Grayson’s stomach hardened when he thought of the people he’d intimidated, arrested, and executed; the homes and fields he’d burned, the coins he’d pried from a father’s bleeding hands while his wife and children sobbed. He thought of Latham Borg, the innkeeper he’d arrested mere days ago, and his hysterical wife who had cursed Grayson.
He was the Black Hand. A fates-cursed monster. Why would he enjoy that?
Before Tyrell could open his mouth again, the doors to the throne room swung outward. Members of court filed out, bowing wordlessly to the two princes as they passed down the long corridor. As the men and women swept into the hall they were careful to keep space between themselves and the princes; the women even held their skirts close, not wanting their hems to graze Kaelin boots. Every eye was lowered in respect or fear—probably fear.
When the last nobles had slipped past, Tyrell and Grayson were given entrance to the throne room.
The space was designed to make one feel small. The vaulted ceiling had taken generations to build, with stone pillars ringing the open space. Towering windows along the east side revealed the morning light. A black carpet cut across the floor, ending at the royal dais. An emerald banner hung behind the thrones, the Kaelin crest stitched in the center with black thread—two serpents twisted around a longsword, fangs bared over the hilt, mountains outlined behind them. The snakes were poised to strike each other.
It was a fitting symbol for the Kaelin family.
Other than the torches bracketed to the gray stone walls, there were no other adornments. Three thrones rested atop the dais at the head of the room. King Henri sat on the middle throne, fingering his brown beard as he watched his youngest sons approach. Grayson glanced away, despising the flash of pride and possession in his father’s eyes.
Carter must have slipped in through the servants’ entrance, because he was already kneeling before their father’s throne. He was always eager to be first—second only to Peter, of course. It had been that way since his birth. He was twenty-two years old and wore his dark hair long, letting the ends brush his shoulders. He had Father’s deceptively warm brown eyes but his chin was pointed sharply, like Mother’s. He was missing most of his right forefinger—Peter had cut it off when they were children—and his other fingers were stained from making poisons alongside their mother. He always reeked of herbs, poisons, and the other substances he experimented with. Carter was thinner and weaker than the rest of them, and they all knew it. He posed a threat only because he was so loyal to Peter and their parents; he would do anything for them, even break the only rule the Kaelin family had—Carter wouldn’t hesitate to slip a blade between any of their ribs. Or, more likely, poison them.
Liam knelt beside Carter, shoulders back and head tipped up as he stretched his neck. His stiffness was clear; he probably hadn’t left this room since returning to Lenzen, having months to report on. Only twenty years old, but he led Ryden’s spy network. The middle Kaelin brother had the lightest brown hair of them all and a short brown beard—more stubble than anything. Some foreign fashion, no doubt. His shoulders were broad and led to his tapered waist. He was handsome; probably the best looking of them all, since he’d somehow managed to keep most of his scars off his face. His brown eyes were intelligent, peeking out from a tanned face. A black leather wristband wrapped around his left forearm, the width of a hand. He’d acquired it a couple years ago during his travels, and though Grayson didn’t see his brother often, he had yet to see Liam without it.
Peter, the oldest brother, sat on a wooden throne on the king’s right. He was twenty-five years old and had brown eyes with gray rims. The crown prince was the shortest brother by a handbreadth, though he still managed to look down on everyone. His elbows were balanced on the arms of his throne, his eyes cutting through Grayson and Tyrell, a fragment of a cool smile twisting the corner of his mouth. His left fingers slowly spun the signet ring on his right hand. Made of heavy metal and intricately designed with the Kaelin family crest, there were four small emeralds placed as glittering snake eyes. Grayson knew the design well, and the weight of the ring—it had been plunged into his face and gut too many times to count.
Queen Iris sat on the last throne, on her husband’s left. She wore a sweeping white gown with tight sleeves that sheathed her long arms. Grayson had never seen her in another color, though sometimes she tied a colored sash around her thin waist. Today the sash was black. She didn’t tolerate excesses in anyone, including herself. Subtle lines dug into the skin at the corners of her eyes and mouth, but she didn’t yet look aged. Her black braid was long and thick, trailing over one shoulder. She caught Grayson’s eye and her lips curved a little. That wasn’t new; he suspected she tried to cultivate the same level of intimacy with each of her sons, as if they alone shared a special bond. All she and Grayson shared were their eyes; they were the same shade of stormy gray.
Whenever the entire Kaelin family occupied the same room, Grayson had to wonder if they’d all walk out.
Tyrell and Grayson took their places beside Carter and Liam on the floor, Grayson on the end, their heads bowed. The poison master, the spy, the soldier, and the enforcer. King Henri’s private army.
Their father’s voice rang in the vast room. “Rise.” They did, hands behind their backs, feet spread, chins lifted to attention. The king waved at Liam. “Tell them the news from Mortise.”
Liam cleared his throat,
