Zarrah allowed him to fasten manacles to her wrists, then a set to her ankles. Normally they didn’t bother restraining her until she was about to step into Silas’s chambers, and she wondered if the mob was what had provoked the extra caution. What were the people so angry about?
Chains clinking, she walked across the walkway to the tower, her eyes drifting over the gardens below, immediately fixing on Keris.
Her heart skipped, for it had been days since she’d seen his face. Days since she’d heard his voice, and she willed him to look up, needing that connection, but he was deep in conversation with Lestara, several of his younger sisters skipping around them.
“Spends so much time with women he practically is one,” the bodyguard holding her wrists said to his fellow. “Useless weakling. I can’t believe he’s lasted this long.”
It amazed her that these men, trained soldiers, didn’t see the truth. When she watched Keris move, she immediately saw the raw strength in the press of muscle against his embroidered coat. The balance and grace in every step that came from a lifetime on rooftops. The swift instincts of one who might choose not to fight but was more than capable of doing so. But it was his intelligence that made him a force to be reckoned with.
And she expected the day these men realized the danger that walked among them, it would be too late.
The guard opened the door to the tower, cool air washing over Zarrah as she started up the endless stairs. They reached the top, and the guards outside the doors to Silas’s offices searched her for weapons before allowing her inside.
“Good morning, Zarrah.” Silas sat with his boots up on the desk, a glass filled with amber liquid balanced on one knee. Serin stood next to the window behind him, face unreadable. “I have news.”
Her heart skipped, then raced.
“The Harendellians sailed into port this morning,” he said. “With your aunt’s response to my son’s proposal.”
Sweat broke out on her already-clammy palms. Her aunt hadn’t abandoned her. “Oh?”
“I’ll allow you to read it yourself.” He tossed a folded piece of familiar stationery to her side of his desk, the purple wax of the Empress’s royal seal snapped in half.
The chains on her wrists rattling, she picked it up and unfolded it, her eyes skimming over the two sentences of text. The familiar signature.
I’ll allow my niece to die a thousand deaths before negotiating with a Veliant. Do with her what you will, but be prepared for the consequences.
Petra
Zarrah’s stomach hollowed even as a shaking breath exited her lips. She’d known her aunt wouldn’t concede to Keris’s terms, but she’d thought the Empress would draw out the negotiation. Would look for another way to secure Zarrah’s freedom. Would buy time for Zarrah to free herself. Not… not this.
She read the lines a second time. And a third. Searching for something, anything, that indicated the Empress hadn’t abandoned her. That she’d fight for her. That she still loved her.
But there was nothing.
Her aunt would allow Silas to kill her before conceding an inch. Would allow him to murder her because her death would put fuel to the fire of the Endless War. As her aunt had used her as a tool in life, she’d now use her as a tool in death.
Zarrah couldn’t help but wonder if that meant her aunt had never cared about her at all.
58
KERIS
Since there was no way to arrange for a private conversation with Aren, circumstances necessitated doing it in full view of Serin, his father, and all the many watching eyes within the inner sanctum.
Fortunately, Keris was no longer working alone.
“Loud enough that no one can overhear,” he murmured to Lestara. “And have the girls block the view of us so that reading lips will be a challenge.”
“How do you know he’ll come?” she asked.
“Because for one, he’s waiting for news that Coralyn met with his people. Two, he’s watching us from his window.” Leaving her to organize his little sisters, who were all dressed in a rainbow of dazzling silks, Keris stared at the book in front of him, none of the words sinking in.
Be patient, he told himself. Aren believes he needs you more than you need him.
If only that were the case.
Long minutes passed, then the sound of footsteps filled his ears, chains clinking as Aren settled onto the bench across from him. Not wishing to appear eager, Keris refrained from looking up from his book until Aren’s guards stepped back. “Good morning, Your Grace. Come to enjoy the brief respite from the storm?”
“Rain doesn’t bother me.”
“No, I suppose it wouldn’t.” Keris set his book on a spot on the table that had dried in the sun, then fixed his gaze on the lingering guards. “Is there something you need?”
Both men shifted uncomfortably, probably wondering if they’d be rewarded for allowing Keris to get himself killed. “He’s dangerous, Your Highness,” one said. “It’s best we remain close in case he needs to be restrained. He’s very quick.”
Keris bent to look under the table at Aren’s legs. “He’s chained to a stone bench. Just how feeble do you believe I am that I can’t outpace a man chained to a bench?”
“His Majesty—”
“Is not here. You two are close enough to be part of the conversation, and from this brief exchange, I can already tell that I’ve no interest in further discourse with either of you. Plus, you are in the way of my little sisters’ practice. Move.”
The guards glared at him but complied, though one said, “Scream if he causes you trouble, Highness. It’s what the wives have been told to do.”
Keris forced his face into a mask of boredom despite the irritation rising in his chest. Don’t worry about what they think, he told himself. You can replace them all once you are king. “Noted.”
He turned his attention back to Aren, who was scrutinizing Keris’s forearms with a furrowed brow. Tugging down his sleeves, Keris kept his tone bland as he asked, “Now, how might I be of assistance, Your Grace? More reading material, perhaps?”
“As enlightening as your bird book was, I’ll pass.”
“As you like.” Keris tucked his hair behind one ear, which was his signal for Lestara to begin. A moment later, his sisters began to twirl around him and Aren, clapping their hands loudly in time to the music, the scarfs they carried obscuring their conversation from view.
“You risk a knife in the back with the way you treat your father’s men,” Aren said, his gaze moving from the girls back to Keris.
“That risk is there regardless of what I say or do.” Keris rested his elbows on the table. “Like my father, they took my lack of interest in soldiering as a personal insult, and short of turning myself into something I am not, there is no path to redemption with either. My bed is made.”
Aren rubbed his chin, seeming to consider the words. Seeming to understand that everything, by necessity, would have hidden meaning. “There are ways to popularity other than swinging a sword.”
“Like feeding a starving nation?” Keris held a hand to his ear. “Listen. Do you hear them?”