Chapter Thirty-One Zephyr Devar
Chapter Thirty-One
Zephyr Devar
The drive back to Marnapur felt twice as long as usual.
Zeyar simmered in silence. He’d known the moment he set out to strike a deal with Montrose that neither Hasan nor their ma would approve of his plan, but he hadn’t expected them to hatch their own plot behind his back, either.
He should have known better. Hasan had always had vigilante tendencies, delusions of heroism that likely stemmed from some sort of warped guilt over what they did for a living.
Their mother, on the other hand, had always been superstitious.
The moment Poppy had revealed she was daivyakt, it had changed everything.
But Zeyar knew best, and he would prove it—right after he cleared up this latest misunderstanding.
The Montrose family butler showed Zeyar into Captain Montrose’s study. “Captain Montrose will be with you shortly.”
Zeyar sat on one of the chairs, tracing an idle finger over the ornately carved handrest. Though he’d been to Montrose Manor several times now, the sheer mass of their generational wealth never failed to gut him.
The Montrose line had always been wealthy, but their fortune had ballooned over the last two centuries through investments in tea and cotton exports.
He jumped up as Richard entered the room. He walked over to the side table, pouring a finger of Welkish whiskey for each of them. He handed one glass to Zeyar. “I appreciate your assistance in retrieving my fiancée, Zephyr.”
“I am glad we could come to an understanding.” Zeyar bowed his head to hide the annoyance on his face. “And it’s Zeyar, Captain. Not Zephyr.”
“Why are you here?” Richard asked.
He held up the key. “For my brother, Captain, as we agreed. I arrived at the destination you gave me, but he wasn’t inside.”
Richard sipped his whiskey, clicking his tongue once. “Actually, if you recall, our deal hinged on the peaceful return of my fiancée,” he said. “When your brother attacked us, you forfeited that.”
“He wasn’t meant to be in the village.” Zeyar gritted his teeth, his temper flaring as Montrose reminded him of Hasan’s hypocrisy.
Hasan had acted without the consent of the family, too, but somehow, it was he who had been cast out of the group.
He forced himself to take a swallow of the whiskey, the sharp burn bringing him back to the conversation.
“Besides, he barely did any damage before I subdued him.”
Montrose tilted his glass. “A deal’s a deal.”
His nonchalance reminded Zeyar of a dealer in a gambling den, sweeping the chips away from the poor fool who had put them all in the center of the table, betting recklessly. He had seen similar scenes on countless occasions, but for the first time, he was the one crushed by the loss.
He clenched his teeth even tighter, swallowing hard as bile rose in his throat. “My brother was never inside that second location, was he?”
Montrose leaned forward, dropping his voice. “May I speak honestly with you?”
Zeyar knew from experience that this phrase was often the harbinger of bullshit, but he nodded anyway.
“I cannot let the smuggler go yet. In a couple of months, Poppy will go on trial, and he will be a key witness.”
“I understand that things are sensitive right now,” Zeyar said slowly, “but to wait a couple of months? Captain, you assured me that I could bring him home tonight.”
“Plans change.” Montrose examined one shirt cuff. “The best I can do is promise not to have him moved to a high-security prison. So long as he agrees to testify against her, of course.”
“He will,” Zeyar said. “But—”
“Is there a problem?” Richard locked eyes with him. “Remember, to join the House of Representatives, you need to be sponsored by one of the lords on the Council—and last I checked, my father is the only offer you have.”
He hesitated, still seething at Richard’s duplicity. As if I have any other choice. “No, Captain.”
Richard beamed, pouring him another ounce of whiskey. “Excellent. I knew I could count on you, Zephyr.”
He smiled painfully. “It’s Zeyar, Captain.”
“Zeyar,” Richard drawled, butchering the pronunciation.
“When my father formally sponsors you as representative, do you want him to stumble over your name? People in the House will whisper to each other, trying to figure out what he said, and then you’ve lost your chance to make an impression right out of the gate.
Your lack of status and legitimate wealth already alienate you from the other representatives.
This can’t be helped, but a name is easily replaced.
You can either be flexible, and give them a strong, Welkish name that they will remember, or you can continue to be Zeyar. Who are you going to be?”
He balked. As the first-born, his grandfather, Manoj Devar, had been the one to name him.
He’d chosen Zeyar for the second-last maharaja of Viryana, a powerful man who had brought the country to its peak.
You will be a great man, a leader just like the maharaja, his grandfather had prophesied.
Zeyar fought the urge to bite his cheek.
Great leaders made sacrifices. That was another one of his grandfather’s maxims. This is a sacrifice, he told himself. He would understand.
“Zephyr,” he said. “But I’m keeping my last name. That, I won’t budge on.” He wouldn’t relinquish his grandfather’s last name, not after the promise he had made to him.
“Suit yourself,” Richard said. “If there’s nothing else you need?”
Zeyar knew a dismissal when he saw one. “That’s all, Captain.” He bowed his head. “If it’s acceptable, I’ll take my leave.”
He walked back to his car, his hand hovering over the handle.
Normally, he’d have gone to the apartment that he shared with his brothers.
But now that they were estranged, whom did that space belong to?
He had a key, and just as much right to the property as the other two, but the thought of returning to that place didn’t sit right.
No. He could go home when he proved the others wrong.
He could go home once he’d achieved what he’d set out to achieve: winning back his brother and securing a place of power for his kin in the House of Representatives.
He’d spend tonight in a room somewhere. Tomorrow, he’d start looking for a new place for himself.
As he unpacked his bags in the sparsely furnished inn, it occurred to him that he was alone—truly alone.
Paranjay was still incarcerated, he’d broken Ma’s heart, and his only free brother had disowned him.
And Harithi . . . Zeyar wasn’t sure what she would make of his actions when Hasan told her, but he knew she would react with the same indifferent countenance that she usually wore.
He wondered if she would pardon him eventually, or if what he’d done was unforgivable to her as well.
He shook his head. Her forgiveness didn’t matter.
Hasan, their mother, Harithi—they didn’t understand.
None of them did. Their life of crime would not protect them, though the money had insulated them as much as possible.
The only viable move was to join respectable Welkish society.
The only other person who’d even come close to understanding had been his grandfather, who had spent most of his last days bemoaning the way he was to go: quietly, without the royal fanfare he believed he was due.
“We are daivyakt! We can trace our ancestry back to the Rais,” he’d raved to Zeyar in one of his final, feverish fits.
“The Welks, they’ve stripped this country of its agency.
Our forefathers would weep to see it as it is .
. . to see me as I am. Don’t let them strip us of what little dignity we have left.
Promise me, boy: You will not let this family fall any lower. ”
“I promise,” Zeyar had vowed, clutching his grandfather’s hand until he stilled at last.
As he curled up on the hard mattress, he took comfort in the fact that he was one step closer to fulfilling the promise he’d made to his grandfather. It didn’t matter if his family did not want his help—he would still use his new position to uplift their name.