Grayson jerked the blade and blood sprayed. The pleas stopped. The entire room went silent.
Grayson dropped the limp head and rocked back on his heels. Droplets of blood speckled his chest, arms, and face. Crimson blood pooled and rolled over the blue carpet, leaving the dead man and spreading toward Grayson’s boots.
Henri’s voice crawled from behind him. “Perhaps you are ready to kill Princess Serene.”
Grayson’s lungs clamped and the dagger shook in his hand. Sharp pain dug into his skull, radiating from his temples. The droplets of blood were already cooling on his face.
“You should go to her,” Henri said quietly.
The back of Grayson’s neck prickled and he twisted slowly toward his father.
Henri’s chin lifted. “You needed a reminder you wouldn’t soon forget, not even in Mortise.”
Grayson’s heart tripped. “What have you done?”
His father’s voice was flat. “I sent Tyrell to her.”
Hatred. Terror. Rage. They blinded him. His hand spasmedaround the bloody dagger, but he didn’t have time to plunge it into his father’s heart—if the king even had one.
Tyrell was with Mia.
Grayson bolted from the room.
Chapter 40
Clare
King Newlan spared no expense for Princess Serene’s farewell banquet. The vaulted dining hall was lined on three sides with long, dark wood tables, leaving the center of the room open for the entertainers. Musicians, dancers, acrobatic tumblers—colors swirled as they danced about the space, doing tricks and playing loud music that relied on strings, flutes, and drums.
Each table was decorated with garlands and flowers. Elaborate iron candelabras were spaced evenly between the spread feast. Cut fruits were arranged artfully on trays, ranging in colors of yellow, orange, green, blue, and red. Platters with fresh wheat bread sliced around bowls of golden honey, tinged crimson with the candlelight. Spiced drinks and meats scented the air along with buttered carrots and roasted potatoes. Every seat was filled, mixing the cloying smell of perfume with the savory and sweet scents of the food.
The king sat at the head table, his guards poised behind him. Seeing his face cast in the glowing candlelight, smiling and drinking, Clare wondered at the evil inside him. Despite everything he’d done to her personally, she never would have guessed he’d murdered his wife. He laughed at something one of the nearby lords said and Clare wondered how Serene had stayed sane the past two years.
Clare sat at one of the long side tables, about midway downthe room. Grandeur was seated at the opposite table, across the room from her. Newlan wanted them to mingle with the nobles in an effort to help them feel the excitement of the coming alliance. Grandeur seemed to be doing his part; he had the nobles around him enthralled as he talked and they all laughed together. His charm was almost palpable. As if he could feel Clare’s gaze, he glanced up and shared a conspiratorial smile. She couldn’t quite manage the same before looking away.
She knew the conversation at her table wasn’t as lively as the king wanted, but he’d placed the Mortisians beside her, whichrather killed conversation with the surrounding nobles. Clare understood the king’s reasons—Serene needed to be seen beside the Mortisians, openly displaying trust in them. But Clare didn’t trust Amil or his father. Bahri Havim sat on her left with his son beside him, so at least Amil wasn’t right next to her. He hadn’t sought her out since their encounter in the stable, but the covert threat in his final words lurked in her mind.
Clare knew Bennick, Venn, Dirk, and Wilf were all gathered somewhere behind her, watching the Mortisians closely. It made her feel a little better.
Applause burst around the tables as brightly costumed entertainers scrambled atop shoulders until a pyramid of ten men was built. The top man launched himself into the air, rolling toward the hard stone floor. Clare sucked in a breath with the rest of the watching crowd, but the man landed in a crouch, a grin splitting his face. Clare clapped with the others in the room.
Dancers milled around the tables, presenting flowers or other small trinkets to the guests with an entertainer’s flair. Many were young children and they seemed to thrive on the attention. A blonde-haired girl—maybe seven—grinned as she spun to a stop beside Clare’s chair and drew out a long-stemmed daisy from her sleeve. “For you, Princess.”
Clare took the simple white flower with a smile. “Thank you.”
The young girl beamed and danced away.
Clare lifted the flower to her nose and shot a quick look over her shoulder. Her guards stood along the wall behind her and Bennick caught her eye. He sent her a short smile, which she returned almost shyly. Clare treasured each stolen kiss they’d shared this week, though she longed for more. Perhaps once out of the castle they’d find a little more time alone.
Before she turned back in her chair, she saw Gavril sidle up to Bennick. The man’s head was down as he spoke in a rush to Bennick, the ridged scars along his face and neck catching in the flickering torchlight.
Bennick frowned at whatever Gavril told him, then signaled for Dirk to follow him and Gavril toward the doors, leaving Venn and Wilf to stand guard over Clare.
“Daisies don’t grow well in Mortise, Princess,” Ser Bahri said suddenly.
Clare laid the flower beside her plate. “Is that a threat, Ser Havim?”
With the loud music and pounding applause, Clare knew no one could hear them—probably not even Amil, since his father had angled toward Clare, putting his back to his son. The crowd cheered when men stepped out onto the floor, juggling daggers until they blurred in the air.
“Not a threat,” Ser Bahri said carefully, swirling the red Zennorian wine in his glass. “Merely an observation. Serjah Desfan is making a mistake in bringing you into his court.”
“Then why did you come as his emissary?”
“I couldn’t refuse a royal order.” He leaned in until his sour breath fanned her face. She eased back on instinct; the sudden light
