Page 43 of The Uncrowned Prince

Even though the roads through southern Garimore were good, the main roads on the Irian peninsula were not, which suggested that this diplomatic party had set out long before King Trevelian died. The black flags and wristbands might be the first hint they had received that something was terribly wrong.

Then again…

Vaniell’s hands went cold as he finally noticed the black sashes worn by each and every rider in the entourage. Twelve of them, all wearing grim and suspicious frowns as they scanned the crowd.

How had they known? He supposed they could have heard the news at one of their stops along the way, but where had they acquired black ceremonial sashes? These were not simple swatches of hastily cut black fabric—they, like the carriage, were emblazoned with the Garimoran royal seal.

Unless they were worn not in recognition of Trevelian’s death, but another’s…

The diplomatic party continued on down the street, scattering carts and pedestrians, making their slow but inexorable way towards the palace, where Trevelian’s young son mourned his parents and prepared to ascend the throne. The boy would have no choice now but to rely heavily on advisors whose lives and calculations had been thrown into chaos. Who probably still believed that the Empire was coming and Iria was the first Throne in her path.

And now a Garimoran envoy had arrived, right when they stood most in need of solidarity and advice.

Vaniell did not believe in accidents—at least not where the king of Garimore was concerned. The timing of this visit was too perfect to be a coincidence. And ever since last night, he’d been unable to stop replaying the words of the now-dead government official.

He sent you… He’s going to kill us all and there’s nothing we can do.

The blue-robed man had been a member of the Irian ambassadorial staff, and he had been deliberately targeted by an assassin. An assassin who had clearly demonstrated that his mission was worth his very life…

Vaniell cursed silently as his deeply held suspicions merged with cold, hard reality. Perhaps the truth would sound ridiculous to anyone else, but the sudden arrival of the Garimoran ambassador was the final clue, and it all fit too neatly—like the pieces of a puzzle box that connected to hide its true purpose, unless you knew the key. Vaniell did, indeed, know the key, but he also knew there was no proof to support his claims. There would likely never be any proof. Even if he had the opportunity to warn the other Thrones, no one would believe him.

But Vaniell had learned better than to ignore his intuition, and it was screaming now that this was no longer merely a theory or a suspicion. He knew beyond all doubt who was responsible for the death of Iria’s king. And yet, unless he could accomplish the impossible, he would be able to do no more than watch as this cruel plan unfolded.

The first step had been to assassinate the king in the most violent and unexpected way possible, thereby depriving them of stable leadership and placing the kingdom in turmoil. The second? Stoke the fears of the populace with threats of complete destruction. Destabilize their sense of peace and security with rumors of an enemy far greater than they could defeat. Then, and only then, would their savior step in with a firm but gentle hand, promising salvation at the cost of their independence.

It was diabolical and nearly perfect, and exactly what Vaniell would expect from the man he’d once called Father. But to be certain of how this plan was to play out, Vaniell needed to know what message the ambassador brought. He needed to hear for himself why the outriders wore black sashes. He needed…

Karreya.

She was the only one who could help him. The only person he knew who was unlikely to blink at taking an insane risk for no better reason than a hunch.

He might have told her that his tree climbing days were over, but for this, he would make a liar out of himself. Tomorrow, he was sneaking into the Irian royal palace, and Karreya was the one person he trusted to have his back.

Had he lost his mind? Probably. But if he did not take action, the people of Abreia stood to lose a great deal more.

* * *

Karreya appeared at the warehouse just when he was about to console himself over her absence with a cup of tea. He’d begun to wonder whether she was coming back at all, but she slid soundlessly through the curtain shortly after dark and stood in the corner with her face set in an unreadable mask.

Something was wrong.

“Did you catch up to her?” Vaniell asked mildly, setting out a second cup and pouring tea for them both.

“I did.”

He crossed the room and held out the cup, but she hesitated.

“It’s just tea,” he said. “I am not attempting to poison you. It’s what we degenerate Abreians drink when we’re upset, when we’re happy, when we’re having a hard day, and when we want to celebrate. We just like tea a lot, and it would be a crime to poison such a necessary beverage.”

She accepted his offering, sniffed at the fragrant steam and recoiled. “We have tea in the Empire, Abreian, but this is not the same. It smells like dirt.”

“At least taste it before you malign its existence,” he chided, taking a seat on the couch. “What did you learn?”

“Very little.” Karreya lifted the cup to her lips and tilted it slightly. The hot liquid within must have reached her tongue, because her face contorted for a moment before her mask slipped back into place. “I prefer chicory. This tastes of grass and dead things.”

Vaniell couldn’t help a bit of a grin. “You don’t have to drink it. I am perfectly capable of appreciating my tea alone.”

She took another sip.

---