“Their executions are planned for after his coronation.”
Disbelief flooded her, followed by panic. “What? What treason? What executions? They’re children!”
“Half-Lundegaardan children. Jaegar believes they played a role in leaking the invasion plans.”
“What?” Britta stared at him, aghast.
But that was my doing!
She didn’t dare utter the words; the armsman didn’t know her complicity in that act of treason. “But they’re only six and four!”
“Even so, he plans to execute them.”
“This is absurd! I must speak to Jaegar!”
Karel moved, blocking her way.
“Out of my way, armsman!” She tried to shove past him.
Karel caught her wrist. “No.”
Britta was abruptly aware of the hard, corded muscles beneath his brown skin, the sharp sword at his side, the eyes so dark they were almost black. Fear spiked beneath her breastbone. An image flashed into her mind: Duke Rikard lying beheaded on the floor, Karel’s sword dripping blood.
She lifted her chin, trying not to show her fear. “Release me.”
“No,” Karel said. “If you anger Jaegar, he won’t hesitate to get rid of you too.”
Britta tugged futilely at his grip. “Your orders are to obey me, armsman!”
“My orders are to protect you. And if you go to Jaegar now, if you ally yourself with Rutgar and Lukas, then you’re dead.”
The last word echoed flatly, shockingly.
“Jaegar’s signaling to all Osgaard that he’s decisive and ruthless, and that nothing and no one will stand in his way. Not even his half-brothers.
Especially
not his half-brothers.”
“But the boys had nothing to do with—”
“No. But their blood is too dangerous. They’re heirs to the throne.” His grip eased on her wrist. “Princess, if you anger him now, you seal your own death and lose any chance to save the boys.”
“Save them? You think they can be saved?”
“Not if you go to him in the state you’re in now.”
Britta stared at him, trying to read his dark, hawk-like face. He’d guarded her for three years, but what did she know of him? Who exactly was he? An Esfaban Islander, one step away from bondservice, wearing the scarlet tunic and golden breastplate of a palace armsman. And not just any armsman, one with the silver torque that marked him as a royal bodyguard. The first islander to reach that pinnacle. An elite fighter. Ambitious.
Whose interests did he have at heart? His own.
And yet Yasma claims him as a friend
.
“What do you suggest?” she said.
Karel’s expression relaxed fractionally. He released her wrist. “That we consider your next move very carefully.”
Y
ASMA FINISHED BINDING
the crown to her head. Britta rubbed her wrist. She could still feel Karel’s hard grip.
Her gaze rose to the maid’s face. Yasma’s skin was as brown as Karel’s, her hair as black, her features as hawk-like. But unlike Karel, she wasn’t threatening. She was slender, fragile, beautiful.
“Yasma... do you trust him?”
“Karel? Yes. As much as I trust you.” Yasma slid the last pin into place. “He would never harm me. Or you. He’s kind.”
Kind? Karel looked as dangerous as Jaegar.
“He paid for the poppy syrup, Britta. And the dung-root juice.”
“What?” Britta turned to face Yasma. “He
what
?”
“The dung-root juice was Karel’s idea. He thought the duke might annul the marriage if you didn’t conceive.”
Britta stared at her, astonished. “And the poppy syrup?”
“That was my idea, but Karel paid for it. He wanted me to make you drink less—he said it was killing you, and he was right! But then everything happened and... I didn’t have to.”
Britta rubbed her forehead.
It’s thanks to Karel I survived my marriage?
“Listen to him, Britta. Please.”
Britta nodded and stood, panic and anxiety swamping her again. Rutgar and Lukas imprisoned?
I must get them out!
She hurried to the door and opened it. Karel wasn’t standing against the wall at parade rest. He was by the marquetry table.
He pulled out a chair, a silent invitation for her to sit.
Britta stared across the parlor at him, seeing the powerful muscles, the gleaming breastplate, the sword.
He’d killed Duke Rikard without a second’s hesitation... and then he’d knelt beside her and held her until she stopped shaking.
Britta made a decision.
I shall trust him until I have reason to do otherwise
.
T
HEY SAT AT
the table, she and Yasma and Karel. The armsman had moved the table, so none of the guards outside could see them. Sunlight shone through the window, making the marquetry glow. “I must get them out! They’ll be terrified! Lukas is only four—”
“You can’t get them out,” Karel said. “Not today.”
“But—”
“Far better that they endure a few days of fear, and then freedom, than to act rashly now and bring disaster down on you all.”
Urgency bubbled in her chest—
Hurry! Get them out!
—but Karel was right. Britta stared down at the marquetry, wrestling for self-control. Birds glided on wings of walnut and cherry wood. Flowers unfurled petals of golden oak. “What do you suggest?”
“The choices are limited. Even if you confess to giving the invasion plans to the ambassador’s wife, it won’t save the boys.”
“What?” Britta’s head jerked up. She looked at him, aghast, and then turned to Yasma. “You
told
him?”
Yasma shook her head. “No!”
“Yasma didn’t tell me,” Karel said. “I figured it out for myself.”
Britta stared at him, her mouth open. It took her several seconds to find the breath to speak. “How?”
“I watch you. It’s my duty.”
Britta digested this statement. “When? When did you find out?”
“Before the garden party.”
He’d known before she’d given the invasion plans to the Lundegaardan ambassador’s wife—and he’d not betrayed her. Britta stared at him.
Was it for my sake you held your tongue? Or Yasma’s? Or Lundegaard’s?
“If you plan to save the boys by confessing, don’t forget that it’s not only your life that will be forfeit. Yasma will be executed, too, and every member of her family forced into bondservice. Twenty years of slavery.” Karel’s voice hadn’t been harsh before, but it was now. “Just how much are those boys’ lives worth to you?”
“Not that much.” Britta closed her eyes, a feeling of sick despair growing in her belly.
“Good,” Karel said. “Because a confession wouldn’t work for long. He’ll have those boys dead. If not by execution, then a natural-looking death, like their mother’s. Smothering. Poison. An accident. It won’t matter. He wants them
dead
.”
“Why?” Yasma asked.
“They’re blood-heirs. Someone could put them on the throne in Jaegar’s place. That’s the second option out of this. Raising a faction against Jaegar. Deposing him, proclaiming Rutgar Heir-Ascendant. But I don’t see that working. Do you, princess?”
Britta shook her head. “Harkeld could have done it, but not me. I’ve stayed out of that kind of palace politics.” If there were nobles willing to make Rutgar their king, she didn’t know who they were.
“Is there another option?” Yasma asked anxiously.
“Escape.”
Britta jerked slightly in her seat. “Escape?”
“Prince Harkeld escaped,” the armsman said.
“But he had witches to help him!”
“We have a week until the coronation. There must be a way to get the boys out.”
Escape?
Impossible
. But hope flickered in her chest.
“And you should go with them, princess. And you too, Yasma.”
“I can’t!” Yasma said. “My family will be punished—”
“Not if we stage your death.”
“But...” Yasma said, and trailed off.
“Your family owes twenty years’ bondservice to Osgaard. If you die loyal to Osgaard, that debt is wiped. No one else in your family will be called. They can move on to the next step. Send a son to bear weapons for Osgaard.”
Britta exchanged a glance with Yasma. The maid’s expression was shocked, afraid, hopeful.
“For you both to get out of Osgaard would be a good thing, highness.” The armsman’s face and voice were impassive... but not his eyes. She suddenly understood what Yasma meant. Karel had kind eyes. “But for the sake of Yasma’s family and my own, it
must
look as if you acted alone.”
Britta nodded.
“You need to see Jaegar today—he’ll expect you—but we must have a plan first.”
“He wants me for something. He told Father I was the answer to their most pressing problem.”
Karel’s black eyebrows winged together, making his face even more hawk-like. “What problem?”
“Harkeld. I heard them say his name, and then Jaegar said he knew how fond Harkeld was of me, and... I think I’m going to be bait to catch him.” It was the fear that had haunted her for three weeks, the fear that she’d not dared to confront.
“You never said anything,” Yasma said, her voice low and distressed.
Karel’s eyes were still on her, but she didn’t think he saw her. He was thinking. “If that’s so, why hasn’t he acted?” he asked, and then answered his own question, “He’s waiting for something. Or someone.” His eyes focused on her. “If he wants you for that, it gives you some power. We may be able to use it to your advantage.”
Britta nodded again. Hope and fear mingled inside her.
“Now, how do we get the princes out from under guard? How do we get you all out of the palace? How do we get you out of Osgaard? And how do we make it look as if Yasma is dead?”
T
HREE HOURS LATER,
Britta stepped into the palace gardens dressed in one of her finest tunics. The silk was snow-white, lavishly embroidered with gold thread. The crown on her head was golden, the girdle at her waist golden. Her cloak was carmine, the closest color she had to scarlet.
White, gold, red. A display of purity and patriotism.
Britta paused for a moment. The dread and panic and nausea churning in her stomach were familiar. She’d felt like this on the morning of her marriage to Rikard.
I can’t do this
.
She took a shallow breath and pictured the boys’ faces. If she didn’t do it, they would die.
Britta set off for the king’s private garden, following the curving pink-and-white path. Karel followed. His presence was reassuring. It was a wild plan, but with Karel to help, it could work. It
had
to work.
Two armsmen stood at the entrance to the king’s garden, one on either side of the ornate golden gate. “I understand my brother is here,” Britta said haughtily. “Is that correct?”
“Yes, highness.”
She gave a regal nod and stepped past them.
The garden had clipped hedges and rose bushes and trickling fountains, but here the fountains were crafted from beaten gold, and jewels glittered on their rims. The delicate crunch of crushed marble beneath her shoes seemed to erode her courage. Britta stepped off the path, walking on soft grass. Past the rose bower, past the burbling cascade.
She rounded a curve in the lawn. There were Jaegar’s personal armsmen; six of them, now that he was Heir-Ascendant. They stood at parade rest, their backs to a tall hedge, their golden breastplates and silver torques glinting in the sun. But where was Jaegar?
Britta halted uncertainly, scanning the garden.
He was by the goldfish pond, talking to a man. Not a nobleman or courtier or army officer. A stranger, dressed in plain clothes.
The dread and panic and nausea churned even more violently in her stomach.
I’m going to vomit
. Britta set off across the lawn towards Jaegar, past a tall hedge, losing sight of the armsmen.
The hedge curved sinuously towards the goldfish pond, giving her glimpses of Jaegar and the stranger. Their voices came faintly on the breeze. She passed through shade, sunshine, shade. Jaegar’s robe looked black from this distance, but sunlight sparkled on gold thread woven into the fabric.
The end of the hedge drew near. Britta’s steps slowed.
I’m going to vomit. I know I’m going to—
Karel caught her elbow, halting her.
Britta glanced at him, opened her mouth to ask why he’d stopped her—and closed it at the expression on his face.
Karel pulled her into the shade of the tall hedge.
“What?” she whispered.
He shook his head and laid a finger to his lips.
Britta stood tensely, aware that something was wrong, but not understanding what. Jaegar’s voice drifted to her. “...can’t prove it wasn’t natural.”
“Which is what you asked for, highness.” The stranger’s voice had an accent her ear wasn’t used to. Short vowels, clipped consonants.