Fury flashed in the man’s gaze, but Otis hauled him backward, voice cool as he said, “I’d temper your optimism, General. Just because His Highness believes your life holds value does not mean His Majesty will agree. And when our father hands you over to Serin to see what secrets that pretty little head of yours holds, you’ll be cursing Keris’s name for not handing you over to me.”
Serin. The Magpie. Zarrah’s blood chilled. The Maridrinian spymaster was infamous for his skill at torture, and many of her countrymen had died from his ministrations after telling him everything he wished to know. As trained as she was, Zarrah doubted she’d fare any better. “I already curse your brother’s name.”
The expression on Otis’s face as he led the condemned man away suggested she wasn’t alone.
Two soldiers caught her under the arms, hauling her upward, but the motion was more than her rattled brain could take, and she vomited on the floor, barely hearing their muttered curses of disgust. The corridor swirled around her, a blur of color, and Zarrah struggled to remain conscious as they dragged her forward.
I curse you. She silently sent the words to where she imagined Keris bathed and dined in all the luxury befitting his station. But the true words, the ones in her heart, were, How could you?
Because he’s an honorless Maridrinian and a monster, just like his father, a cruel voice answered. And you’re a fool for having ever trusted him.
It was the last thought Zarrah had before she slipped from consciousness.
33
KERIS
Walking away from her was the hardest thing he’d ever done in his life.
But he had no choice.
Not when getting her out of this alive depended on him playing his part to perfection, which meant behaving exactly as everyone expected him to.
As much as he could.
Never in his life had he ordered someone whipped, much less ordered an execution. Yet he’d seen the desire for revenge in the eyes of his soldiers and known that if he didn’t make the consequences of harming Zarrah clear, one would kill her and then claim it an accident.
The necessity of it did nothing to ease the roiling in his stomach, which, despite being empty, was threatening to heave itself up his throat as he rose the stairs two at a time, whistling cheerfully. “Draw me a bath,” he said to one of the servants he passed. “And get me some breakfast. With water, not wine. I need a clear head.”
“Right away, my lord.” The woman curtseyed, but Keris was already spiraling up the last flight of stairs, taking them three at a time now, his mouth sour.
Shoving open the door to his room, he sprinted across, barely making it to the water closet before his stomach heaved. Over and over, he vomited, his ears filling with the imagined sound of a whip cracking against flesh, his eyes with the blood that would follow. Otis would make it quick, of that he was certain, but the soldier’s death was still on his hands.
In more ways than anyone knew.
Ribs aching, Keris pushed himself up and returned to his bedchamber, draining a glass of water and trying not to think about Valcotta—about Zarrah—broken and bleeding in the prison cells below. Yet for all his efforts, visions of her in increasingly worsening circumstances rolled through his thoughts, and a cold sweat rose to his skin.
There was no other path he could have taken, no other choice that he could’ve made. At least, not one that wouldn’t have seen them both dead.
Not even he had the power to give the order to release her—especially not given who she was. Even before her rise to command, she’d been an infamous warrior on the battlefield, responsible for countless Maridrinian deaths, including—if the rumors were true—the death of his elder brother Rask. And while Keris might raise a glass to her for that particular death, Rask had been revered by the soldiers in Nerastis.
He could spout orders until he was blue in the face. Order dozens of men whipped for defiance—they’d still refuse, because their loyalty to him was a paltry thing compared to their desire for revenge.
There was only one person with the power to spare her. Only one person the soldiers respected and feared enough to set aside their need to execute Valcotta.
The King of Maridrina.
The thought of relying on his father made his stomach twist, but in the seconds he’d had to think of a plan, he’d seen no other solution. The soldiers would allow her to live because they feared his father. And because they believed what he’d do to Valcotta would be far worse than anything they’d come up with.
They were probably right.
Servants entered the room, bobbing curtseys at him before carrying buckets of steaming water to warm the bathing pool, the air soon filling with scented oil as sconces were lit.
I need to go to her, his conscience screamed. I need to make certain she’s safe.
Instead, Keris pulled off his clothes, then headed into the bathing chamber, barely seeing the large pool circled by candles or the rose petals scattered across the surface of the water. If he showed any sign of empathy for Valcotta, he risked losing what authority he had.
Slipping into the tepid depths, he leaned back against the curved stone basin, shutting his eyes and reaching blindly for a glass of water, then draining it.
This plan had only bought him time; the idea that his father would use her as a bargaining chip in negotiations with the Empress was a fool’s hope, it being far more likely that he’d execute her as entertainment for the masses. Which meant Keris had to get her free before they reached Vencia.
Think, he ordered himself. Come up with a solution!
Yet every time he blinked, Keris heard the sound of her skull bouncing off the tile. Saw her eyes glazing. She could be dying in a cell. Could already be dead while he was up in his tower soaking in the bath.
If she is, there is nothing you can do to help her, he told himself even as a tremor ran through him. Believe that she is alive, and turn your head to keeping her that way.
The first step was getting her out of Nerastis. Otis would push to transport her by ship to Vencia, which would not only make an escape more difficult but also cut the time he’d have to orchestrate it by more than half. It had to be by land, which would necessitate a heavy escort.
Think.
Even on the road, finding an opportunity for escape would be nearly impossible. He’d need assistance, either in the form of someone breaking into camp to free her by force or providing a sufficient distraction that he could set her free himself. But he had exactly zero allies in this. Being an enemy soldier was bad enough, but Valcotta was also the future Empress. Was the woman who’d fought against these men time and again, killing their friends, their loved ones, their commanders. Help wouldn’t come from Maridrinians.
Then who?
Mercenaries? They certainly could be bought, but likely not in so short a time period that they’d be of any use. He needed help that was already here, already available.
The Valcottans?