Chapter 20 Carver
Carver
Carver ducked, narrowly avoiding the blade that spun in Morelli’s hand.
Sweat rolled down his back as he pivoted, booted heel scraping against the lightly sanded surface of the training ring. The late morning sun beat down on them, the slight breeze doing nothing to cool the flush on his face. Still, he tossed Morelli a grin. “You’re getting better.”
The older man grunted, breathing hard as he rolled the practice sword in his grip. “I nearly took your head off. Admit it—marriage has made you soft, just like it did to your father.”
Carver snorted. “My father hasn’t gone soft.”
“Have you seen the weight he’s put on? It’s all those fine meals your mother cooks.”
Carver raised his practice sword and pointed it at Morelli’s belly, which noticeably overlapped his belt. “You’ve spent the same number of years eating my mother’s cooking.”
Morelli once had an estate in Westmont, but he’d sold it years ago because he never used it. Whenever he left the capital and came home for a visit, he always stayed at the Vincetti manor—which meant Carver’s mother had been feeding Morelli for decades.
The man’s eyes narrowed. “Remind me why I agreed to spar with you at the crack of dawn?”
Carver’s lips twitched. “You haven’t had your coffee yet, have you?”
“No,” Morelli growled. “Because you dragged me out here to watch the bloody sunrise.”
“You told me you wanted to spar.”
“I meant at a reasonable time, like the late afternoon.” He muttered a curse. “Your father’s always chipper in the mornings, too. It’s unnatural.”
“If you didn’t stay out so late, maybe the mornings wouldn’t be so hard for you.”
Morelli scoffed. “I like my life, thank you.”
“The seedy taverns, endless women, and reckless gambling?” he asked skeptically.
“That’s the one.” Morelli jabbed a finger at him. “Judge all you’d like, but my habits keep me young and in touch with the city.”
Carver leaned forward, peering carefully at Morelli’s hair. “I think you have more gray hairs than my father—”
Morelli lunged.
Carver parried the blow before launching his own attack.
Saints, it felt good to spar. The familiar motions engaged muscles that needed to be stretched, and it eased some of the restlessness that hummed beneath his skin.
Spending time with Amryn last night had helped, but the moment he’d seen her pocket the bloodstone that morning, his tension had returned.
He hated that the bloodstone had become a necessary evil.
He hated that she had to hide who she was.
His conversation with Rhone still burned in his mind, even after he’d shared the details with Amryn. She had never heard of the Acolytes, but the trepidation in her eyes mirrored his own. Still, they had enough concerns without adopting more, so Carver was content to ignore them.
The dulled practice blades clanged as they hit again and again.
The other training rings around them were also occupied by sparring men, filling this corner of the palace grounds with the rhythmic sounds of training.
It was a comforting place for Carver, since he’d spent countless hours just like this.
As he and Morelli fought, Carver couldn’t help but notice that—even if his honorary uncle was aging—the barrel-chested man was still strong.
Morelli’s movements were agile and perfectly controlled.
He and Cregon were the same age, and both men remained formidable opponents.
Carver had been sparring with them his entire life, and even though he’d improved over the years, they still provided a challenge.
Their blades caught and slid, steel ringing as they spun away.
Sweat beaded Morelli’s brow. “Amryn seems lovely,” he said, breathing a little harder than before.
“I’ll have to prepare some embarrassing childhood stories to share with her.
” He flashed a grin when Carver groaned.
But as he took a step back and lowered his sword, a rare seriousness entered Morelli’s gaze.
“I’m happy for you, Carver. You deserve it. ”
The look was one Carver had gotten often since coming back from Harvari. A mix of concern and pity. His hands tightened around the hilt of his sword, the edge of his ring biting into his skin. Invictus.
“It suits you.”
Amryn’s words flitted through his mind, feeling just as wrong now as they had last night. He’d worn the ring with pride when his father had first given it to him. Now, the word pressing against his skin felt more like a condemnation.
Unconquered? Hardly. He’d failed Argent in Esperance. In many ways, he was failing Amryn, too. She had to rely on that accursed bloodstone to keep her safe; a dangerous object they didn’t understand, and that he’d promised Felinus he’d keep hidden. Then there was Harvari.
He’d grown adept at ignoring those particular demons.
He’d managed to shove them back during the light of day, convincing everyone around him that he was fine.
The dark memories had only tormented him in the dead of night, where he alone could grapple with them.
But the guilt he carried for failing to protect Argent had dragged up all his past failures, unearthing scars he’d done his best to forget.
Morelli’s sword slammed into Carver’s side.
He stumbled, pain streaking deep.
Morelli cursed as he yanked his sword back. “I thought you’d block it.”
“Sorry,” Carver bit out, a hand pressing against his aching ribs. “Distracted.”
Morelli shoved back the hair that had fallen over his brow, breathing hard as he said, “Did I break anything?”
“No.” But he’d have a nasty bruise.
“Thank all the Saints,” Morelli muttered. “Your mother would kill me if I broke you.”
Carver shot him a thin smile. “She’d probably just stop feeding you.”
Morelli swore. “A fate worse than death.”
They both drew back, ending the sparring session by silent mutual agreement.
Carver snatched up the shirt he’d discarded earlier and tugged it on before leaving the training ring.
They returned their practice swords to the nearby racks and drank deeply from the water left out for the training soldiers.
“You know what this means?” Morelli asked. At Carver’s questioning look, the older man said, “You really are going soft.”
Carver huffed—then winced as the rough exhale exacerbated the stinging ache along his ribs. “No,” he argued. “It just means my father was right: distractions have no place in a fight.”
Morelli’s lips twitched. “Let’s not tell him he was right. His ego’s big enough.”
They began making their way back to the palace, winding along a smooth stone path.
“Your father mentioned you were looking into the assassination attempt on Princess Jayveh,” Morelli said. “Any leads so far?”
“Not really.” After speaking with Trevill, Carver was quite certain the man hadn’t been responsible for the attack.
But he didn’t have much else to go on. He didn’t have the list from Hector yet, of those who had known about the Chosen coming to Zagrev.
And while there was a potential motivation for Chancellor Morav to want Jayveh dead, since she was the emperor’s senior advisor, Carver didn’t feel like it was very likely.
Not when the woman had served the emperor so faithfully for years.
If Trevill had an accomplice, it was possible they were responsible.
While Trevill had denied having an ally—or of being guilty in the first place—Carver still thought it likely.
Certainly more likely than Trevill’s claims that he’d been framed.
Regardless, he should look into the names Trevill had given him.
Chancellor Janson, who was looking into the sonne trade, and Chancellor Kulver, who Carver knew nothing about.
Carver glanced at Morelli. “Do you know Chancellor Kulver?”
Morelli frowned faintly. “Yes. He’s the newest addition to the emperor’s advisory staff—appointed about a year ago.
He’s probably about your age, which makes him the youngest chancellor as well.
He’s from Vadir originally. Educated in Wendahl.
” He shrugged. “I mostly hear the gossip about him. He’s rumored to have had romantic entanglements with several women of the court.
” He lifted one brow. “Married women, mostly.”
Distaste twisted Carver’s mouth. “He’s not very principled, then.”
“At least not when it comes to respecting the sanctity of marriage vows,” Morelli said wryly.
They entered the palace through a side door, leaving the bright daylight behind.
The shadowed corridor was empty; not unusual, considering it wasn’t a public thoroughfare.
This section of the palace housed offices and meeting rooms for the military as well as the palace guard.
This hallway was also used to take prisoners to and from the prison, which was located at the end of the hall.
“Kulver’s not a total reprobate, though,” Morelli said, their boots clipping against the stone floor.
“He’s intelligent, ambitious, and can be quite charming.
He’s quickly gained favor among the other chancellors, which isn’t an easy feat.
I’m sure he’ll be at the emperor’s feast tonight, so you can—”
Pounding footsteps sounded at the far end of the corridor. Loud voices clamored, and someone barked a harsh order.
Carver and Morelli shared a look. The commotion was coming from the prison entrance.
They jogged forward together, and by the time they reached the single door that led to the imperial dungeon, a small crowd of guards had gathered.
“What’s going on?” Morelli demanded.
The senior guard turned, relief bursting across his pale face. “General Morelli. General Vincetti.” He offered a delayed salute, his throat bobbing as he swallowed. “Chancellor Trevill was just found dead in his cell.”