“You know that no one would blame you for being upset. He was your brother. We get that.” I met his gaze, just long enough to notice again how much the color of his eyes resembled melted chocolate, with little flecks of gold in the morning light. That was something none of the other men would ever notice.
I clenched my jaw, keeping my expression severe. “I told you, I’m fine.” I crossed my arms, taking a wide stance.
“Okay.” He held up his hands. “Then do you still want to spar this morning?”
“Of course.” I nodded curtly as I exited the room.
“I’ll go make sure everything is ready,” he said.
I lifted one hand to acknowledge him without looking back. Prince Damian didn’t like to be kept waiting. And I was too vulnerable to be standing alone in my room with Rylan right then — Marcel’s death had made me feel all too much like a girl again.
Squaring my shoulders, I took a deep breath, and opened the door to the outer room of Prince Damian’s chambers.
“There he is,” Nolen grumbled. “Alex, get over here before —”
“Alex!” I recognized the bellow from the inner room, Damian’s bedroom. The prince was on the verge of having another temper tantrum. I’d already endured one yesterday, when he demanded to know why Marcel and I hadn’t come to report Iker’s response to him as he’d commanded us. It was hard to believe that had been less than twenty-four hours ago.
“His Highness is rather unhappy this morning.” Nolen pursed his thin lips together. He was a small man, an inch shorter than me, with scrawny limbs that seemed too long for his body. He almost made me look burly.
“I gathered that.” I grimaced.
“Alex!”
“You’d better go. Good luck.” Nolen sat back down at the desk where he went through all of the prince’s correspondences, picking out only the most urgent and important missives with which to bother His Royal Highness.
I stood as tall as I could possibly lift my five-foot-ten-inch frame and marched into Damian’s room.
“Finally.” The prince stood by his window, watching me enter. Thick, velvet curtains the color of blood framed the enormous glass panes. His room was luxuriously appointed, full of furs, velvet, silk, and every other expensive fabric known to man. An enormous four-poster bed dominated the far side of the room, but he stood near his mahogany desk today. He was tall, with broad shoulders and a narrow waist. Even though his posture was perfect, he somehow exuded an air of indolence. His dark hair was perfectly pomaded into the current fashion, swooping back from his broad forehead, emphasizing his aquiline nose — his father’s nose. But his olive skin was a gift from his Blevonese mother.
Sometimes it seemed like those with the most rotten interiors were blessed with the most exquisite exteriors.
“Your Highness.” I pressed my fist to my heart and bowed to him.
“Yes, yes, get up already.” The entitled boredom of his voice grated on my nerves. He seemed to think it created loyalty to him, to act like the niceties of court were a nuisance, but in reality, it was one more thing that annoyed me. He knew I had to bow, to posture to his demands and acquiesce to his every whim — even though, at twenty-three, he was only six years older than me. To pretend like it was all for show, and one he didn’t enjoy, was ludicrous. I’d seen the gloating expression on his noble face too many times to believe that he didn’t relish everyone’s subservience.
I stood up straight again, at attention. The one thing I disliked most was when he looked at me as he was right then, his blue eyes cold and calculating. His lashes were dark, and the corners of his eyes tilted slightly, giving him an exotic look. But his irises were such a clear, crystal blue, it was a shock the first time I’d met him. For all of his whining and tantrums and other spoiled behavior, there was true intelligence and cunning in his eyes. Usually hidden, but sometimes, as was the case now, the sharpness of his gaze cut me through. There was a part of me that wondered what he really thought. What did he see when he looked at me as he was now?
I’d had years of practice at hiding emotion, of staying calm under pressure. Even the unwavering eyes of the prince couldn’t shake me. Not visibly anyway. But no amount of control could keep my pulse from quickening.
“I hear there was a death during last night’s pursuit.” Prince Damian tilted his head.
“Yes, Your Highness.”
“One of my personal guard?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Someone important to you, Alex?” He lifted a hand, examined his perfectly trimmed nails. Hands that had never seen work, never gripped a sword or loosed an arrow. He had the perfect build for fighting, tall and lean, but it was wasted on him.
“My brother, sir.” I clenched my jaw, looking down at the ground in an effort to maintain my composure.
“Your twin, if I recall?”
“Yes, sir.” Was he trying to drive the pain deeper? “The attackers were all taken down, Your Highness.” Keeping my voice low had become second nature to me, but I always had to work harder to make it sound natural when I was under stress.
“Very good.” He paused. “Always duty first with you, right, Alex?”
“Sir?” I couldn’t keep myself from glancing at him briefly. He looked up from his hand at the same time, so that our gazes met. There was something in the depths of his eyes, an echo of my own grief — an unexpected empathy — that made my breath catch in my throat. The intensity of his gaze — this wasn’t the way a prince looked at just another member of his guard.
“I had a brother, too,” he said, his eyes never leaving mine, his voice strangely soft. A flash of unmasked pain crossed his face. “I kept a stiff upper lip when he died as well. I’m … I’m impressed with your dedication to me and my safety.”
“It’s my duty, Your Highness.” My voice came out unsteadily and I hurriedly clamped my jaw shut. In the year since I’d won a position on his guard, I’d never heard him speak of his brother. His unexpected admission brought my own grief far too close to the surface. It took all of my willpower to force the emotion back down, to keep control.
Prince Damian watched my battle silently. “Alex.” He took a halting step toward me. “Must you always pretend — even with me?”
Despite all my training, I could feel the shock on my face, the sudden fear, and he froze with his hand partially outstretched to me. My heart pounded so loudly in my ears, I wondered how he couldn’t hear it as well. What did he mean? There was no way he knew my secret — it wasn’t possible. Was it? Panic made my throat constrict. He had to be referring to trying to hide my grief about Marcel’s death. That was all. I had to remain calm. Breathe. In and out.
With a sudden shake of his head, Prince Damian waved his hand in the air and in the space of a heartbeat, his normal, apathetic expression slid back into place. “Well, as you said, it is your duty to attend to my safety. I’m fortunate indeed to have such a dedicated soldier in my guard.” He paused and the knot of terror in my chest slowly ebbed away. He wasn’t going to accuse me of being a girl — I wasn’t going to be thrown into the breeding house. Prince Damian raised one eyebrow. “However” — his normal, condescending tone of voice returned as well — “I really wish you hadn’t killed the attackers. They could have proven informative. Next time, just maim them.”
My blood pulsed hot through my veins as I forced myself to give him a curt nod. The strange conversation, the look he’d given me, they had to have been because of Marcel’s death. I had no idea what had just happened — had it even been real? The prince showing empathy, acting like he cared? Maybe it had been a grief-induced hallucination. For one brief moment, I’d wondered if he might be playing a part, too. It had never occurred to me that he might be as trapped as I was. The thought sent a shiver down my spine. I couldn’t afford to entertain ridiculous thoughts like that. Not about him.
“Nolen.” Prince Damian suddenly raised his voice.
“You called, Your Highness?” Nolen appeared at the door with
in moments, holding a parchment in his right hand.
“I am afraid these attackers’ failed efforts won’t be the last attempt to break in to the palace. We must be more vigilant than ever. The next few weeks are crucial to the war on King Osgand’s kingdom. Apparently, there have been some recent victories I was unaware of, turning the tide of the war in our favor.” His lip curled in irritation. I wondered who had finally delivered the news to him. It hadn’t been me. “Blevonese assassins will most likely be trying harder than ever to breach the palace. If people must work double shifts, so be it. Alex, let the captain know I expect at least half of my personal guard to be alert at all times, even at night. Is that understood?”
“As you wish, Your Highness.” I bowed again.
“That is all. You may go.” He turned to the window, dismissing us both.
I stalked out of the room, seething at his insinuation that we weren’t doing enough. That he was in some sort of danger. Mad at myself for thinking that maybe there was more to him than an arrogant, spoiled prince seeking attention, digging for reactions. I hoped Rylan had our sparring equipment set to go, because I was ready to fight.
SWEAT DRIPPED BETWEEN my shoulder blades and ran beneath the binding on my chest. The air was heavy, sticky with humidity; the sun’s glare was nearly unbearable. My lungs ached, but I ignored the pain, the heat, the burn of calluses on my hands as I swung my sword to parry Rylan’s attempts to strike me. It was too easy to let myself remember that I’d been sparring with Marcel two days ago, in this same ring.
Rylan had left himself unprotected on the right side. I struck out hard and fast. My wooden blade hit him in the ribs with a dull thud, knocking him to the ground. If it had been a real sword, he would have been dead.
A light round of applause greeted my victory.
“Remind me never to spar with Alex when he’s upset,” I heard Asher say.
“No kidding. I try to avoid sparring with him when he’s happy,” Jude commented back.
I stood over Rylan, my chest heaving, loosely holding the sword. Extending my free hand, I helped him back up. “Good fight.”
“Not from my end,” he grumbled, rubbing his chest.
Swiping at the sweat on my brow, I whirled to face the others, who stood outside the ring, watching. “Anyone else?”
Jerrod, Kai, and Antonio were on duty, guarding the prince. That left Deron, Jude, and Asher. They all shook their heads.
“You need to take a break, Alex. And we all need lunch,” Deron said.
“I’m not that hungry, but you go ahead. I’ll catch up.” I gestured for them to go.
Jude, Asher, and Rylan left, but Deron hung back.
“What is it?” I recognized the pensive look on his face.
“You know how upset we all are about losing Marcel.”
I remained silent, my jaw clenched. I didn’t want to talk about it, but he was my captain.
He shifted his weight and looked down at me. “It’s just that we have to fill his position soon. We can’t afford to be down one man.”
“You think I’m not aware of that? Can’t I have at least one day to grieve the loss of my brother before we pretend like he never existed?”
“That’s not what I meant, and you know it.” Deron’s voice held a note of warning.
I lifted my practice sword back up and slashed it through the air. “Either stay to spar or go away.”
Deron’s dark eyes narrowed at me. “Losing your brother was a horrible blow, but that doesn’t give you an excuse to take it out on the other members of the guard. Watch your tone with me and try not to hit your sparring partners so hard.”
I clamped my teeth together, ignoring the uncomfortable squirm of guilt in my stomach.
“I will give you the day to grieve Marcel. But I must post notices that the competition to fill his position will take place tomorrow afternoon.” Deron paused, and his expression softened. “You know how sorry we all are.”
Deron turned without another word and walked away.
Even though my muscles burned with exhaustion, I forced myself to lift the sword and work through my forms one more time. Thrust, jab, parry, spin, and attack. The reason I was the best was because I was relentless with my training. That, and if Marcel was to be believed, I had been blessed with a gift. I’d always teased him, saying that was just his excuse for why I always beat him.
But the villagers had believed him. The fact that we were half Blevonese didn’t make us many friends once the war started. I’d heard whispers that we were enemy-lovers. But I didn’t love Blevon — I just loved my family. It didn’t matter to me where my parents were born. After a Blevonese sorcerer took them away from me, though, any love I had for my heritage had turned to hatred as strong as anyone else’s.
The memories flooded up as I spun through the ring, lunging, crouching, fighting a whole horde of imaginary foes and ghosts of my past. I thought of the night when I was five and overheard my parents talking about the king and his war. We lived close to the border between Antion, King Hector’s kingdom, and Blevon, King Osgand’s, and the threat of attack was always likely. Papa began teaching Marcel how to fight, and I asked if I could watch. I studied them, memorized the moves. Watching Papa spar thrilled me in a way I couldn’t understand at that age. I only knew I had to do it, too — I had to learn to move like that, to spin and twist and lunge, to make my sword become an extension of my body. Beautiful and deadly, the most intoxicating dance I’d ever seen.
When I turned six, I asked if I could join them. Mama protested, but Papa thought it was just for fun. He was amused by my interest — at first. I held back for the first few months, nervous that they would be mad if I was any good.
Now, as I continued through my practice, the ghosts of my family seemed to surround me. I imagined sparring with Papa while Mama watched us, her expression hooded. I never knew if she was proud of how good I became or ashamed.
Papa had called me his zhànshì nánwū. Though I’d begged him to tell me what it meant, he never did. It was the language of Blevon, not Antion. His parents had been from Blevon; they’d moved to Antion when there was still peace between our nations. Before Hector came with his Dansiian army and won control of Antion, making himself king. Before he tore apart the alliance that had once existed between the two nations by declaring war after the queen’s death. I didn’t dare ask anyone else what zhànshì nánwū meant. Having ties to Blevon wasn’t a good thing in Antion — especially not inside King Hector’s palace.
I licked my lips and tasted the salt of my own sweat and tears. I hoped that if anyone still watched me, the extra moisture on my face would be indistinguishable from the perspiration dripping down my neck. My muscles were on fire, my whole body cried out from the exertion, but it wasn’t enough to drive the pain from my heart.
I’d just grabbed a towel and wiped down my face when there was a shout from across the courtyard.
“Alex! Come, quick!”
I turned to see Asher running toward me. The sunlight shining on his red hair gave the illusion of his head being on fire. I picked up my real sword, shoving it into the scabbard hooked around my waist.
“What is it?”
He stopped halfway to where I stood, my hand instinctively going to the hilt of my sword again. “The guard has been summoned immediately. There’s been an attempt on the prince’s life.”
PRINCE DAMIAN’S CHAMBERS were in an uproar when I rounded the corner and rushed through the door, sword drawn and ready — just in case.
“Alex, go assist Nolen. Asher, come over here,” Deron shouted the moment I rushed through the door.
The entire guard stood around the outer room, swords drawn. There were also some of King Hector’s men standing near Prince Damian’s door — which was shut. I hurried across the room to where Nolen stood behind his desk.
Asher had filled me in on the way back, telling me that the would-be assassin had been a girl masquerading as a maid delivering the luncheon serv
ice to Prince Damian’s rooms. It was unusual that he had been in his room for lunch. He usually joined his father and the rest of court for luncheon and dinner. When the girl had pushed the cart into his room, she’d drawn a knife from her waist and lunged at the prince. Antonio had stopped her in time and supposedly she was now being detained for questioning before being executed.
“Where is the prince?” I asked when I was close enough to speak quietly to Nolen.
“In his room. It was quite a shock to him, I’m sure. He’s not used to women attempting to murder him.” Perspiration dotted Nolen’s forehead, which he wiped with an already limp handkerchief. It looked like Nolen was suffering from quite a bit of shock himself.
“Where is the girl now?”
“Over there.” Nolen pointed to the other side of the room, and I realized the king’s men were not hovering near the door, as I first thought, but surrounding a chair just to the side of it.
Nolen continued to chatter in my ear, but I stopped listening the moment one of the largest men shifted his weight, moving aside so I had a clear view of the would-be assassin. She was tied to the chair and gagged. But when our eyes met across the room, hers widened.
“Asheshka!”
She struggled in the chair, trying to speak around the gag. Panic burned hot in my veins. What was Tanoori doing here? When had she left our village and become an assassin?
“Why hasn’t someone taken her to the dungeons yet?” I yelled over her attempts to speak my name. “Remove her from the prince’s rooms immediately! Keep her tied up and gagged.”
The other guards looked to Deron. His dark eyes met mine questioningly, but then he nodded. “Do as Alex says. One of us will be down to interrogate her as soon as possible. No one else speaks to her until then, is that understood?”