Carver shifted his weight—just enough to draw the man’s eye.
Jamir cringed slightly. “I don’t know whomycontacts are, but . . . I may have deduced the identities of a couple important rebels.”
“Who?” the emperor demanded.
Jamir’s eyes skated over the room once more, his throat bobbing as he swallowed. He took a slow breath, then said, “Rix Varden, chief advisor to the king of Ferradin.”
Amryn stiffened.
Jamir’s attention settled on Carver. “And Berron Vincetti, son of the High General of Craethen.”
Chapter 23
Amryn
“Isitpossibleyouruncle is more involved with the Rising than he led you to believe?” Jayveh asked Amryn. They were out of the prison, but the chill of that holding room had yet to leave them.
“No,” Amryn said firmly. But if she was wrong . . . Saints, she prayed she wasn’t wrong. Her stomach twisted. “I think Jamir was just desperate.” She’d felt that from him, along with fear. With those strong emotions clouding things, it was nearly impossible to determine if he’d been lying. But Rix had never lied to her. “My uncle was sympathetic to the Rising. So was Torin. But their first contact with the rebels was that letter. They never joined the Rising.” They’d only asked her to do so. And Bram, apparently.
Jayveh sighed. “You’re probably right. Carver was adamant that his brother isn’t a rebel.”
And yet, Amryn knew that Carver fully intended to question Berron. Just as her uncle and Torin would be questioned when they arrived in the capital. Her stomach twisted again, more violently than before. Because while she didn’t believe her uncle was a rebel, his longtime bodyguard was.
“Carver Vincetti is a dead man.”
There had been no compromise in Bram’s voice. Nothing but violent anticipation. Even though there was no indication he planned to act immediately on his vow, the threat was still horrifying.
She needed to tell Carver about it. But the moment Jamir’s interrogation had ended, General Morelli had intercepted them, telling Carver that some prison guards were waiting to be questioned.
That was when Amryn had learned Trevill had been murdered.
Her anxiety had spiked, and she knew Carver could read it in her eyes. She’d felt his internal conflict, but duty had won out. He’d given her a brief kiss, guilt cutting into him as he’d drawn back to follow Morelli. He’d sent Ford with her and Jayveh, even though the princess was surrounded by bodyguards. While there hadn’t been another attempt on her life since their first night in the palace, the emperor was taking no chances.
“It seems wrong,” Jayveh said softly, pulling Amryn from her thoughts. “Having a feast tonight, when Argent is still missing.”
Amryn’s heart squeezed with the pressure of her friend’s grief. She reached out, taking Jayveh’s hand. She had no real words of comfort, but her touch did something to soothe the most jagged edges of Jayveh’s devastation and loneliness.
Amryn was dreading the emperor’s dinner tonight. Enduring the many and varied emotions of a crowd made her nervous enough, but the thought of running into Rhone Quinn—the knight who had remained at the palace—made her pulse race. Even if she had an effective way to avoid detection.
The bloodstone around her neck hummed contentedly. Saints, that still unsettled her. Whenever it seemed to react to her thoughts or the words spoken around her, she had to wonder just how aware the amulet was.
She wasn’t sure she wanted to know the answer.
They entered one of the main thoroughfares of the palace. It was an inner courtyard, open to the elements and surrounded by soaring stone columns. A large pool reflected the brilliant cerulean sky above, with bright tiles laid out in intricate patterns across the floor. Scattered pots overflowed with flowers of pink, orange, and scarlet, and larger pots held towering palm trees and other emerald-hued fronds. Stone benches with colorful cushions littered the entire area. It was a vivid oasis in the middle of a bustling palace, the foreign feature yet another thing that made Amryn feel far from home.
Servants, guards, and nobles all crossed the sprawling courtyard, walking its winding paths or purposely striding under the shaded, open-air halls along the perimeter. A few looked at Jayveh and Amryn with open curiosity, but no one approached.
The emotions were a wild tangle inside Amryn’s chest, chaotic and almost painfully contrasting. Some people were furious. Others were locked in personal agonies. Boredom, anxiety, joy, sorrow—Amryn’s skin itched at the overwhelming waves of disparate feelings that washed over her.
Jayveh made a sound low in her throat. “He’s rather . . . intense.”
Amryn glanced up, confused—until she laid eyes on Ivan. He was all but stalking across the inner courtyard, his ice blue eyes trained on her. His footsteps were sure and steady. He wasn’t deviating from his straight course toward them, which forced the crowd to part for him.
Amryn felt a tug of unease from Jayveh. “He’s become quite fixated on you, hasn’t he?” the princess murmured.
Amryn suspected Ford had managed to hear the words when he felt a sudden stab of annoyance, edged with protectiveness. Intuition whispered it wasn’t for her, as much as for Carver.
She sighed. She directed her words at Jayveh, but they were for Ford as well. “We’re friends, that’s all. He’s still grateful to me for helping him on Zawri.”
