Chapter 52
Carver
Carver wasn’t surprised when a search of the room proved there were no assassins lying in wait, but he couldn’t shrug off the tension that had coiled in his shoulders.
Ivan had been attacked in the gardens during an early morning run. Apparently, it was a routine he’d taken up shortly after they’d arrived in Zagrev. Two assassins had ambushed him in one of the more isolated corners of the garden.
They may have outnumbered Ivan, but they had certainly underestimated him.
“He killed the first attacker and planned to capture the second so we could question him,” Cregon explained, his expression grim. “But the assassin managed to slice open Ivan’s arm. The moment dizziness hit, he knew the blade must have been poisoned.”
Amryn sucked in a breath.
“He’s all right,” Cregon reassured her. “He had just enough time to . . . persuade the assassin to tell him the name of the poison before he killed the man. Thankfully, it was a well-known poison, and the physicians had the antidote on hand. He’s recovering in his room now.
” His lips pressed into a thin line. “I heard about the attack the moment I arrived at the palace. I ran here to make sure you and Amryn were safe, and I sent others to check on the other Chosen.”
A precaution, but one that needed to be taken. Carver’s skin itched beneath the shirt he’d tugged on. “If we’re right,” he said, “and these assassins are being hired by the Brotherhood, we need to take them down. Now.”
Cregon’s brow furrowed. “Hector isn’t going to be happy. He still doesn’t know who the leader is.”
“We can’t risk waiting any longer,” Carver insisted.
He had always seen the emperor’s security as impenetrable, but since their arrival Jayveh had been targeted twice, and he and Amryn had been attacked in their room.
Now, Ivan had nearly lost his life. Not to mention Trevill had been murdered.
The palace wasn’t proving to be a very secure place, and he was sick of it.
“If you can’t arrest the leader of the Brotherhood, won’t the attacks just continue?” Amryn asked. She was sitting on the edge of the bed, wrapped in a robe. The only sign of her nerves was the way she picked at an errant thread in the cuff of the sleeve.
“She’s right,” Cregon murmured.
Carver gripped the back of his neck, irritation spiking.
“We can’t just do nothing.” The danger was too real.
He’d been lulled into a sense of security because it had been so long since the strike against him and Amryn, but the attack against Ivan proved that whoever wanted the Chosen dead was still actively working to kill them.
And the use of a poisoned weapon was certainly an escalated threat.
He suddenly frowned.
“What?” his father asked.
“Why haven’t the assassins been using poison all along?” Carver asked.
Amryn’s eyebrows drew together, but it was his father who murmured, “It would have been easier for them.”
Carver nodded. Assassins favored poison for that very reason.
Not only could poison help ensure the job got done, but it could also be administered in such a way that the assassin could be long gone before the target even died.
Which raised the question: why hadn’t the assassins tried to slip poison into their food or drink?
With the Chosen often eating meals in their private rooms, targeting them would have been easy—especially since the assassins obviously knew not only their locations, but their routines.
The strike on Ivan proved that. But instead of taking the easier path, these assassins were striking in the most violent ways possible.
There was only one explanation Carver could think of.
He met his father’s stare. “The assassins were ordered not to use poison. Our deaths were supposed to be violent.” Because it made a stronger statement?
Or was it a sign there might be more to this than a strictly political motivation? Was this somehow personal?
Regardless, the strategy had just changed, because the assassins had used poisoned blades on Ivan. An escalation? Or a sign of growing desperation?
He met his father’s gaze. “We need to arrest every member of the Brotherhood that Hector has identified. Maybe one of them will be able to tell us who their leader is.”
“It’s a gamble.” Cregon released a slow breath. “I’ll send a message to Morelli. We’ll meet with Hector and discuss the best plan.”
Carver hated the plan.
Hector had pleaded for more time. The ball was only two weeks away, and he was confident Kulver could discover the identity of the Brotherhood’s leader in that time.
Morelli and Cregon had been convinced.
Carver was not.
Chancellor Kulver—who had unfortunately been at the meeting—had been as irritating as ever. “I still haven’t heard anything that makes me believe the Brotherhood is even targeting the Chosen.” He arched one brow at Carver. “Maybe you should be following other leads, General.”
He hated that Kulver had a point. Which probably explained his darkened mood as he made his way toward Chancellor Janson’s office.
He didn’t truly think Janson was interested in killing the Chosen—frankly, the chancellor seemed wholly dedicated to ending the sonne trade, to the exclusion of all else.
But Trevill had named him, and he was on the list of people the emperor had told about the Chosen’s early departure from Esperance.
That made Janson one of Carver’s last real leads to explore.
He would have much preferred to spend the day in his room with his wife. But Amryn had gone to visit Ivan, so it wasn’t as if she’d be there right now anyway.
Carver was still grappling with his sour mood when he turned a corner and nearly ran into Berron.
His brother flinched back with a curse. “Watch where you’re going,” he snapped.
The harshness in his brother’s reaction only increased his own annoyance—until he realized he’d approached on Berron’s blind side.
Carver forced himself to take a breath. Made his fingers unclench. “Sorry, Berron.”
His brother ground his teeth. The glare he managed to achieve with only one eye was actually quite impressive.
Carver tried to remember the last time he’d seen Berron. Right after the attack on Market Square, maybe. He knew his brother had sought Amryn out afterwards. He’d been worried about her.
Knowing Amryn would want him to be kind to Berron made it a little easier to ask, “Where are you headed?”
“To meet Janson.”
Not really a surprise, since Berron rarely left his room for anything else.
“I can walk with you,” Carver said. “I need to speak with him.”
Berron grunted and started walking down the corridor.
Carver decided to take that as an invitation. He lengthened his stride so he could catch up, shifting to walk on Berron’s good side.
Berron side-eyed him. “I heard you yelling last night.”
Carver immediately tensed.
“And I know you and Amryn fought after Market Square.”
“We weren’t fighting last night.” He wasn’t about to admit he’d had a nightmare.
Berron snorted. “Will Amryn tell me the same, if I ask her?”
Despite his resolve to be courteous, Carver’s voice darkened. “You think I would hurt her?”
“I think you have hurt her. If I find out that hurt was ever physical, I will break the hand you raised against her.”
The words drew Carver to a halt. He had no idea when Berron had become so protective of Amryn, but he supposed he shouldn’t be surprised. His wife’s kindness had the ability to win over anyone.
Clearly.
Berron had twisted to face him, his brows pulled together. It made the skin around his eyepatch draw tight.
Meeting Berron’s dagger-like gaze, Carver said, “I would never raise a hand against my wife. I’d . . .” His words trailed off when he remembered who he was speaking to. Heat touched his cheeks.
Berron slowly raised an eyebrow. “You’d what?” He lifted his stump. “Sooner cut it off?”
Carver refused to flinch under his brother’s stare. “Yes.”
Berron offered a slow, dark smile. “I’d do it for you, brother mine. I have experience with such things, after all.”
Shaking his head—though that did nothing to shake off the unease Berron so easily inspired inside him—Carver resumed walking. He half-hoped Berron wouldn’t fall into step beside him.
But of course, he did. “I’m surprised you left Amryn’s side,” Berron said. “Especially with assassins trying to kill the Sibeten prince this morning.”
“You heard about that?”
“I’m half-blind, not deaf.” Berron’s head tilted to the side. “Are you ever going to find whoever is trying to kill you all?”
His fingernails dug into his palms. “That’s what I’m trying to do.”
“You’re failing,” Berron stated.
“I’m aware,” he bit out.
“Who do you think it is?”
“We have a list of suspects.”
Silence. Then, “Am I one of them? You do so love to accuse me, after all.”
Irritation climbed, entering his voice. “No. I don’t think it’s you. And I already told you, I never thought you were a member of the Rising. I—”
“Just had to investigate, like a good little general,” his brother drawled. “So you said. Who are you throwing accusations at now?” He abruptly stopped walking. “Wait. You think it’s Janson?”
Carver turned to face him, not confirming or denying.
Berron’s jaw worked as he ground his teeth. “Why on the Scorched Plains would you think Janson is trying to kill the Chosen?”
Carver folded his arms, bracing them across his chest as he said, “Trevill named him before he died. He said Janson was jealous of him, and he wanted the position in Esperance.”
“Saints, Carver, do you always take to heart the desperate words of traitors? Or are Janson and I just lucky?”
“We have little to go on,” Carver said, his voice low and hard. “What else are we supposed to do but follow any lead we have, no matter how unlikely?”