Page 20

The very thought of food made me gag, and so I simply bathed as quickly as possible, dressed in a simple black tunic and trousers, and added a heavy silver chain that bore the falcon emblem of my house. Hopefully its austere ducal authority would be a good distraction from my puffy eyelids and pale cheeks.

While I went through all the little motions of becoming presentable, every moment I’d spent with Tavius as a child crowded into my mind in unstoppable succession: his red-faced, doubled-over laughter when the string of my bow had snapped me on the nose, and his proprietary pride when it turned out that arrow had struck the very center of the target despite that. He’d been the one to explain to me, awkwardly but thoroughly, what it meant that I didn’t have the same interest in girls that he did. And he’d roared with more laughter when I described my first even more awkward encounter with another lad. That had been a few months after I’d done the deed, when Tavius and I were both seventeen.

He’d laughed until I blushed and threw things at him, and then he’d patted me on the shoulder and told me he had no doubt I’d left the fellow lovesick, and that I’d have better luck next time. There had also been his ten-minute tangent telling me how well he’d fucked the woman he’d lain with first, but he’d had me laughing with him, anyway.

And then he’d decided that getting his due in the eyes of the world mattered more than any of it. Taking what he should have had from our father, who hadn’t loved or trusted him enough to tell him the truth, meant everything to him. Enjoying what he already had with a brother who’d loved and trusted him all his life meant nothing.

The suffocating weight of my loss and his betrayal rested so heavily on my chest I could hardly breathe.

And then it occurred to me with startling, terrifying force that Tavius might also have lied about the potion’s ultimate effects, and that it might be killing Benedict after all. He should have been here by now. He always managed to be ready long before me through some combination of clever magic and a soldier’s efficiency.

I burst out of my rooms, wild-eyed and almost frantic—and I found him in the corridor, leaning against the wall with his thumbs hooked in his sword belt, in a posture that suggested he’d been there for a while.

He looked up from his frowning contemplation of the floor as I stopped abruptly and blew out a long, shaky breath of relief.

Aside from his own slight pallor, no one would’ve known what he’d endured this evening. His plain black doublet and trousers and his soldier’s cloak were all perfectly neat, and he’d replaced the sword I’d made him leave behind in the gatehouse earlier.

The one he’d stuck through Tavius’s guts. Probably the same one he’d been wearing when he killed my father.

No wonder he didn’t think he’d be welcome in my bedroom and had chosen to wait in the hall.

But his distance hurt nearly as much as everything else. The effort of remaining upright and lordly might prove too much for my fortitude, and who else did I have to support me?

He’d killed two of my closest relatives. I had to remember that, and I certainly shouldn’t forgive it. That would be wrong, wouldn’t it?

Even though he’d done it to save my life, at least in part. Hadn’t he? To keep himself off the throne at any cost , whispered the part of my mind that had been trained for years to suspect everyone in general and Benedict in particular.

His broad chest still looked like the precise place to nestle into as I suffered another bout of tears.

Benedict’s eyes met mine. The sympathy and grief and unhappiness in their gray depths didn’t help in the slightest with my effort to be practical and efficient.

“We’ll speak to Clothurn first and get it over with,” I said, in lieu of attempting to express the impossible. “Venet can question the others for now. Hopefully we can get it over with quickly, at least for tonight. I could sleep for a week.”

I began to walk down the corridor, and Benedict fell into step beside me. How did he do that, with those incredibly long legs? He must’ve been modifying his stride for me every single time we walked together.

He’d murdered my father and then abandoned me, and lied about it for years. Tavius had bled out on his sword.

I swallowed hard, but the lump didn’t go anywhere, damn it.

“He mentioned, I mean, Tavius,” and my voice cracked a little, “said something about having another plan. For that potion. Another mage. Make sure Venet asks if they know anything about that.”

“Very well,” Benedict said quietly. I waited. That was all.

He didn’t speak another word to me as we collected the guards waiting at the end of the corridor and made our way to the cells behind the barracks, where Venet had taken the prisoners. There were real dungeons under the palace, but I’d had them mostly in disuse since my father died. He dropped back, quietly explaining Venet’s instructions to him, and then joined me again as a guard unlocked Clothurn’s cell and bowed us in.

Clothurn stood from the rough wooden bench bolted to the wall, quickly brushing dirt off of his breeches and tossing his hair back, though it accomplished precisely nothing. Blood and splinters and dirt streaked him from head to toe, his hair matted and one of his gilt shoe buckles missing, the satin shoe and silk stocking all torn to reveal his bare, filthy foot.

“Benedict,” he said, widening his eyes and clasping his hands in front of him. “Benedict, look what they’ve done to me! And, ah, thank the gods you’re all right,” he added, an obvious afterthought.

Oh, how fucking dare he. If Benedict responded to this blatant, manipulative act, I’d kill them both.

“No thanks to you,” I said, barely restraining myself from snarling. “You have five seconds to begin explaining how and why you spied on me for Lord Tavius. If you’re forthcoming I might not mount your head on a spike over the gates tomorrow morning.”

“Oh!” Clothurn gasped. “Your Grace, your cruelty is—Benedict, will you not intercede for me?”

He took a step forward, raising his hands as if to plead with Benedict, and Benedict moved in front of me so quickly that my step forward ended in my nose flattened against his back.

“You conspired to murder your duke,” Benedict said, with no apparent sense of irony, and I’d never heard that flat, deadly tone in his voice before. He’d certainly never spoken to me that way. “If you come within arm’s reach of him again, I’ll put your head on that spike myself. Sit down, hands in sight, and fucking talk.”

Another, “Oh!” followed by a soft thump and rustle, suggested Clothurn had sat down rather abruptly.

Not that I could see, because Benedict might as well have been a brick wall in front of me. “Move,” I hissed, and shoved at him.

Gods, this was undignified. Finally he took one step to the side, allowing me to come around and stand next to him again in the small cell. Clothurn had retaken his seat, and he’d gone pale as milk, ashen around the mouth and eyes. When I glanced up at Benedict, I could see why. His eyes blazed pure fury.

Well, who could blame him after the way Clothurn had taken him to bed, pretended to be besotted with him, and then plotted to turn him into a magical slave?

Although…Benedict hadn’t mentioned that, had he? Only Clothurn’s willingness to watch Tavius drag me away and murder me so long as he got what he wanted. He didn’t seem angry at all on his own account.

The world around me went still and silent, and I stared up at him, mouth open, feeling as if a bolt of lightning had struck all the way through me and down to the ground.

Had anything he’d done been on his own account? Anything at all? Or had it all been…gods, for me ?

If he’d wanted to stay off the Calatrian throne at any cost, he could simply have disappeared. Ridden away one day, concealing any trace of his route with magic, and gone wherever the hell he pleased—precisely as he had done, in fact, when he’d left almost three years ago.

Except that he’d run the incredible risk of killing my father first. Which had, now that I really thought about it, offered him no benefit at all.

He’d had no other reason to do it than protecting me, and a lot of reasons not to—such as the fact that no magic, no skill with a sword, would’ve been enough to save him from the headsman if he’d been caught.

Protecting me.

Three years ago, and now, and with or without any of the “payment” he’d demanded. Certainly without any appreciation from me.

His task had been quite literally thankless.

Gods damn it, Lucian, you’re begging me to do what I want more than anything in this world or the next .

It couldn’t be.

A heavy scrape of metal on metal jolted me back to the world around me—just one of the guards opening the door to another cell across the way, probably for Captain Venet to go and question one of Tavius’s men.

My fists had clenched, my breath coming too quickly, and Benedict was peering down at me, his brow furrowed.

“Are you even listening to me?” Clothurn demanded.

Benedict didn’t even glance at him. “Lucian, are you well?”

I blinked, forced myself to take a deep breath, and said, “Perfectly fine.” My voice sounded odd even to me.

Turning back to Clothurn took an extraordinary effort of will. I didn’t give a damn about his story now. I wanted to get Benedict alone with a fervor that felt like an unreachable itch under my skin right between my shoulder blades. How could I not have seen the truth?

Possibly the truth. I might be seeing what I wanted to see, but…my heart pounded in a skittery, heavy rhythm, and I needed to know .

Benedict told Clothurn to go on, and he began his story again.

“Lord Tavius and I met when we were both staying with a mutual friend in the fall,” Clothurn said, in a tone of sulky terror. Of Benedict, no doubt, not of me, but I’d take what I could get. “He asked me to correspond with him, because he told me he liked to know how things went on at court but didn’t have the time to visit often.” Clothurn shrugged, his shoulders slumping down after in total defeat. “I didn’t see any harm in being on good terms with the duke’s cousin.”

Gods. I forced myself to focus for a moment, to make sure I wasn’t missing anything important. When had Fabian told Tavius the truth about his parentage? Before that meeting with Clothurn, I guessed, and Tavius had been on the lookout for someone to keep him informed. If Benedict hadn’t killed him, maybe I’d have been able to know for certain.

Of course, if Benedict hadn’t killed him, then I’d have had to execute him myself—which would’ve destroyed me.

Fuck, but I really needed to talk to Benedict. Alone, now, uninterrupted.

“He didn’t tell me he meant to depose the duke,” Clothurn whined, and his throat bobbed as he swallowed convulsively. “All I knew was that he’d come to court and needed my help. He told me Benedict would come back to me if I helped him! I swear to you, I thought of nothing but you, because when you left me for Duke Lucian—”

“Enough excuses,” I snapped, and Clothurn subsided into a satisfyingly watery-eyed silence. At least I could be a little bit intimidating. My harshness owed its strength to my sudden nausea. If I had to listen to Clothurn go on about his supposed romantic feelings for Benedict, I’d throw up all over the cell.

Besides, Tavius had been angry that his correspondent, Clothurn, hadn’t mentioned Fabian’s death. But that would’ve been front and center in his letter if Clothurn had known about Tavius’s plans. If Clothurn did have anything else of use trapped in that stupidly pretty traitorous head of his, Captain Venet could bloody well get it out of him.

I’d done my duty here. When the rest of the council asked why Clothurn had been arrested and if he’d been given my personal attention, as was his right given his rank and position, I’d be able to honestly tell them he had.

“You committed treason,” I told Clothurn, taking a petty pleasure in seeing tears welling up in his eyes. Maybe these ones were real. I could hope. He deserved to be miserable. “You colluded in an assault on your duke and on a fellow councilor, and you’ll probably lose your head for it. Concentrate on appealing to my mercy rather than on trying to justify yourself.”

I turned to Benedict, completely done with Clothurn and everything about him. He’d started making noise again, half complaining and half pleading, but I let him fade into the background. Benedict had turned too, and our eyes met again instantly. His magic tugged at me, a connection that snapped into place the moment our gazes held—but…it wasn’t that different from before.

Every time I’d ever looked into his eyes I’d felt it. Even the very first moment we’d met.

Benedict. It was Benedict, and not his magic.

Gods, I needed him alone.

“I’ve had enough,” I said, voice rough with emotion I couldn’t suppress. “We can go.”

“As you wish,” Benedict replied, and he ushered me out of the cell without favoring Clothurn with so much as another glance.

Clothurn’s voice rose to more of a yell, and one of the guards cursed at him and slammed the door in his face. Good.

Captain Venet came out of the cell across from us and bowed. “Your Grace, they’re talking freely.” He lowered his voice and added, “I think they’re hoping to be spared the gallows if they do. I must admit I let them think as much. And they’ve hinted at a plot Lord Tavius had to abduct someone from Surbino—I think it might be worth your while to promise them their lives, so that I can extract every bit of what they know. There’s always torture, of course, but—”

My stomach churned. “No,” I said, with my utmost ducal firmness.

Venet raised his eyebrows. “My apologies for mentioning it, Your Grace,” he said. “It’s not my favorite way of eliciting confessions, myself.”

“I’m glad to hear it. Very well. Give my word that I’ll spare them, and bring me a full report in the morning, unless you learn anything so urgent that it requires our immediate attention.” I glanced up at Benedict. “Do you have any instructions to add?”

“Carry on, Captain Venet,” Benedict said. “And if anyone else asks for a report, such as any other court official, don’t tell them anything. Come directly to me.”

I ought to have thought of that. Once Zettine caught word of this he’d give me no peace. I nodded at Venet as if it’d been my idea, and he bowed and returned to his interrogation.

With two guards falling in behind us, Benedict and I retraced our steps. It had begun raining again, a steady, gentle patter on the courtyard paving stones outside the barracks. We walked around the perimeter and reentered the palace through the same door Tavius had used when he arrived…gods, earlier that day.

Well, yesterday, I supposed. Midnight had come and gone a while back. The temple bells had chimed their pattern as we went to question Clothurn.

But still—less than one full day. A wave of dizziness hit me. I blinked and walked on, carefully putting one foot in front of the other. Benedict took my arm and tucked my hand into his elbow. Had I swayed? How had he even noticed? Had he always been so observant of everything about me?

Yes. He had. And I’d either been entirely unobservant in my turn, or I’d attributed it to some kind of malice.

When had Benedict ever done anything worse to me than tease me, needle me, flaunt his handsome face and his powerful body and his many lovers? If he’d meant his behavior to bother me, then that implied he wanted my attention. And if he hadn’t…well, that simply meant he’d had it, whether he wanted it or not.

“You need to eat something, Lucian,” Benedict said, so quietly that even our guards probably couldn’t hear. “And you need to sleep. I’ll leave you alone when we’re back at your rooms, I promise. Don’t pull away from me, though. I’m afraid you’ll slip.”

A perfectly healthy man of twenty-eight could probably be counted on to walk across a marble floor in very slightly damp shoes without mishap, and a few weeks ago, or even a day ago, I might have snapped at him to that effect.

It sounded very different to me tonight. Seeing someone you cared for in danger could make even a small threat loom large until the effects of the shock wore off.

Benedict had nearly been forced to watch Tavius murder me a few hours ago. Two weeks ago, he’d thought I’d missed being poisoned by the tiniest chance. And he’d spent the time in between constantly on his guard.

The danger had passed, but not in his mind. Not yet. He’d probably try not to allow me out of my rooms for a while, and I’d need to put my foot down. But not tonight.

I couldn’t answer him. A thousand questions and demands and speculations bubbled up in my chest, nearly irrepressible, and if I opened my mouth they’d all come spilling out.

By the time we reached my rooms, I was biting my lips to keep them in. I led the way into my sitting room and let go of his arm to walk over toward the fireplace, turning to face him once I heard him shut the door.

He stood next to it, frowning, his hand still on the knob. “I give you my word I’ll go as soon as I’ve made sure you—”

“You’re not going anywhere,” I said. And he wasn’t. Not until he told me the whole truth. My conclusion, the most logical conclusion, still felt so impossible after years of distance and what I’d assumed had been mutual dislike. I needed to hear him say it—or deny it. My heart pounded so violently I almost couldn’t speak. “You killed my father because he’d turned against me and wanted to make you his heir. But you could’ve simply left. Why did you kill him instead? You’re not leaving this room until you tell me why.”