The King of Ithicana twitched hard enough that his chains rattled against the table, his bloodshot eyes fixing on Keris, recognition filling them.
“It’s a terrible practice.” Keris squinted at the bodies lining the walls, their putrefying flesh crawling with insects, drawing old, painful memories to the forefront. “Never mind the smell; it invites flies and other vermin. Spreads disease.” Feeling his stomach twist, he looked back to Aren. “Though I expect it’s far worse for you given that you know them, Your Grace. Especially given they died trying to break you free.”
Aren’s hazel eyes darkened, and it seemed he hadn’t noticed Keris’s use of his title despite it being forbidden. “You are…?”
“Keris.”
“Ah.” Aren’s tone was flat. “The inadequate heir.”
Given you’ve proven yourself to be a particularly inadequate king, that seems a tad self-righteous, Keris wanted to say, but he hadn’t come here to needle the other man. He’d come to facilitate an alliance and achieve an end, which meant every word needed to be chosen with care. Setting the book on the table, he said, “Eight older brothers who fit the mold, all dead, and now my father is stuck trying to weasel his way out of naming me heir without breaking one of his own laws. I’d wish him luck in the endeavor if not for the fact that his and Serin’s weaseling is likely to see me in a grave next to my siblings.”
The king leaned back in his chair, the chains on his manacles rattling, reminding Keris that the man was dangerous, even when restrained. “No desire to rule?”
“It’s a thankless burden,” Keris replied, knowing it was no answer.
“True. But when you have the crown, you can change the décor.” Aren gestured at the corpses lining the garden walls.
Keris laughed despite himself, wondering if under other circumstances, he’d have liked this man. Probably not. “To rule is a burden, but perhaps especially so for a king who enters his reign desirous of change, for he will spend his life wading against the current. But you understand that, don’t you, Your Grace?” The guards who were listening in on the conversation would believe he spoke solely of Aren’s reign, but he prayed the Ithicanian was more intelligent than that.
“You’re the philosopher,” Aren said. “Or was that, too, part of the deception?”
A flicker of confusion ran through him, and then Keris understood. Aren was referring to the part Keris had played in the invasion of Ithicana.
It had been Aren who’d given Keris and his entourage permission to travel the bridge, and it was unlikely that the Ithicanian king was aware that Keris’s participation in the invasion had been unwitting. Aren believed him complicit, which meant he’d not see Keris as a potential ally. But perhaps the truth would sway him. “I think Serin took particular glee in using my dreams in such a perverse fashion. It is one of the only instances in which he has successfully pulled the wool over my eyes, the shock of being trussed up and stuffed in a corner while my escort invaded Ithicana not one I’ll soon forget. Even still, I might have forgiven the duplicity if my father had allowed me to carry on to Harendell in pursuit of my studies, but as you can see”—he stretched his arms wide—“here I am.”
“My condolences.”
Not enough. He needed to do more to sway the man’s opinion of him. “Imagine a world where people spent as much time philosophizing as they did learning to swing weapons.”
“I can’t,” Aren answered bitterly. “The only thing I know well is war, which doesn’t say much given that I’m on the losing side of this one.”
“Losing, perhaps…” Keris knew that he was treading on dangerous ground, given this conversation would be reported back to Serin. And to his father. “But not yet lost. Not while Eranahl stands, and not while you still live. Why else would my father insist on these theatrics?”
“Bait for his errant daughter, I’m told.”
“Your wife.”
The only answer he got was a glower, and Keris found himself questioning his aunt’s belief that Aren still cared for Lara. Except Coralyn was a master at reading people—and manipulating them—and he’d never known her to miss her mark. Which meant he needed to dig deeper.
“Lara.” Keris rubbed his chin, forcing his face into a mask of idle curiosity. “She’s my sister, you know.”
“If you meant that to be a great revelation, I’m afraid I have to disappoint you.”
Keris chuckled even as motion in the distance had him scanning the garden for spies. But it was only a bird splashing in a fountain. “Not my half sister. We have the same mother, too.”
Aren straightened, interest rising in his gaze. And something else. “What of it?”
Keris ran his tongue across his lips, reluctant to speak on this, though he knew it was necessary to establish that they had a common enemy. Keeping his voice low enough that the guards would only pick up bits and pieces, he said, “I was nine when my father’s soldiers took my sister—young enough to still be living in the harem, but old enough to remember the moment well. To remember how my mother fought them. To remember how she attempted to sneak out of the palace to go after my sister, knowing in her heart that my father intended her for some fell purpose. To remember how, when she was caught and dragged back, my father strangled her himself in front of us all. As punishment. And warning.”
The only other person he’d told this story to was Valcotta, but now that it was unearthed, it appeared it desired to be shared.
“What game are you playing, Keris?”
It’s good to see you’re clever enough to realize that one is being played, Keris thought, then rested his hand on his chin so that his fingers partially obscured his mouth before saying, “A long one, and you are but a singular piece on the board, albeit one of some significance.” He gave the Ithicanian king a measured stare. “I sense that you’re considering removing yourself from the game. I ask that you might reconsider.”
Disgust flared in Aren’s eyes, and he looked away. “As long as I’m alive, they’ll keep trying to save me. And keep dying in the attempt. I can’t allow that.”
And the time they had for this conversation was over. Appearing from behind a topiary like some sort of village peeper, Serin approached. While he was still out of earshot, Keris said, “Keep playing the game, Aren. Your life isn’t as worthless as you think.”
Then Serin was upon them, his obnoxious voice filling the air. “A questionable choice of company, Your Highness.”
Keris shrugged, knowing that the blasé attitude ground on the spymaster’s nerves. “I’ve always been a victim of my own curiosity, Serin. You know that.”
“Curiosity.”
“Indeed. Aren is a man of myth. Former king of the misty isles of Ithicana, legendary fighter, and husband to one of my mysterious warrior sisters. How could I resist plying him for details of his escapades? Sadly, he hasn’t been particularly forthcoming.”