15. Basten
Chapter 15
Basten
“ F ight back,” a voice warns, “and it’ll be a knife across your throat.”
After dragging me across half of Old Coros, my attackers slam me into a chair and wrench my hands behind my back to secure with ropes. The oil-soaked, padded sack they’ve thrown over my head assaults my senses until my throat burns and my eyes water. I can’t pick up on a single fucking smell beyond it. Can’t see a damn thing. Can’t hear much, either.
I shift in the chair as much as I can to try to pick up on clues—feeling with my boots for what type of floor is beneath me, rubbing my elbows on the armrests to detect the chair’s style. Carved grooves would mean my abductors are wealthy, unsanded wood would mean bandits.
One of the attackers brushes against my left leg, and I use the opportunity to jam my knee straight up into his groin.
A muffled curse reaches my ears, and I smile darkly to myself before he smacks the back of my head .
With a sudden tug, the sack is pulled off my head.
“Fucking hell, Wolf!” the man behind me says. “I might want children one day!”
At first, the sting of light crashes over me. My senses are drowning, too many sights and sounds all at once. I’m in a house. Wait—scratch that. What was a house. The walls are covered in soot, and half the furniture is charred. The whole place reeks of smoke so gods-damn badly that I can barely pick up on the old scents of fresh-baked bread, rosewater, mint tea—what remains of a family that once lived here.
“Folke. You bastard .” I recognize his voice instantly and whip my head around, trying to see my so-called friend over my shoulder. “What the fuck is this?”
Folke moves to the front of the chair, cupping his balls with one hand as his face contorts with pain. He adjusts himself as he paces in front of the house’s burned-out hearth. “You’re a hard man to get alone. We had to jump you while you were away from the castle. Sorry about the sack. And the ropes. We knew you’d start swinging at the first shadow.”
I lean forward as much as I can, my hair falling into my eyes as I try to process that my best friend doesn’t seem to have kidnapped me for some hair-brained ransom attempt.
“You couldn’t have sent a fucking messenger ?”
“Not for this.”
He adjusts his bruised balls once more as the second man comes around from the back of the chair. Before I lay eyes on him, my senses are already gathering information. The soft clink of a chainmail sash. A trace of cologne. Footsteps that move with grace.
“Kendan Valvere.” I lean back in the chair, narrowing my eyes as he steps into my line of sight. Rian’s eldest brother has made an attempt at a disguise, dressed in a brown woolen cloak like Folke’s, but his flawless skin, unmarred by malnutrition or pox, immediately clocks him as a nobleman. “You’re behind this—this—what the hell is this, anyway?”
Kendan turns to Folke with a frown. “You’re certain it’s safe to free him?”
Folke pats the front of his pants. “He already did his damage.”
Kendan reluctantly draws a knife and frees my bound arms. As the rope falls away, I massage my wrists, pausing over my left wrist guard. But they don’t comment on the bandages.
“This,” Folke announces to the burned-out husk of a house, “is a meeting that could get all three of us put in a nice deep grave.”
A groan travels up the length of my throat. Fantastic . Exactly what I need right now, on top of a fae stealing my memories, dreams of a woman who haunts me each night, and a fancy new title that means I have to bathe regularly.
“Well?” I bark. “I’m waiting.”
Folke looks to Kendan, who sweeps back his cloak so he can sit on a bench opposite me. His hazel-green eyes gleam. They’re so like Rian’s—and yet that is really the only similarity between them.
The cut of Kendan’s jaw makes me feel as though I’m looking in a mirror, at a version of myself in a different life. A pampered life. A well-fed life. Kendan’s hair is lighter than mine, his eyes hazel-green to my brown ones, but the resemblance between us as brothers is undeniable.
“Forgive the unorthodox greeting, Lord Basten.” Kendan drags a hand over his square chin as though he, too, notes our resemblance. “I asked Folke to arrange this meeting on behalf of a small group of powerful individuals who bear deep concerns about the kingdom’s future. Above all, given your news that Immortal Iyre is awake and the Third Return has begun.”
“You’re afraid of the fae?” I ask. “Good. You should be.”
He smooths his hands together. “Not just the fae, but leadership in this kingdom that will have to go up against them. My brother is, shall we say, untested. That’s the kindest word I can use in his favor; I assure you my associates use far viler words. If Rian is anything like our father, then he will only use his position as king to negotiate with the fae to further his own aims and bring ruin to the Astagnonian people.”
Ah—so this is what’s really going on. Kendan Valvere fancies himself a savior of the realm.
I want to snort in his face, but I begrudgingly have to consider the sizeable risks he’s taking by questioning his brother’s rule. He could be executed if caught.
I tip my face toward Folke. “And you agree with this?”
“I’m here, aren’t I?” Folke holds out his hands.
“Rian suspects you’re plotting against him.” I watch carefully to see Kendan’s reaction.
He shrugs, unbothered. “He’s a Valvere. Everyone’s plotting against him.”
I rake my hair back. “Well, I can’t argue against that. Lady Runa already suggested I murder Rian and marry her.”
“Funny. She made me the same offer—except involving your death.” Kendan leans closer, tenting his hands. “Lord Basten, I know the truth about your parentage. You are my full brother. You have Valvere blood in your veins. Which is a curse in itself—yet you were not raised in Lord Berolt’s household. You were not taught to scheme and betray. For that reason, my associates and I have questioned whether you might be the superior ruler for this kingdom.”
Oh, fuck.
“This isn’t about putting you on the throne?” I bark.
“No.” Kendan tips a long finger in my direction. “It’s about putting you on it.”
Treason? They’re proposing gods-damn treason?
I whip my head around the burned-out house, looking for an old fire poker I can stab myself with. Because a quick death now would be vastly preferable to a lifetime in the dungeon.
Folke adds, “Of course, Rian won’t give up the throne willingly. Even if we publicly reveal your true claim, there will be months of disputes. The only way forward is for Rian to suffer an…accident.”
My blood goes cold.
Murder on top of treason would get a man flayed within an inch of his life, then drawn and quartered by plow horses, his ripped-apart body displayed on the four sides of the city walls.
I stare at Folke incredulously. “This is treason.”
Kendan takes a deep breath. “Lord Basten— brother —the fact that you even care is why it is you who deserves the throne. Precisely because you do not want it. You do not see it as a path for your own enrichment. You do not enjoy political games. The political machine of greed and power hasn’t ruined you.”
I shoot him a stone-cold glare, but it’s hiding a strange fire stoking to life in my chest. My throat bobs, but it does nothing to douse the feeling that maybe Kendan is onto something that I haven’t wanted to admit.
By right, the throne should be mine—and by letting another man sit upon it, am I shirking my responsibility? This kingdom is filled with so many boys like me, raised in the streets. Girls made to prostitute themselves or marry into misery. Am I turning my back on my former self, knowing I could have improved life for me?
Or am I unwavering in my loyalty?
I clear my throat and lean forward. “Listen closely.”
Both men lean in.
I adjust my position in the chair, the wood groaning under my weight. Sweat drips from my brow, painting lines through the grime in my face.
In enunciated words, I say, “You were wrong before. Not everyone is plotting against Rian. I’m not. I don’t give a fuck whose blood is in my veins. I made an oath. I swore to give up the throne to Rian, and my word matters.” I shove to my feet, fists braced. “If you think I’m going to betray the man I owe everything to?—”
“He sold her out.” Kendan cuts me off sharply, eyes flashing.
A chill spreads through the room as I narrow my eyes. “What did you say?”
Silence slides between the three of us, the tension flowing as thick as water. Folke murmurs something under his breath as he digs around among a half-burned cabinet and pulls out an intact bottle of whiskey.
“At least let him have a drink first.” Folke uncorks the bottle with his teeth and slides it to me across the table.
My body tense, I pick up the bottle and sniff. When I verify it isn’t poison, I down half the bottle in one long glug before slamming it back down. “Now, let’s try again. What the hell did you say?”
Kendan smooths a hand over his chainmail sash, holding my gaze. “You made a deal with the Lord of Liars. Are you surprised he lied?”
“What do you mean ?” I shove my empty chair over, tired of dancing around the point.
“One of my spies saw Rian meeting with a captain in King Rachillon’s army.” Kendan slowly slides the whiskey bottle to his side of the table. “Rian made a deal with Rachillon. And his bargaining chip was Lady Sabine Darrow’s location.”
I cock my head, not certain I can trust my ears. Maybe I breathed in so much lamp oil that my senses are confused. A bitter taste slides backward up my throat, and as my breathing grows quicker, I lean over and spit, “That’s a fucking lie.”
“Think about it.” Kendan digs in his breast pocket as he drops his voice. “How else did King Rachillon know exactly where to send Immortal Iyre? Lord Basten, I have proof.” He draws out a folded letter. “My spy recovered the letter that Rian sent by messenger crow to?—”
I swipe the letter out of his hand, crumpling it before hurling it to the floor. “This is just another Valvere plot! Folke, you aren’t seriously falling for this, are you?”
Folke swirls the whiskey bottle. “Read the letter, Wolf.”
My feet are antsy. I can’t stop pacing. My muscles twitch, begging for a fight. But there’s a small, suspicious part of me. I drop down to pick up the letter.
It’s dark, so my night vision switches on, the world going to shades of gray.
My hands begin to shake as I read. My archer’s hands, which do not shake even if a wolf is bearing down upon me.
The handwriting is the same that I’ve seen for nearly twenty years. It used to be the High Lord’s signature. Now, it’s the King’s.
And it breaks me.
It breaks me into a million shards, all of which crash to the floor like the half-full whiskey bottle that I turn and hurl against the wall.
It breaks me until I’m nothing but ash?—
—ash and anger .