His face twists with confusion. “If I knew that, we wouldn’t have come all the way to Celize. Why?”
“No reason. I’m sorry.” I rub my arms, which have chilled from the gentle rainstorm echoing outside the cottage. “Papa never mentioned a thing to me.” My throat clogs. “It’s overwhelming to read it all now. I don’t understand why he didn’t . . .” trust me.
When I had no one else, after Cohen left, I always believed I had Papa. And now this discovery takes that truth and taints it, making me feel like I only ever had a ghost of my father.
Cohen’s hand moves to cover mine. His thumb traces my fingers, then dips and rises over my knuckles. “He trusted and loved you more than anyone in this world. Don’t do that. Don’t think you were anything less.”
“I won’t,” I lie. “I just . . . I’m angry with him,” I admit. “He should’ve told me.”
A glint of something I don’t understand flickers in Cohen’s eyes. There, and then gone. He sits taller in the chair. “He must’ve had his reasons. Let’s keep reading. We’ll figure this out.”
I nod glumly and flip to the next letter, dated four months ago.
I snuck in to see the king and found him unconscious today . . . When he finally opened his eyes, he was disoriented. His words were nonsense. He said a woman’s voice was in his head.
I asked about the attacks and the war, and he knew nothing of it.
The confusion in his eyes was real. I believe him. He doesn’t know the country is headed to war.
The last letter, dated three months ago, reads:
The king addressed the nobility and inner circle. He was a different man from the one who woke in his chamber the other day.
I suspect something darker is at work on him.
I believe he’s under the control of a Spiriter. It’s been years since I saw it, since before Rozen left us. When he talks, his eyes look glazed. It’s a sign his spirit has been taken over.
And if I’m right, whoever is controlling him is pushing our countries toward war. Thousands of innocent people will die if the bind isn’t broken. Will you, can you, help me?
Seconds, minutes, hours—?I don’t know how long I sit and stare at his writing. My thoughts volley to the glimpse I caught of King Aodren, the tall and lithe young ruler. I’m dumbfounded that someone could take control of him like he’s a carriage to be driven.
Papa was a shrewd man, with far greater knowledge of our world than I possess. He was painstakingly dedicated to the king. Even though he was old enough to be the king’s father, they had a friendship. Papa, more than anyone, would’ve known the truth. Even though it pains me to read his words now, I believe them.
Enat’s door swishes open and she enters, bringing with her the fresh scent of rain and the musty odor of these woods.
“Are there no more letters?” I ask.
“No. That’s all of them.” Something about the downward drop of her gaze makes me wonder if she’s lying.
“Who is controlling the king?”
“Likely the same person who killed your father. And I have no answers to that.”
Disappointment floods me, washing away the hope that our search was at an end. Though she gave us more information than we had before, we still don’t know who killed Papa. The guards are probably already in Celize. If we don’t turn over the murderer, then the captain will have us hanged. “You’re certain there are no more letters?”
“No more.” I may not have my internal judge working, but there is something off in her tone.
“Do you know anyone else he may have met with in town?” I press. “He was murdered in Celize. There has to be someone who knows something.”
“I know your father was certain the person controlling the king was in his inner circle or one of his guards,” she says. “A Spiriter has to be close by for the bind to work.”
That leaves us with six men to choose from in his close circle of advocates, and twenty-four guards. Thirty is too many to track down. We need to narrow the list somehow.
“Why push the country to war? That’s what we need to figure out,” Cohen says, fist rapping against the table. “If we know who would gain the most from a war, then we’ll slim down the pool of probable murderers.”
All this mention of Papa and his death makes me feel loosely stitched together. I cross my arms around my waist. Despite how angry I am, if there was ever a time I wished Papa were alive, it would be now. He could help me see through the confusion.
“There are those in your country who would like to see the ports of Shaerdan fall to Malam,” Enat says. “You’re a rich country but stuck between the mountains and Shaerdan. Without ports to open trade with the islands and the great lands north, you have no gains. You’re forced to pay taxes to Shaerdan on all your ore.”
“Are taxes and money reason to start a war?” I lift my chin, working through her rationale.