“You want to trick her into becoming a traitor?” He shook his head. “She’s my sister, no matter what she’s done—I won’t put her in danger.”
Michael fingered the edge of his tankard. “What if she thought she was protecting you?”
Eliot stared. The thump of his heart was suddenly loud, pounding in his buzzing head.
“The rebels could deliver a message,” his friend said slowly. “It could be written in your hand. Make it clear if she doesn’t help us, you’ll be tortured. Killed. Would she help then?”
For the first time today, Eliot worried he’d drunk too much. Because even though something inside him protested the thought of putting Clare in any sort of contact with the rebels, a larger part of him thrilled at this idea. Would she betray the princess—Markam—if it meant saving Eliot?
He shouldn’t be tempted, but it was hard to think with ale swimming in his blood.
Michael leaned in. “I’ll only take this plan to Paven if you’re willing, Eliot.”
He stared at the stained table, scraping his forehead with the heel of one hand. He stared a long, long time before he gave his answer.
Chapter 39
Grayson
“That’s new,” Liam said.
“What?”
“You. Smiling.”
Grayson forced his mouth into a line. “I’m not.” But he had been. He’d been smiling every time he got lost in his thoughts and remembered Mia’s kisses.
The corner of Liam’s mouth curved. “Very well. Keep your secrets.” He leaned back against the stone wall, his slumped posture at odds with the rigidness the other Kaelin princes stood with. Grayson knew Liam was no less dangerous, however.
Grayson and Liam had been summoned by their father and they stood across from each other in the corridor outside the king’s study. Henri loved to keep people waiting.
“That’s new, too.” Liam lifted his chin to the red slice on Grayson’s face. “Tyrell?”
Grayson only grunted.
Liam shook his head and twisted the armband on his wrist. Designs were pressed into the dark leather. Grayson couldn’t see well in the flickering light, but he thought they were twisting vines.
“Tyrell sees you as a threat.” Liam eyed Grayson, his bearded face suddenly serious. “Enemies are all around you. Never forget that.”
The door opened. Liam pushed from the wall and strode into the king’s study, leaving Grayson to trail him.
Henri’s study was a wide room with a large dark blue carpet. Bookshelves were cradled in one corner, leaving the rest of the walls bare. Lamps hung on the walls and sat on the desk. There were no windows, since they were in the heart of the castle, but there were three exits, each guarded night and day against any intruders foolish enough to strike at the king. Maps of Ryden, Mortise, Zennor, and Devendra were strewn on a side table. The one on top was a heavily marked map showing the southernmountains in great detail, with villages, passes, and Devendran outposts all noted. The room was musty and smelled of leather, wood, and melted wax—his father had just sealed several letters.
Grayson hated the trapped feel of the space. Without the vaulted ceiling of the throne room, King Henri loomed larger as he sat behind his enormous wooden desk.
When Henri’s heavy gaze landed on Grayson, he was stabbed with the sudden fear that Iris had betrayed him—that Henri knew Grayson had aided the escape of Hogan’s wife and children. But if his father were going to punish him, surely Liam wouldn’t have been invited.
Whatever Henri wanted, it concerned both his spymaster and his enforcer.
Grayson and Liam paused before the desk and bowed before sitting in the empty chairs across from Henri.
The king’s attention shifted to Liam. “I received a royal invitationthismorningfromPrinceDesfan.Hebelieveswe’re considering peace talks and has invited our presence in his court. I’m sending you as emissary.”
Liam dipped his head. “When do I leave?”
“One week.” Henri’s gaze slid to Grayson. “You will accompany your brother.”
His body flashed hot. “What?”
“You will serve as Liam’s bodyguard in Mortise and do anything he asks.”
Grayson’s muscles locked, a thousand protests on his tongue that he couldn’t speak. “How long will we be gone?”
“I don’t expect it will be more than a year,” Henri said.
His stomach dropped. “A year?”
“Circumstances will dictate your mission’s timeframe.” Henri spread his hands on his desk, looking at both of his sons now. “Learn all you can in Mortise, influencing the court where you’re able. Create animosity between Mortise and Devendra without tipping your hand. When the time is right, Grayson will assassinate Princess Serene and frame Mortise for her death.”
The order stole Grayson’s breath.
Henri continued easily, as if he hadn’t just ordered a woman’s murder. “A war will ignite between the two kingdoms. They will weaken each other until they’re ripe for picking.”
“It will work,” Liam murmured, fingers steepled against his mouth. “The distrust is there. We only need to fan the flames.”
Henri glanced at Grayson. “Well?”
It was a struggle to find his voice. “I don’t know if I’m ready for this.”
The king’s eyebrows drew together. “You’re the Black Hand.” As if that answered everything.
“I’ve never left Ryden,” Grayson said, his voice tight. “I don’t know enough about Mortise to help Liam.”
“I’ll train you in the ways of the Mortisian court,” Liam said. “It will take us a month to travel to Duvan—two weeks by horse to the coast, then two more weeks by sea. You’ll be ready.”
Henri leaned back in his cushioned chair. “Liam, I wish a private word with Grayson.”
Liam cast a quick look at Grayson before rising, and the moment the door clicked shut behind him, Henri spoke. “You don’t want to leave the girl.”
Tension bunched Grayson’s shoulders. His father rarely referenced Mia. When he did, every battle instinct Grayson had flared to life.
Henri thumbed the desk’s edge. “You’ll go to Mortise,” he said levelly. “You’ll do what’s expected, or I’ll kill her.”
“You wouldn’t.” The words snapped out, desperation and panic fissuring
