“And you’ll curb your tongue?”
“Yes, Auntie.”
Saam glared at him. “Think about what it would do to Zarrah if something happened to you. It would destroy her, especially given that your last conversation was an argument.”
“Low blow.”
Saam didn’t bother responding, and Keris allowed his friend’s comment to drag him into a memory of his last conversation with Zarrah before he’d left for Ithicana. An argument fueled by an attempted assassination in the streets of Pyrinat, with only Daria’s sharp eyes saving him from an arrow in the back. He hadn’t told Zarrah—he didn’t want to add to the strain she endured trying to erase the stain Petra had left upon Valcotta—but the Devil’s Island crew were ever loyal to their empress.
“You can’t be out wandering the streets in this city,” Zarrah had shouted. “It’s not safe in Pyrinat. Not for you.”
Logically, Keris had known she was right, but he’d lashed out anyway. “I’m not staying locked in your palace, if that’s what you’re suggesting. I’ll lose my fucking mind.”
“You think I’m not losingmyfucking mind?” Tears flooded down his wife’s cheeks. “You know the risks, yet you can’t find enough patience in your soul to sit still until tempers ease. Every time I’m out of your presence, I live in fear that Daria will arrive to tell me you’ve been shot. Or stabbed. Or had your throat slit in someback alley because you just had to venture into a seedy winehouse to play cards with people who have a generational animosity to your name.”
He’d turned his back on her, irrationally angry. “You think I wouldn’t change my name if I could? That I wouldn’t purge every marker of the Veliant legacy from my face, if such a thing were possible? What would you have me do, Zarrah? Cut out my goddamned eyes?”
Silence had stretched between them, and in that silence, Keris had felt sick because Zarrah was the last person he wanted to argue with.
“Do you want to walk away from this?”
A knife to the gut would have hurt less. “Pardon?” In two strides, he’d closed the distance between them. “I’d rather be dead than—”
“I don’t mean me, I meanthis.” She gestured around the ornate room. “From rule. Do you want us to leave Valcotta to one of my cousins and run away to someplace where no one knows our names?”
All Keris saw was his wife’s luminous eyes, tears dampening her long lashes. There’d been no denying a certain appeal to the offer, but he knew that abandoning her people would destroy a part of Zarrah. That it would sink into her like rot, turning her bitter, and he’d be the one to blame. “No, I don’t want that.”
She rested her forehead against his chest. “Keris, if something happens to you, I wouldn’t be able to—”
“What do you want me to do?” He asked the question despite knowing the answer. “What do you need me to do?”
“I…” Her fingers flexed where she gripped his arms. “I need you to stay where Daria and her soldiers can protect you. In the palace and under heavy guard. It’s not for forever, but I need you to be safe until things settle.”
Safe.There should be allure to that word, after all they’d been through, but Keris’s mind recoiled from it. “How about a compromise? I’ve seen the small fortune worth of gifts you’ve compiled for Delia. I’ll take them to Ithicana, visit my sister and Aren, admire thebaby, and get all my desire for adventure out of my system under Lara’s watchful eye while you have some respite from worry.”
Zarrah stiffened. “Your solution is to leave? You’d rather leave than be bored for a month in the lap of luxury?”
What he wanted was for her to accept the risk that came with loving him, but instead Keris said, “Lara is my sister and Aren is…well, he’s important. This is their first child and they deserve my time. I’ll visit them, and when I return, you can lock me in a tower of safety.”
A tear had rolled down her cheek, and then his wife had given a tight nod. “Fine. Make the arrangements.”
“Well, would you look at that. Do you think that’s for you?” Saam’s voice pulled Keris from the miserable memory, and he looked to where his friend was pointing.
Dozens upon dozens of soldiers with pristine uniforms and banners waited on the wharf, along with a gilded carriage pulled by a full team of horses with white plumage attached to their harnesses.
“Likely. The only thing Harendellians like better than a ceremony is a parade. I should change into something dry.”
Keris departed into his quarters and extracted dry garments from his baggage, grimacing over the selection. He’d anticipated following Aren through the Ithicanian jungles, not parades and banquets. But anything was better than looking like a drowned rat, so he swiftly changed, pulled his hair into a knot at the back of his head, and then armed himself with a variety of knives.
The ship rocked gently as it reached the dock, and when Keris came back on deck, it was to have his nose assaulted with the stench of the city. Saam and the rest of his guards all wore the uniforms of the Valcottan imperial army. Their weapons were polished to a shine, and their expressions were stern.
“Thank you for accommodating my party,” he said to the captain, who grinned and said, “A good tale for my wife when I return, Your Highness. Good luck with the spiders.”
He’d need it.
An ornate gangplank was pushed into place, and as Keris strode down it, a dozen hornists blasted a melody on trumpets, the noise deafening.
A man in a pristine uniform thick with medals and badges of rank waited on the dock, and Keris immediately recognized him from the meeting on Emesmere Island. George Cavendish.
