Osana wrinkled her nose at the title and instead of commenting upon it asked, “Is Mother here?”
The king—Zavier—shook his head. “She will be coming along later. I’m afraid the letter informing her of Celia’s death will arrive days before the one announcing I have been named Domingu’s successor.”
Osana winced at her sister’s name—a new cut to a fresh wound. Ferdinand shifted his grip on her. Zavier noticed, his attention flicking to their entwined hands with a frown as Osana drew in a steadying breath and explained their presence.
“Father, that’s why we’re here. Not as Ardenia’s spies, as your guards may have surmised, but because we have been tasked with finding Geneva. She seeks revenge upon both the Otsakumea Luca and Queen Amarande.”
Zavier smiled in such a way that it appeared in jest. Ferdinand did not find any of this amusing. But when the king answered, it became clear it wasn’t amusement that lit his features, it was the opportunity to treat them as what they were to him: children.
“Are you sure that your loyalties lie with the young rulers? Both of you have every reason to support my sister.” Zavier let that hang, glancing between them as if he could see something they did not simply because of age and status. “The one raised in her camp, and the one whowillinglywent to train to become heir apparent.”
The muscles in Ferdinand’s legs tensed, stubborn and rigid. If this so-called king saw him as a child, he would remind him he hadn’t been allowed the whims of youth for a very long time.
“We don’t side with Geneva.” Ferdinand’s voice was solid as the Hand itself. “We seek her so that she may not disrupt the rightful rebuilding of the Otxoa throne nor the balance of power on the continent. As king of Basilica, you should support our search—no matter where you’ve stood before on matters of your sister. Geneva very easily could have landed here and taken this castle for her own with a tilt of her proud chin and a knife to your throat.”
Zavier took a step forward, the candlelight burning from within the royal chambers catching enough on his face to highlight a tick of a smile on his lips. “You are not wrong. For a woman with the nickname the Runaway Queen, my sister is actually incredibly easy to find. You were not far off believing she might be here—her homeland, the castle mostly empty, and still reeling from the poisoned reception. In fact, as you may have noticed, she sent the ship she stole here as a decoy.”
“You’re sure she wasn’t on it?”
“Geneva was not—just ten Myrcellian soldiers that she’d scared into sailing here as a diversion after she stole all their food, weapons, and their single lifeboat.” Zavier inclined his head toward the interior of the Aragonesti. “Those soldiers are recovering and awaiting an escort back to Myrcell.”
“Where do you believe she is, then?” Ferdinand asked, not interested in details. He had always preferred the destination over the journey.
“If you want to find my sister, you must understand what she wants most.” Even in the pewter light, the king’s clear blue eyes shown bright, erudite, self-interested. Yes, he was a man who believed he’d been born for his present role no matter the previous line of succession. “That primary want changes over time, but in this case, it is obvious. Her legacy.”
It hurt more than a little that Ferdinand knew he had no place in Geneva’s legacy anymore. There would be no surprise appearance from her, seeking him out as he sought her, trying to make things right. Ardenia and Amarande were not her legacy. Nor was her Basilican homeland.
No, it was the Torrent. But Geneva wouldn’t simply live in secret there, gathering clout and confidence like the Otxoa resistance did for so long. No. She would not give Luca the luxury of time.
She would not give Luca the luxury of anything at all.
Just as Ferdinand’s poison-slow mind hit upon that thought, Zavier asked a related question: “Your wolf cub will be at the conclave, no? It would be a risky place for attack, but also the perfect venue for built-in chaos and confusion.”
And that’s when the truth of what Geneva would do hit him.
Not at the conclave. Before.
When Luca greets his people.
A death visible to thousands would be exactly what Geneva would need to spread fear like a wildfire and gain power like a rolling storm.
Ferdinand almost said it out loud, needing to work through the worst-case scenario with Osana in real time, urgency building. Instead, he met her beautiful eyes, and hoped she knew exactly what he was thinking.
Because suddenly, violently, Ferdinand knew he could not tell this man, Geneva’s brother—who had known her whereabouts for all those years she hid behind the Warlord’s name—Luca’s whereabouts.
Geneva might learn of the Torrentian meeting at the Hand through her watchers, but she certainly wouldn’t learn it or even have it confirmed by this very interaction.
Osana’s lips dropped open, recognition swelling in her expression, and Ferdinand turned to the king. “Your Highness, do you have birds here?” Ferdinand asked without preamble. “Caracaras? Crows? Something?”
The king fumbled his answer, surprised and slow. “No… Inés poisoned the aviary in an attempt to maintain her element of surprise.”
Confusion clouded Osana’s face. “Then how is it you came here so quickly?”
“Domingu wrote to me ahead of the wedding. He didn’t expect me to attend, but to be available for his plans afterward.” Yes. After Domingu murdered his new bride and took Pyrenee and Myrcell, he would need his familial generals close. “I was to stabilize Pyrenee while maintaining my duties in Eritri.”
As father and daughter shared a wordless exchange upon the meaning of Domingu’s plans that never occurred, Ferdinand raced through his best possibilities for warning Luca.
No birds. No closer ports—or at least none worth a woozy ride on theGatzal.A messenger on horseback might make it to the Itspi in time, but the likelihood of Luca’s party leaving for the Hand ahead of the message’s arrival was a decent one. A message could go straight to the Hand, but it was possible Geneva was already lying in wait, eager to intercept.
