Page 17 of A Court of Truth and Thorns (Royal Scout #2)

KALI

W il spins around, whistling at the painted walls and carefully arranged furniture.

As with the other rooms in River Manor, the style is lighter than the heavy chairs and velvet curtains of the Delta palace.

The tall arched windows that bathe the room in bright sunlight also let in a cool draft.

At least there is a fireplace—even if it’s blazing up such a storm that, unlike every other place in the manor, the furious flames manage to make the room too warm.

I almost miss the slight movement at the far end of the room.

My back stiffens, my eyes surveying the furniture anew.

Wil takes a step toward me, his brows knitted in question.

I shake my head and put my finger to my lips.

Stepping slowly as to keep the floor from creaking, I move along the bookcases lining the wall.

Stars, what I wouldn’t give to have my knives back. The magic rumbles inside my chest.

Another breath of movement and a gentle whine of the floorboards.

One person. Large. Standing in the small, blind space formed between the end of the bookshelf and the wall with the windows.

My hand closes around a metal letter opener that I palm from a shelf.

I pause, take a breath, spin around the bookcase—

And stop cold. “Why in the bloody hells are you hiding here?”

Rune flicks a brow at the letter opener in my fist. He is no longer wearing a uniform but is dressed in the Everett colors nonetheless, with forest-green pants and a heavy black coat that looks absurd in the warm room. “I am hardly hiding. It’s the only decent piece of wall to lean against.”

His eyes brush my silhouette, making me all too aware of the curves the dress accents perfectly.

I want to ask how his meeting with his parents went. I want him to ask after me. I cross my arms over my chest. “Don’t let me intrude upon your resting spot, Your Highness. I’d hate for the boring business of Dansil’s survival to be a bother.”

“Kali—” Wil starts to say, but I hold up my hand.

Something about Rune’s appearance bothers me.

Something I can’t quite put my finger on, like an itch deep between the shoulder blades.

Perhaps it’s his damn coat, or the too-rigid stance, or the look in his eye that is so void of emotion, even I cannot see beyond the mask.

“What do you know?” I ask. “Has Owain made a decision already, without even hearing Wil out?”

“I do not know,” Rune says evenly. The muscles beneath his clothes are coiled hard, even beyond the usual solidness that I remember excruciatingly well.

“You are his son. You’ve spent hours with him, and a week talking with his general and riding with his troops.

You know something. ” I let my arms drop, my voice doing the same.

“I understand that you are the prince of Everett, Rune. I understand that you can’t or won’t have me in your life. Whether it’s been a game all along—”

“Kal—”

I put up a hand, not letting him speak. Not yet.

The words are too difficult to be voicing twice.

“Or whether circumstances just changed,” I continue, “it doesn’t matter.

I don’t matter. What matters is that you’ve spent years protecting King Firehorn and his son, spent years smuggling whisperers from Bahir’s grasp.

You’ve put both your life and honor on the line.

For the sake of all that effort, give us something to work with.

Tell us what Owain is thinking, how we can best speak to him.

” My jaw clenches at Rune’s silence, my blood simmering.

“You know the importance of this meeting to us. Is helping us prepare for it so against Everett’s best interests that you will not dare risk it? ”

Rune’s eyes flash. He tips his head down toward me, his perfect face and dark eyes a storm.

“I don’t know my father’s mind about Dansil.

” He enunciates each word as one might to someone hard of hearing or simple of mind, and then he strides forward several steps, gaining a moment to nod his hello to Wil before the doors to the sitting room swing open again.

We all turn.

As silly as it is, my first thought upon seeing King Owain and Queen Maria up close is how much Rune takes after his parents.

Owain and Rune are of a height, and the prince’s jawbone is cut the same way as his father’s.

Queen Maria is plainly responsible for Rune’s high cheekbones and Raza’s ethereal beauty.

Maria’s eyes, a dazzling shade of emerald, echo in the pale green dress that flows behind her like the wings of a butterfly.

Tall and lithe, she seems almost fragile next to Owain’s steel eyes and Rune’s deadly grace.

Owain halts a few steps into the room, far enough to force us all to come to him.

Rune is the last to move, but when he does, he strides all the way forward and drops to one knee before his father.

I think of Lord Gapral, who wielded formality as a tool.

Or a weapon. Neither good nor bad, just tactical.

Wil throws me a glance, as if asking my opinion on how to best greet the royal.

My gut tells me the glance is a mistake. Any sign of weakness is. Despite having all the power of Everett behind him, Owain has come to play hard. He’ll exploit any possible advantage, even over a young prince finding his stride in a royal visit.

Then again, we’ve come as beggars. Perhaps it little matters after all.

Wil finally settles on a bow. I curtsy, staying with my skirts spread until the queen bids me to rise. Rune receives no such courtesy.

Wil clears his throat. “Thank you for granting me an audience on such... short notice hardly seems the right phrase.” His boyish voice strives for gravity but surrenders to its casual cadence within a few words. He sticks his hands in his pockets.

“Shall we sit?” Owain says darkly, an ill-hidden attempt to minimize Wil’s further assault on protocol.

Wil nods, steps back toward the sofa without looking, and trips on the carpet. Catching himself on the sofa’s armrest, he controls his descent enough to land his backside on the seat instead of the floor. I let out a very slow breath.

“My condolences for the loss of your father, Prince William,” King Owain says finally, apparently determined to battle impotence with formality.

“How might I be of service to his son?” Wil waits until Maria and I have found our seats.

When Rune stays kneeling, his black coat glistening in sunlit patches, Wil frowns questioningly at him.

“Prince William,” Owain enunciates sharply, “how might I be of service to the Dansil throne?”

Wil’s attention snaps back to King Owain, and he raises his chin. A surge of energy rattles through me. This is it, the reason we’ve come, the last hope for Dansil. For Leaf.

Wil swallows. “Before my father’s death, he and Envoy Jajack negotiated a peace agreement between our kingdoms. The official surrender of Sylthia lands to Everett and a peacekeeping force from your kingdom to support Dansil’s throne. I come asking you for those troops.”

Such plain, simple words. My breath stills as our future hangs silent in air crackling with judgment.

Wil’s hand grips his knee, his knuckles bloodless.

My lungs burn. The tick-tock of a clock’s pendulum is the only sign that time still moves.

Slow. Heavy. Laden with the life and death of a kingdom.

Finally, slowly, King Owain tilts his head to the side. “I believe the situation in Dansil has somewhat altered since those negotiations took place.”

My stomach sinks.

Wil’s eyes dart to me, his head shaking in denial of the words, begging me to have heard something that he did not.

King Owain begins to rise.

“Yes, Your Majesty, it has changed.” I hear my own voice before I make the decision to use it.

I lean forward, my elbows digging into my thighs.

Not a lady, but a scout. A very good scout.

One determined to fight until the bitter end.

“It’s become worse for us all. Especially for Everett.

Because the one poisonous dagger that the Dansil war has held against your kingdom’s side—the terror mongers of Viva Sylthia—is now a country-backed, fully stocked force. ”

A tiny flinch of surprise flashes in Owain’s dark eyes. He sits back down.

I press the assault. “Dansil has posed no true threat to Everett for years, Your Majesty. It was Viva Sylthia’s attacks that destroyed the living-crystal mines Everett had built up in Sylthia.

The mines that Everett could competently protect are long dry, and the moderate-risk ones have crystals enough for perhaps a year.

Likely less, given Everett’s gluttony for living crystals.

That , sir, is why you entered the ceasefire talks to begin with.

” I pause, meeting his eyes. “Bishop Bahir is the leader of Viva Sylthia. Is that who you want on the Dansil throne?”

Owain cocks a brow. “Fighting words, Lady Kalianna. But how am I to believe them? What evidence have you that the Goddess-loving Bishop is, in fact, the mastermind behind Viva’s terror?”

“You have the evidence of my observations. I imagine my background as a scout is a poorly kept secret by now.” I straighten my spine, my heart pounding, blood coursing fire through my veins.

My ears ring with the music of war. “Additionally, our two young whisperers were Bahir’s prisoners, and Questioner Calvin has interrogated a member of Bishop Bahir’s scarlet guard—they can all offer their testimonies of the facts.

Finally, there is the word of your own son, the prince of Everett, who has spent the past two years spying on the Dansil throne. Ask him.”

Those last words spark a flash of pleasure in Owain’s eyes. As if the trap he set had finally sprung. My chest tightens.

“Ah, yes, the boy.” Owain looks over at Rune, who’s still kneeling on the floor. “Lady Kalianna seems to believe you have something to say. Get up, then; take off that stifling coat and join the conversation.”

Rune’s face rises, his eyes blazing. “No.”

“I insist.” Owain’s voice sends a shiver down my spine. “I’ll have the fire stoked if you are cold. Unless you prefer that I—”

Rune comes smoothly to his feet and begins to work the buttons.

Owain nods in pleased approval. Rune’s dark eyes belie nothing, but the shine of dull fabric catches my attention again.

Rune isn’t cold; he’s sweating. I can’t help but draw a breath, curious as to whether Rune’s familiar musky scent will cross the several paces of air between us.

A stupid, odd curiosity in the middle of such a meeting. I look away quickly.

The scent does reach me. Not musk and sweat, but copper. My head snaps back to where Rune is folding his coat neatly over his arm. The back of his white linen shirt drips with bright red blood.