’t come closer!”
Desfan lifted a placating hand. “Jamal. You can’t make it out of the palace. You know that. Let Yahri go, and you won’t die here.”
The man’s tongue darted frantically over his lips, his eyes still bouncing between them all. He was nearly to a row of bookshelves, and if he made it there, he would disappear from view. “I never meant to harm you, Desfan. Everything I did, it wasn’t meant to harm you.”
Desfan grit his teeth. “You brought olcain to Duvan. You were the buyer and the one promising protection, weren’t you? Was it to make a profit, or destabilize Mortise?”
Jamal’s eyes flashed and he growled. “Mortise is already destabilized. And you would make it worse by marrying a Devendran. I’m not alone in thinking so; I wasn’t the only one who paid for the Rose to kill her!”
Desfan’s hands fisted. “You blackmailed Yahri, and others.”
“I’m not the only one who has committed crimes.” His hold on Yahri tightened until the woman gasped. “She knows what happened to your father. She has fought to cover up her involvement, but she was there with the serjan that night. Why don’t you ask her why?”
Desfan couldn’t let himself even look at Yahri. His focus needed to remain on making sure Jamal—and Yahri—lived through the next moments.
Jamal eased back another step, moving into the shadow of the towering bookshelf. “You’re stalling, but you have a decision to make. Let me go, or Yahri dies—along with the truth about what happened to the serjan.”
That wasn’t how this would play out. Beside Desfan, Grayson was holding the knife, ready to make the throw.
Jamal would die.
“It’s your choice,” Jamal said with a slow grin. “You must choose how this ends.”
“No,” a new voice said, low and pained yet still somehow strong. Arcas stepped out of the shadows and stopped behind Jamal, one hand pressed to a bleeding wound in his side while the other laid the edge of a blade against the side of the councilman’s neck. “You decide, Jamal. Release her, or die.”
Jamal’s face twisted with rage, but he dropped his knife from Yahri’s neck. She stumbled without her cane and Desfan leaped to steady her. He quirked a smile at Arcas, ignoring the pain in his jaw. “I’m glad you’re alive.”
The man huffed a short, heavy breath. “So am I.”
Liam eyed the bodies on the floor. “You Mortisians certainly know how to throw a party.”
Desfan almost laughed, but that tugged painfully on his face and he grasped his jaw with a groan.
Karim cursed. “Fates rot you, did you break your jaw?”
Chapter 47
Bennick
Bennick sliced his blade across the gut of a Mortisian soldier. The man had tried to edge around him so he could pursue Clare—Serene, as they all thought she was.
He guarded her retreat with Venn and Dirk, the brunt of the battle going on in front of them.
The prisoners the Mortisians had brought were now all armed and fighting. Twelve enemy soldiers had turned into thirty-two in one horrible moment. The Devendrans were woefully outnumbered.
Bennick cursed himself as he fought a new enemy. Everything had devolved too quickly. He’d been suspicious of Ser Zephan purely because he wasn’t Ashear, but there had been other clues. He’d just been too focused on watching Zephan to notice the fact that none of the Devendran prisoners were looking up. Not one. As if they were hiding their faces. And there hadn’t been a single woman among them, even though Desfan’s letter had said t
here would be.
And why had that enemy prisoner called out, warning them it was a trap? It was something else about this whole disaster that didn’t make sense. But even though Bennick didn’t understand, he was grateful. The warning had cost him his life, but it had given them a better chance to fight. To get Clare to safety.
He wanted to be with her, but he needed to guard her. He would not allow anyone to slip past him to follow her. But as he fought the Mortisians, he could feel the distance between him and Clare stretching, growing. It killed him.
He spotted his father in the fray, parrying the blows of a younger Mortisian soldier with his double-edged blade. Commander Markam was a powerful warrior, but he had spent years behind the desk of the king’s prison, or advising the king on security matters. He was not in shape for this battle of overwhelming odds. A spark of concern he didn’t want to feel lit inside his chest.
Two of the false prisoners, dressed in their ragged clothing, reached Bennick, attacking him with long knives. Even under all that dirt, he could see they were Devendran.
Bennick cursed as one of the blades got past his guard and nicked his arm between the leather armor plating. The cut wasn’t deep, but it stung.
Pounding footsteps announced the arrival of Devendran soldiers from Stills coming to their aid. The reinforcements charged into the core of the battle with swords drawn and teeth bared.
Commander Markam did not seem surprised by their appearance, and Bennick wondered if the king had ordered the commander to have reinforcements on hand, or if the thought had been his own. Either way, Bennick felt grudging gratitude. At least now they stood a chance.
He killed the last of his attackers and twisted to observe the fight, sweat streaking his face, his chest rising and falling with heavy breaths. The arrival of the reinforcements had changed the dynamics of the fight, leaving Bennick free to go after Clare.
He didn’t hesitate. He tightened the hold on his sword and jogged after Clare, Dirk, and Venn. He could see them through the blur of fighting men, and his stomach dropped as he watched two Mortisians charge them.
Venn’s long ponytail swung as he ducked, spun, and attacked the men. Dirk twisted to help, yelling for Clare to keep going. She darted forward, but had only made it a couple of steps before a shout rent the air.
“Clare!”
Bennick jerked at the unexpected sound of her name, his eyes darting to one of the dirt-covered prisoners. He was running toward Clare from across the field and Bennick’s heart stopped when he saw Clare stumble, then bolt toward him.
Dirk stabbed his attacker and tore after Clare, leaving Venn to finish off the last attacker. The older bodyguard called for Clare to stop, but she was running quickly, moving deeper onto the field.
Bennick altered course, forcing himself to move faster, desperate to intercept her. He didn’t know who the Mortisian was, or why he knew Clare, but his instincts were screaming that this was an enemy.
“Michael?” she shouted, her voice cracking.
Bennick wanted to curse. Eliot’s friend. A rebel. And, apparently, the traitor was working with the Mortisians.
It made a horrible kind of sense. The Mortisian prisoner who had called out a warning was not a Mortisian at all. It must have been Eliot.
And from the rage twisting Michael’s face, it was clear he blamed Clare for his friend’s death.
Bennick drove himself harder, ignoring the burn in his lungs.
“It’s your fault!” Michael snarled.
Clare jerked to a stop, as if slapped. “Michael, I—”
“You killed him!” He threw a knife and Dirk leaped for Clare, but he would be too late.
Bennick’s heart stopped.
Clare slammed to her knees, ducking as the blade sailed over her head. Her hands braced on the ground, her chest rising and falling too quickly. Shock splashed her features, as well as pain.
Michael ground to a halt when he saw Dirk reach Clare, and then his eyes jumped to Bennick, who was nearly to her as well.
His hands fisted, and then he dashed for the cover of the trees.
He wasn’t the only one retreating. Bennick could see Mortisians darting for the treeline as well, fleeing from the reinforcements.
Bennick nearly charged after Michael, but Clare was sobbing on the ground with Dirk’s hand on her back, and leaving her when she was in pain was impossible.
As soon as he reached her, he fell to his knees, gripping her hunched shoulders. “Clare. Are you hurt?”
Her fingers latched onto his uniform as she pressed against his chest, her body shaking. “He’s dead,” she sobbed. “Eliot is dead.”
Bennick’s insides knotted, his heart aching for her. His feelings toward Eliot would always be complicated, but that didn’t stop him from tightening his hold on Clare, holding her tightly as she cried.
Chapter 48
Mia
Awareness came and went while Mia died.
At first, it was a bolt of agony that ripped her to the surface. Sharp, stabbing pain in her gut as she was lowered onto a bed.
“Gently,” a deep voice cautioned. Devon?
“Will she live?” That was Tyrell, though he sounded strange. Tense. Worried.
“I don’t know. I need more light. Water. Bandages.” Devon clipped out orders, and someone scurried out of the room.
“Hold on, Mia,” Tyrell ordered, his voice rough.
Mia’s eyes fluttered closed.
The next time she woke, the room was brightly lit with a roaring fire, and there were lamps and candles all around the bed. Devon crouched over her, his hands on her stomach.
There was so much pain.
Mia cried out and lost consciousness again.
The next time she surfaced, it was more gently.
She could feel the mattress against her back, feel the warmth of the fireplace against her face.
“How long?” Tyrell asked, his voice low and tight.
“I don’t know. Her body is fighting hard. Infection is the true danger now . . .”
A soft rag brushed her skin, her hair. Cleaning her, perhaps?
Long fingers wrapped around hers. A soft, desperate whisper. “Please, just open your fates-blasted eyes.”
A cool, deep voice that resonated through the room. “What is she doing here?”
Mia shivered, shying away from that terrifying voice.
“She was badly hurt,” Tyrell said. “I had no other option.”
“She needs to be back in her cell.”
“She cannot be moved, Sire.”
“And her caretaker. He had to lose his head?”
Tyrell’s voice was flat. “Yes.”
There was a short silence. “Will she live?”
“Yes,” Tyrell said again but this time the word was edged with doubt.
Mia drifted again.
Consciousness once again seeped in, but this time Mia knew she was not dying.
She blinked her heavy eyes and peered around the unfamiliar room. It was much larger than her cell and there was a fire crackling in a large hearth across the room. The shadows were heavy in the corners, obscuring the edges of the room. But she was lying on a large four-post bed with heavy drapes pulled back.
Beside her, Tyrell sat in an armchair, his eyes on the flickering flames in the fireplace. His profile was washed with the orange light, his jaw hard. Dark hair hung over his brow and blood and paint smeared his white shirt. The sleeves were rolled up and muscles tensed in his forearms as he fisted his hands, which were braced on his knees.
Mia shifted, and Tyrell’s eyes snapped to her. The sudden twist cast his face with light on one side while the other was now shadowed.
He straightened in the chair, angling toward her. “You’re awake.”
She glanced around them, her throat dry and her entire body aching. “Where . . .?”
“My room. It was the only place I could think to bring you.” He reached for a glass and pitcher sitting on the bedside table. He
poured water into the cup, the soft rippling sound filling the room.
Confusion tugged at her. “Was Devon here?”
“Yes. The night guard summoned him. He said he’s tended you for years.” Tyrell’s hand slipped under her head and tilted her up.
Pain rippled over her stomach as muscles flexed, and she had to force her body to remain as still as possible while she drank. The cool liquid slid comfortingly over the dryness in her mouth and throat, until Tyrell suddenly pulled the glass away. “Devon said you needed to drink slowly.”
She winced as he lowered her back to the pillow. “My head hurts.”
“He gave you something for the pain. Said it might keep you sleeping, and give you headaches when you woke. I’m sorry.”
She glanced down at herself, noting the blankets that had been carefully tucked around her. She was also wearing a clean nightgown, and she could feel no blood or paint on her face.
It was as if he read her thoughts. “After Devon stitched the wound, we had a woman change and clean you.”
“But you’re still wearing your clothes.”
He glanced down at his shirt, which was stained with blood and paint. “I honestly forgot.”
Mia’s fingers curled in the blankets. “Is . . . is Papa really dead?”
Tyrell’s brows slammed down. “I won’t apologize for killing him. That man was lower than vermin.”
She shuddered at the assault of memories. Jamming that pencil into Papa’s eye. Feeling that knife slide into her middle. Watching as Tyrell’s sword cut off Papa’s hand—and then his head.
Fates, was it wrong that all she felt was relief? She would never again have to see him. Hear him.
Fear him.
The man had hurt and terrorized her since she was a child. Perhaps guilt for feeling peace over a violent loss of life would come later, but for now, she was almost dizzy with relief.
She reached for her necklace, her heart lurching when the familiar pebble wasn’t there.
“Here.”
She darted a look at Tyrell, saw the necklace dangling from his fingers.
Royal Spy (Fate of Eyrinthia Book 2) Page 44