A quarter hour later, once Clare and Vera were settled back into bed and guarded by Wilf, Cardon, and Venn, Bennick finally faced the king.
Newlan was livid. “How did this happen?” he hissed.
Bennick stood rigidly, head bowed. Not many were allowed in the king’s personal suite, and Bennick had never been at the center of attention in this room. His skin prickled with the awareness that his position—even his life—was currently under scrutiny. “Sire, I take full responsibility.”
King Newlan towered over him, wearing a green robe. His hair was rumpled from interrupted sleep, his face red and twisted with rage. Commander Markam stood beside the king, still in uniform even at this late hour. Prince Grandeur stood on the king’s other side. Serene wasn’t present. Bennick assumed it was the king’s attempt to protect the princess. Bennick had no doubt she’d learn about the attack soon enough, and she’d probably be furious about being left in the dark.
Newlan’s hands curled at his sides. “How did the poison get into her room?”
“The Night Sigh was dusted on the lilacs,” Bennick said. “The maids didn’t notice, nor did my men.”
“Inexcusable! Such an obvious poison should have never slipped past you!”
Bennick swallowed, shoulders rigid, head still ducked. “I will make a full investigation. We’ll increase security on the princess’s suite.”
“Which maid placed the flowers in the room?” the king demanded.
Bennick swallowed tightly. “Vera Smallwood, but she’s not to blame. Not only is she a trusted maid that almost succumbed to the poison herself, she also knew Serene wasn’t sleeping there. This attack must have come from someone who doesn’t know about the decoy.”
“Where did the flowers come from?” the commander asked, speaking for the first time.
Bennick grit his teeth as he always did when he heard his father’s voice. “The market in Iden. Serene’s head maid, Bridget, has used the same supplier for years.”
King Newlan eyed Commander Markam. “You will open an investigation of this merchant. And I want to know everyone who had access to the flowers.”
The commander bowed.
“Night Sigh is native to Mortise,” Grandeur said quietly.
The king shot a look at his son. “You think a Mortisian was behind this?”
“Anyone could have purchased Night Sigh, but I think the connection bears thinking about.” The prince hesitated, then added, “Emissary Havim was overheard the other day venting his frustration with some of the betrothal terms.”
Commander Markam’s brows drew together. “He’s an emissary of peace. He wouldn’t be behind something like this. It doesn’t make sense.”
“We can’t make accusations against the emissary,” Newlan said firmly. “This could have easily been the rebels.”
“Poison isn’t their usual method,” Commander Markam mused. “With the betrothal now public, it could be anyone. An upset noble or merchant could have hired an assassin.” He glanced at the king. “The danger was anticipated—thus, the decoy.”
“Anticipated, yes,” the king allowed. “But I didn’t expect an assassin to make it into her room.” His eyes cut back to Bennick. “You failed me tonight.”
Commander Markam cleared his throat. “Your Majesty, I think the captain’s successes should be taken into account. He and his men have avoided several attempts since the decoy—”
“It only takes one failure,” Newlan cut in.
Bennick avoided his father’s gaze, keeping his eyes trained on the king. He should probably be grateful for the commander’s defense of him. Instead, he just felt an irritated prickle at the back of his neck.
Newlan’s jaw flexed as he pinned Bennick with a dark stare. “Your laxity could have cost me the decoy. Our time is too short—we wouldn’t be able to prepare another one in time.” His eyes narrowed. “If you can’t protect her in a fortified castle, how will you do so on the journey to Mortise?”
The question churned Bennick’s gut, because he’d been wondering the same thing.
Chapter 17
Grayson
Grayson pushed into the empty butcher shop, dragging mud across the dusty floor. None of the streets in the mountain villages were paved and many had been washed-out with the melting snows. Gevell was no different. This remote village was just as desolate and cold as the others, and his boots were three times their weight due to the clinging mud. Grayson’s feet were wet. Mountain air had stung his face raw and his lips were cracked. No cloak was thick enough to protect against the constant time spent outdoors.
For over a week, Grayson had entered village after village, and every time it was the same. People saw the band of soldiers coming, the Black Hand riding at the head, and they fled into their homes. They were terrified, but they couldn’t hide. Grayson approached every door, demanding the king’s tax. Their faces blurred, as did the villages. All the buildings were constructed of logs and stone, with the spice of pine and the stench of poverty clinging to everything.
Captain Reeve’s boots thumped behind him, stomping off bits of snow and mud. “This shop was raided a long time ago.”
Grayson eyed the space, forced to agree. A butcher’s counter, stained with old blood, stood bare near the side wall. Broken crates and tools had been left strewn about the shop and some floorboards had rotted through, proving the shop hadn’t been in good repair even when operational. Dust covered every surface and cobwebs dangled from the rafters. Anything of value had been stripped.
“The butcher is long gone,” Grayson said. “There’s nothing here to collect.”
Reeve ignored him, moving toward a corner stacked with empty crates. He crouched, and when he rose, he held a child’s ball in his hand. “There’s no dust on this. Someone was here recently.”
Grayson plucked a cobweb that swung near his face and let it flutter to the ground. He glanced pointedly at Reeve. “The shop is deserted.”
Reeve looked to a soldier near the open door. “Find someone from the village. I want to question them.”
The soldier hesitated, glancing at Grayson.
Grayson barely bit back a sigh, but he knew by now Reeve would not
