Page 11 of Nightingale (The Broken Kingdoms #1)

C astil was quiet, which wasn’t unusual for him since his brother normally kept to himself. But the contemplative, complicated expression he wore was.

Rian swirled the glass of smoky Vengeance around his goblet, watching as the Prince thought over something in fine detail. The scrunch of his nearly-white eyebrows, the purse of his lips, the crinkles above his nose- it all pointed as turmoil. There wasn’t anything else to give him away, no fiddling with his hair, no tracing his thumb with his nail, nothing beyond those minuscule signs.

“Castil,” He took a sip, setting it down on the table before leaning on his forearms. “You look lost. Care to share your headspace with us, or will we play a guessing game in order to figure it out?”

All four of them had gathered for a rare supper, sitting in Brioc’s room, a large table brought up for such an occasion. There was no sign of the King, nor would there be. These clandestine meetings were never brought to his attention, nor would they ever if any of them valued their lives. They might have been brothers, siblings, family, but they had not been raised to act as such.

They were enemies, engaged in a peaceful break until the next fight broke out.

“Am I required to share every single one of my troublesome thoughts?” He quietly retorted, pulling his knee up until his boot braced on the ridge of the carved wooden chair.

“It is when your face is as pinched as it currently is.” Rian tapped three fingers rhythmically on the table, enjoying the tap, tap, tap that his nails made when they hit it.

“I didn’t realise that I was making a face.”

Brioc snorted. “It’s not too far from your regular but there is a slight vexation to it if one knows where to look.”

Castil ran the end of his thumb along his mouth, tracing the skin there. “Should I be honoured that you know my features so well? Or perhaps threatened that you seem to study me most?”

Rian lifted his arms in pretend surrender. There was a snapping tone that wasn’t to be ignored, one that warned of any further pushing. “We’re not interrogating you, brother. Simply curious to know what burdens you so.”

The candles danced around them, casting them all in the burnt glow of jewelled orange and red, and every so often, hints of yellow. Four candelabras had been lit in the large chamber, a square with a connecting rectangle that hosted Brioc’s bed and washroom in another section.

He sat at the head of the table, across from Rian. A trait that they both reflected from their father; they both liked power and they both wanted others to know it. Regulus and Castil took a place on each side, passing glares back and forth like they were weaponised words. A look could wound just as much as tongue and teeth. They were all heavily skilled in different methods of fighting, regardless of which one they used to win.

So long as they won.

Losing wasn’t an option in this house.

Losing meant that one was dead.

Better dead than weak, their father always said.

“I am tired.” He sighed, long hair draping over his shoulder, sliding off of the silk tunic he wore. A doublet of the richest blue, illuminated his gaunt features and turned his silver eyes towards an icy sterling. “Of the war, of the games, of waiting for one of you to try to run your blade through my back when I am not looking.”

“We’re all tired, Cas.” Brioc ran his pointer finger along the rim of his glass, empty. “Of it all. Except for maybe you, Regulus. I think you enjoy your bloodlust.”

Their brother smirked; a cruel and cunning thing. “We have the chance to knock the Greenvasses back into the mud where they belong. Of claiming more lands like it should have always been. I relish each of those sand-coated bitches that I can put down. And you all should do the same if you want a fair chance at the throne.”

“It’s not a fair chance.” Castil snapped, his eyes flying back to Rian. “Not at all.”

He swallowed his gulp of Vengeance, his brother’s anger palpable. It wasn’t a fair chance because there was nothing that any of his siblings could truly do to mark themselves above his own place in the line of succession. Their father had made it clear that he wanted Rian to inherit, not any of the others. And when the King had made his mind up on something, it was impossible to change it.

Fitting a horse through the eye of a needle would be more possible. As well as more enjoyable to attempt.

“That will change,” Regulus argued, mostly for himself. “He favoured Theseus at one point, and now that he’s dead, he’s set his eyes on another prize.”

“Is that your way of telling me that I’m next on your little list, Reg?” He huffed, tossing the rest of his drink back and wincing at the burn that followed. The glass clanged as it hit the table.

They’d all brought their own drinks, just like usual. No one trusted each other, not even for as far as they could throw them which meant that if they wanted to quench their thirst, it was on them to satisfy it. There were too many opportunities to slip a toxin into the liquid- even water if one had the right poison to use, which meant that none of them would drink out of a glass they hadn’t brought.

“Aren’t I on yours?” Regulus asked, crossing one lean leg over the other. His boot bounced back and forth as he shook it. “As I’m sure that Castil and Brioc are on each other’s, and so forth.”

“I don’t have a list.” Castil amended. “For this side, or theirs.”

“I don’t know,” Brioc interrupted before he could go any further. “Every time I see you and the Princess interact, you both look as though you want to tear each other’s throat out with your teeth.”

“He certainly does want to place his teeth near her neck.” Rian didn’t hold the witty remark back, chuckling at how clever it was for those who knew the truth behind it all.

The ice turned to fire.

Blazing and furious, passion ignited in warning as his elder brother shot daggers his way. He ignored it and dragged a hand through his auburn hair.

Regulus chuckled, a sneer taking over. “Just kill her and you can move up the list for the throne and crown. Hell, I might one of these days.”

“If you so much as touch her,” Castil began in a low, threatening voice that had the hair on the back of Rian’s neck standing on end.

“ What will happen?”

“The King doesn’t like his plans being messed with. Do you really think that he’ll enjoy the bloodied head of Vrea Greenvass dropped at his feet when he clearly has current plans for her? Do you think that he would keep her alive, feed and clothe her, if he didn’t already have something in motion? Screw that up and you won’t even be on the list, Regulus because he will have disposed of you himself.”

It came out so fast, so natural that it took him a moment to register the actual threat, valid and whole in his sibling’s warning. Not only would their father kill Regulus for that act of disobedience- which wasn’t tolerated to any degree- but Castil had placed his own threat there, at the start. As well as giving away a seed of his own desperation, but none of the others noticed.

“If he’s got a plan for her, then he should act now. The spoiled brat has been sitting on the shelf, collecting dust for over three years now.” Brioc muttered, clearly uncomfortable with the changed tension in the air as Castil practically steamed from his ears at the male across from him.

Who was smirking like he was the cat that caught and ate the canary.

Well, Nightingale.

At least in this case.

“He’s smarter than playing all his pawns at once. A good leader knows to wait, to be patient and use them to his advantage at the right time. He’s not going to trade her in for nothing, for a small, single victory.” Castil went on, flicking his hair back to tumble down his spine. “He’s going to save her until the climax of it all, when he’s sure that she can bring about the end of the war and a large win for us all.”

“You’re talking about her like she’s the fucking dessert at the end of a meal.” Rian said, “The sweeter the reward, the more filling it will be once we’ve all had our share.”

“Use whatever analogy you want.”

“How much longer do you think he’ll hold out?” Brioc inquired, letting his legs fall from the longer seat that held no back. A cushion was perched and pinned in place, buttons sewn to create a diagonal pattern in the grey fabric. Silver studs had been nailed around the curled armrests, which Brioc was currently leaning against.

“Why should I know?” He ground out, picking at the threads in his cuff. “You think that he trusts me with any of his plans? Let alone some that could win the war? He doesn’t divulge those, not even to his most trusted advisors. The only person that the King trusts, is himself.”

“Then how do you know so much about his mind?” Regulus begged the question.

“Because they’re more alike than any of us will ever be.” Rian answered for him and hurt flashed across Castil’s angular features, a muscle in his jaw feathering. “Their minds work similarly which means that Castil is able to conjure up ideas that our father has already thought of, which could give him an advantage in the end. He might be King over our graves one day. Granted, he’d also be the one to put us there.”

“No,” Castil said quietly. “I will never be King.”

“Why are you so sure about that declaration?” Brioc interrogated, reaching for the wine pitcher that sat off to the side and pouring himself a large helping. “You have just as much of a chance as any of us, other than Rian’s massive advantage of course.”

He sat silently, listening to whatever reasons would pour off of his siblings’ mouths. It wasn’t a hidden fact that their father despised Castil for some unknown reason, but even he wasn’t privy to the understanding behind it. Whatever it was, brewed badly between them. Enough for Castil to despise the man right back, flinching whenever someone compared them. Even if the comparisons made were true.

“Because I will never be good enough for him.” He stated simply enough, as if a fault lie with him and not the King’s standards for heirs. They were impossibly high, whichever son he preferred in mind. It was almost impossible sometimes, but Rian would do whatever it took if it meant ending up on the throne.

“If you’re not good enough for him, then kill the bastard.” Regulus grinned, mimicking the action of stabbing through flesh over and over again, slamming his fist down on the table, loud and hard enough that the plates jumped. Pigeon with parsley and a honey sauce had been served, whipped potatoes with a side of greens that no one touched, but everything else had been wiped clean.

“That’s treason,” Rian warned lightly. “Even if we are allowed to kill each other, killing the current King is another.”

“He killed the other Kings and Queens, and has currently locked his antlers with the last monarch across the warfront.” Castil pointed out, as if that would help the argument. If any sentries walked by and heard even a fraction of what was uttered here, they could all be put down for planned regicide. “We are doing nothing different than he is by imagining his death. You can’t tell me that you’ve never pictured it once or twice before, Rian.”

He had once, when Castil had appeared grimly ill, enough for Rian to suspect ulterior motives by the man who had handed- nay, forced Castil to drink a cup of Vengeance the night prior. But thoughts were one thing. Spoken words passed between brothers could easily become plans, which could lead to bloodshed.

However, if any of them succeeded in killing him, then they could claim the crown left behind and toss away their punishment for murdering the King.

The chances for success were extremely low.

Their father was one of the most clever, well-thought-out men that Rian had ever come across in his life. He wouldn’t let himself be killed by one of his sons.

But if any of them had a chance, it was Castil.