Page 52 of The Uncrowned Prince

“This way.”

Karreya still had not let go of his hand, and Vaniell clutched her fingers like the lifeline they were. He had no idea where they were going, so he nearly stumbled a few steps later when she pulled him to a stop.

“Where are we…” he began to ask, and then lurched in surprise when something pressed gently against his lips.

Had shekissedhim?

But no. It took less than a moment for him to realize she was not taking advantage of the darkness to show her deeper feelings, but rather insisting that he stop talking. And yet, he knew in that same infinitesimal span of time that he wished she’d kissed him instead.

Fool that he was to be thinking about kissing at a moment like this.

Karreya abruptly dropped his hand, and a handful of seconds later, a small hatch opened in the wall, admitting light and the sound of voices from below.

They were in a queen’s gallery—built during a time when a queen might not have been welcome in the deliberations below, but still wished to be aware of important decisions that would impact the kingdom. And somehow, Karreya had known exactly where to find it.

How long had she been awake last night, scouting this place until she found a solution? How had she known precisely what he would need and brought him here without being caught?

None of these efforts served her own purposes. None of it would help her in the search for her father—in fact, with every moment, every step, the risk of her being discovered increased.

So why had she agreed to it? She didn’t need him—in fact, the opposite was true. He could be little more than a hindrance to her now, so why was she here?

But he could not ask, not now, because her finger still lay across his lips, pleading for silence as the room below grew quieter and the councilors began to speak.

“…there is no longer any doubt.” Lord Grendish spoke slowly, as if each word bore the weight of kingdoms. “The first blow of this war has been struck, and it was a heavy one indeed.”

“A heavy blow”—the Irian First Councilor nodded in agreement—“and yet doubt still remains. We have no proof that it was truly the Zulleri behind this act of aggression.”

“What doubt?” Grendish scoffed. “I have heard the rumors that flood your streets. I know of the imperial weapons you found. But even if you choose to ignore the evidence of your own eyes, you will no longer be able to deny the truth once you have heard the news I bear. The news I can barely even speak for the pain of my grief.”

The black sashes. They hadnotbeen for Trevelian. So who? Which of the people Vaniell had known all of his life were now dead, victims of this insane quest for power?

“Then I beg you,” the First Councilor intoned, inclining his head. “Speak of this news. We would know of your proof so that we can determine our best course of action.”

“I bring grave tidings from not only Garimore, but from Eddris, and from Farhall.”

Vaniell’s heart squeezed painfully in his chest. How far had this gone, while he was hiding away in search of answers? What larger plot had he missed while seeking the source of the evil at Garimore’s heart?

“In Eddris, six weeks ago now, Queen Allera and her husband were attacked in broad daylight, struck down by magic in the midst of the marketplace.”

No. Surely he would not strike at Allera. He’d been courting her favor for years. Her popularity was unquestioned, and her approval was the key to winning over the entire Throne of Eddris.

The Irian councilors erupted into loud cries of shock and denial, but Grendish was not finished yet.

“Her daughter, Caro, now holds the throne, but the people are frightened. They demand justice for their beloved queen.”

This had to be a lie. Allera and Valeric could not have been such easy targets. But while Vaniell was still grappling with this revelation, Grendish went on.

“And lest you doubt me still, their attacker did not escape.” His tone grew darker, harder, filled with fear and loathing. “After his death, he was searched, and the dragon tattoo of the Imperial Guard was discovered on his body.”

So great was the power of his appeal, Vaniell found himself wondering for the smallest instant… Could it be true? Could the Empire have decided that now was the time to strike, while the Five Thrones were divided? Had they roused from their slumber and determined that this was the appropriate moment to return the long lost Abreian traitors to imperial rule?

“But it makes nosense…” one of the Irians began to say, only for Grendish to interrupt him.

“There is yet more,” he said sternly, his voice rising in rebuke.

It was an old trick, and Vaniell had learned it early. By making anyone who dared to speak against him feel foolish, he taught his listeners to view him as the voice of authority and wisdom. It was this reminder of exactly who he was dealing with that quelled his doubts and increased his loathing for the man who now wore Garimore’s crown.

And for his lapdog, Ambassador Grendish. How much did Grendish know? Was he a willing accomplice, or had he been as deeply deceived as everyone else in the room?

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