Keep climbing.
Glancing up, she determined herself more than halfway, and so she risked a backward glance. Soldiers moved along the top of the inner wall, their eyes on the well-lit base. More stood in the turrets on the corners, eyes equally watchful. But they were all looking down, their concern for someone trying to escape, not for someone trying to climb into the belly of the beast.
The stone she gripped with her right hand abruptly gave way.
A gasp of terror tore from Zarrah’s lips as she dropped, the fingers of her left hand screaming as she dangled from them, her toeholds lost.
She scrabbled for another handhold, her breath desperate gasps until she managed to shove her fingers in a gap, her toes finding holds.
But below, she heard voices. Sensed motion. Men approached the base of the tower, obviously drawn by the sound of the piece of rock striking the bushes.
Climb, she screamed at herself. Hurry!
Ignoring the shuddering pain in her fingers, Zarrah worked her way higher, reaching a window, on the top of which she perched for a moment’s rest.
Keris’s window.
Guilt filled her stomach, because he was the one who’d pay for her actions tonight. He’d be the one who’d have to order her executed for murdering his father, and who’d have to manage the Empress’s subsequent retaliation. But there was no other way: Silas Veliant needed to die.
Keep going.
Stretching tall, Zarrah found another fingerhold, moving higher and higher until she was beneath the king’s open window. Catching hold of the edge, she pulled herself up, listening.
But there was only silence.
Easing inward, she cautiously slipped behind the billowing curtain, pressing her back against the wall. Then she inched sideways and peeked around the heavy fabric.
The room was dimly lit, the lamps turned down low, but it was enough to see that it was full of heavy furniture and dark fabric, the artwork gracing the walls depicting scenes of battle, many of them decidedly gory.
Her ears picked up a rhythmic thumping from behind the closed door of the adjoining room, along with male grunts, which grew louder with each passing second. A woman’s sounds of pleasure, probably feigned, merged with the grunting, and Zarrah cringed at exactly what was going on in the bedchamber.
It’s of no matter, she told herself. It isn’t as though the wife is likely to linger.
Then the door to the stairwell opened, and the Magpie appeared. He hesitated, listening to the activities going on in the bedroom, then sighed and took a seat on one of the sofas, pouring himself a glass of wine.
Zarrah wasn’t certain if she wanted to scream in frustration or crow in delight. Because while Serin’s presence made this a greater challenge, it also meant she might kill two birds with one stone.
Breathing slowly, Zarrah flexed her fingers and toes before extracting the nail and slipping it between her knuckles.
The bedroom door slammed outward, Silas calling over his shoulder, “Stay on your back, woman. If this doesn’t take, I’ll be returning you to your homeland and revoking our trade agreement. I didn’t bargain for a barren wife.” Then his eyes fixed on Serin. “Well? Did it work?”
The spymaster sighed. “I think it too soon to say, Your Majesty. We need to allow time for the ambassadors to spread the word to the people that Aren is not only alive, but well. By tomorrow, I’ll know more.”
“I know you disliked this plan. But I can’t help but think that it has more to do with who proposed it than the plan itself.”
The Magpie inclined his head. “I seek only the success of your ventures, Majesty. But… I’d be wary of any ideas that come from the prince’s lips: Keris is meddling, and his eyes are on the crown.”
“And it’s about goddamned time.”
Zarrah blinked in surprise, watching as Silas strode across the room and threw himself down on the sofa opposite his spymaster before leveling a finger at the man. “I’ve told you, Serin. I’ve always told you: my son will be neither pushed nor led. Not through any amount of force. He has to decide to do something himself, needs to make the idea his own, at which point, he’s intractable. And now that he’s decided he wants to live, wants to be heir, he will become everything I dreamed of and more.”
“With respect, Your Grace, I don’t agree. Maridrinian kings are warriors and generals, which Keris is decidedly not. He’s bookish. He can’t even wield a sword.”
Silas laughed. “You mistake can’t for won’t, Serin. Keris drew a line in the sand to spite me over the death of his mother, but he’s too logical to spite a corpse. Once I’m in the grave, he’ll embrace his bloodline and become the man he is meant to be.”
“By then, it might be too late.” Serin filled a cup of wine and handed it to his master. “The people make mockery of him, but more than that, the soldiers have no respect for him, and he will need them to rule this kingdom. Your Grace is yet in the prime of life: Think how much further in their graces he’ll slip in another five years? Another ten? Whereas someone like Prince Otis already commands their respect. He’s a man they’d gladly follow.”
Silas waved a hand. “Otis is a fine boy, but he lacks vision. Lacks the intelligence to raise Maridrina up high.”
“Keris will burn your legacy to the ground.” Anger flared in the Magpie’s eyes, and he slammed his glass down on the table. “He will take all that you’ve fought to achieve and set it aside for the sake of his principles. Surely you see that in the way he attempts to negotiate with Valcotta rather than warring with them.”
Silence hung in the room, and Zarrah held her breath. Every moment she tarried risked her absence from her bedroom being discovered. Risked alarms being raised. But she felt compelled to hear the end of this disagreement before she took the choice out of both of their hands.
“Which is why I must allow him the opportunity to see that his principles only function on the page, not in reality,” Silas answered. “Petra will refuse his attempts to negotiate. We know this. Keris will be forced to recognize reality, and necessity will drive him to embrace the Veliant way of ruling. But he needs to come to that realization himself.”
Ice filled Zarrah’s belly. What reason did Silas have to be so certain that her aunt would refuse to negotiate? The closeness of their relationship was well known, which meant he had to be aware of what she meant to the Empress.
“I dislike this,” Serin said. “I cannot set aside the knowledge that he is of identical blood to Lara, who betrayed you in favor of her husband. They are both of the womb of that woman who shamed you so, Majesty.”