Chapter 16
Sixteen
SENAN
My breaths saw in and out, rippling the blood pooling from my wounds. Instead of fighting my impending death, I welcome it. The last thing I see before my eyes close forever is the warrior who slayed me, lifting his weapon, preparing for the killing blow.
“Senan!” a voice squeaks. “You’re gonna be killed for bleeding all over the rug!”
Sure enough, my “blood” spills onto the corner of the carpet imported from Stratiss. When Boris finds out, he’ll lose his mind. The thought brings a smile to my face.
“Dead men don’t smile,” Rhainn mutters from the sofa, where he has been wallowing all morning. All my younger brother does is wallow.
I ease onto my elbow, sending a red glob tumbling onto the marble floor. “I don’t know. I figure some of them do.” Especially the ones who are relieved to be free of this world. I sit up fully, pressing my fingers to the sticky “wound” at my side and bringing them to my lips. Sugary sweet strawberries coat my tongue.
My baby brother Kyffin grins down at me, his wooden sword still aimed at my heart. “Do you yield?” he asks, his voice pitched with youthfulness.
“To you? Always.”
Rhainn lets out a heavy groan, flopping onto his side like a dying bird.
“What troubles you today?” I ask, even though I have a feeling I already know.
His strong sigh ruffles his black hair spread across the cushion. “I thought for certain I found my mate, but she claims she doesn’t love me anymore.”
His penchant for heartbreak would be worrisome if he didn’t fall in love with a different woman every other week.
Love— true love—doesn’t just last a week.
It lasts forever.
Beyond forever.
I bury the thought in the darkness where I keep such things, lest I end up next to Rhainn on the sofa.
Kyffin returns his sword to its scabbard, the blade reaching to the top of his high black boots. “Women are vile. I shall never fall in love with one.”
“You say that now, but you’ll change your tune,” Rhainn says with another sigh.
“I say that forever,” Kyff insists. “They don’t even know how to fight properly.”
I collect a serviette from beside the tray of leftover tomato and cucumber sandwiches to clean my sticky fingers. “That isn’t entirely true. In Stratiss, they train the women in their army the same as their men. They even have female generals.” That’s what Aeron said in his letters back when he used to write.
He and I were meant to refuse our arranged marriages side by side. Instead, my brother accepted his bride without so much as a word of defiance. A year later, the memory of his betrayal still leaves a bitter taste on my tongue.
Kyffin fiddles with the hilt of his sword, his chin-length black hair slipping from behind his pointed ear. “Female generals? Surely that cannot be true. They’re not strong enough.”
“Some would argue that females are stronger than males,” Rhainn counters, draping his arm over the back of the sofa.
Kyff glowers at him. “Are not.”
“Are too,” Rhainn shoots back. He may be twenty-four, but sometimes, he acts younger than Kyff. “Have you seen the size of a Scathian baby? And women have to push them out of their?—”
I ball up the jam-covered serviette, launching it at Rhainn. His indignant yelp echoes off the marble walls. “That is enough.” Poor Kyff only just learned he’s going to grow hair on his bollocks. He needs time to process that before we shower him with the ins and outs of reproducing. “Anyone can be strong just as anyone can be weak.” Before I can explain further, Boris stomps in.
Incredibly stompy, our king. Gives me an awful headache in the mornings.
Boris looks past us, his gaze falling to the stain on the carpet no bigger than my thumb. “Who got jam on my rug?”
Rhainn points at Kyff.
Kyff scrubs his palms down his leather breeches, his cheeks turning pink. “We were playing a game, you see, and?—”
I raise my hand. “It was me.” If I can save Kyff from our brother’s wrath, then I’ll consider this a good day. “Who knew my veins were filled with strawberry jam?”
With a snap of the king’s fingers, one of the maids lining the wall springs into action like a statue come to life. Her white skirts flutter as she twists toward one of the many warded doors leading to the bowels of the castle. A moment later, she returns with a rag and a bucket.
I push to my feet, motioning for the rag. “I made the mess. I will clean it up.”
The maid hesitates.
Boris growls, and I decide against pushing the issue. No sense letting an innocent person get into trouble for listening to me over the king.
“I shall be more careful the next time I get stabbed,” I whisper to her.
The mask she wears muffles her giggle. The pleasant sound makes me wonder what she looks like. The color of her hair, hidden beneath her white hood. Does she have a nice smile? What color are her eyes?
“It is almost dinnertime,” Boris announces, clasping his hands behind his back the way our father used to. Boris may look like our previous king, but the only other thing the two of them have in common is their infernal notion that a Vale prince should sit on every throne in the realm.
“I expect all of you dressed and on time,” he goes on, directing the warning at me.
Rhainn rolls off the sofa, grabbing Kyffin’s elbow. “We will be ready momentarily, my king.” He tows the youngest prince out the door.
I return to my room as well, but instead of hurrying, I take my time changing out of the soiled jerkin. When my fingers graze the top button on my stained shirt, I think about swapping it for a clean one, I really do.
But then I have a better idea.
For some reason, the king insists on letting hordes of Scathian lords and ladies dine with us day in, and day out, throwing lavish dinners with at least ten courses—because who doesn’t like having to unfasten the top button of your trousers so you can breathe?
The only upside tonight is that there are more people around as witnesses to keep my brother from pinning me to the wall with his sword. From the way the vein in Boris’s forehead bulges the moment I set foot in the spacious dining room, I have a feeling that would’ve been my fate if we didn’t have so many “esteemed guests.”
The whispers that seem to follow me everywhere no longer leave me sweaty and anxious as I cross the long, rectangular room to the last remaining empty seat next to my baby brother. Tuning out muttered remarks and ignoring wide-eyed stares is the only way to stay sane in this cage.
Don’t let the white marble and floor-to-ceiling windows fool you. This castle is as much a prison as the infamous pit. Albeit it smells a lot better.
When Kyff sees me, his mouth falls open, and he pokes Rhainn in the side. Rhainn looks up, his eyes widening and his wine glass stilling halfway to his mouth.
It isn’t until I catch sight of the man wearing a black medallion at his throat sitting next to the king that I realize my eldest brother may actually kill me.
Boris’s face turns the same shade of deep red as his waistcoat.
It’s not my fault he forgot to remind me that one of the ministers from Nimbiss would be joining us for dinner, is it? Oh well. Too late to worry about it now.
Although I wouldn’t have changed my shirt, I may have worn a pair of boots with fewer scuffs.
The moment my ass hits the seat, a white-clad servant rushes forward, filling my wine glass. I thank him before taking a deep sip. If this is to be my final meal, I may as well make the most of it.
“He is going to proper kill you,” Kyff whispers with a frown and a worried glance toward the end of the table.
“He’ll have to catch me first.”
And Boris, for all his threats, is dreadfully slow. Unfortunately, his guards are the fastest in the realm. Something I’ve come to realize on more than one drunken occasion.
The servants serve the first course of rich tomato and basil soup, followed by a salad of fresh greens. I skip the palate-cleansing sherbet, take two bites of the veg served with the mains to make my mother happy—heaven rest her soul—and then tuck into the braised beef.
Rhainn eats in silence, his dour mood like a black cloud looming over his head.
Kyff keeps glancing at me, his brow knitting every time his gaze lands on my hands.
I nudge his boot with mine. “Everything all right?”
He presses himself back into the chair, his shoulders slumping. Parsley clings to his frowning lips. “My left hand is so dreadfully weak compared to yours.”
I give him his serviette, then tap the corner of my own mouth until my brother cleans his. “That is because I’m left-handed.”
“That isn’t fair. I want to be left-handed.”
“I don’t know why. Being right-handed is far superior. I can’t do anything with my right hand. Look.” I pretend to pick up my fork with my right hand and drop it with a clatter. The bit of potato on the end pops right off, landing near the flickering candles.
“You did that on purpose.”
“Did I?”
Kyff’s eyes narrow as he studies my hand. Then his spine straightens, and he gives a resolute nod, his hand falling to the wooden sword still hanging from his hip. “Don’t worry, brother. If your life is ever in danger, I will protect you.”
“Thank heavens. My weak right hand and I are in your debt.”
“Better ready your sword now,” Rhainn mutters from behind his goblet.
A throat clears behind me. “Senan? A word,” the king clips.
My chair scrapes against the floor when I push back from the table. The rest of the dinner guests fall silent, their eyes darting toward me before returning to their plates of half-eaten dinner and goblets of expensive wine that flows like the River Solace.
So much waste.
And for what? So the king can show all these people that our family is the richest in all the realm? Everyone already knows. Kumulus is the largest of the five kingdoms and sits in the dead center of all the others, giving us easy access to trade from everywhere. There is no need for such petty boasting.
Boris leads me into one of the alcoves lining the far side of the room. The masked servant posted there hurries past to afford us some privacy.
“Are you trying to make me look like a fool? Like I cannot control my own brother?” Boris snarls low enough that only I can hear. His gaze sweeps from my ancient boots that are, admittedly, a little too small, to my unbuttoned collar. “You look like a bloody beggar.” He opens his mouth to say more, but then the minister from Nimbiss decides to join us. I’m so happy for the interruption, I could kiss the man’s balding head.
“Pardon the intrusion, sire,” the minister says, giving me a pointed look down his beak-like nose, “but I was hoping to have a word with Prince Senan before I retire.”
The king gives the man a curt nod. “Of course, Minister Donnell. He is all yours.” Boris throws me a final warning glare before stalking out of the alcove.
I turn and offer the newcomer my undivided attention, even though his beady little brown eyes are quite distracting. “Minister Donnell, it’s a pleasure to meet you.” I stick out my hand, determined to be friendly despite the man’s scowl.
The minister glowers at my hand. “We met when you were in Nimbiss.”
Did we meet in Nimbiss? Surely I’d remember those teeny-tiny eyes. “ Again , I mean. A pleasure to meet you again .”
He doesn’t seem swayed by my lie. No matter. I don’t give a shit what he thinks of me. As a matter of fact, the more he disapproves, the better.
His gaze seems to snag on the jam stain across my ribs. “Are your laundresses on strike, Prince Senan?”
“Not that I’ve heard. Is that what you wished to discuss? Our laundry?”
The man’s wispy eyebrows arch. “Why would I want to discuss your laundry?”
“You tell me. You’re the one who brought it up.”
A deep red flush creeps up Minister Donnell’s jowly jaw. “I have never experienced such insolence. When our princess arrives tomorrow, it would be inadvisable for you to greet her in such a sorry state and with such poor manners.”
“I shall endeavor to remember that, Minister Donald.”
“It’s Donnell.”
“Right. Of course. My apologies. If you’ll excuse me, I’m needed elsewhere.” If the man calls me back, I don’t hear. I’m too busy celebrating tonight’s victory.
One way or another, I will get out of this marriage.
The princess of Nimbiss deserves someone who can care for her, love her even.
I am not that man.
And I’m determined to do whatever it takes to save us both.