Page 53 of The Uncrowned Prince

“In Farhall,” Grendish continued, “we have learned that an assassin infiltrated their ranks, this time with poison, posing as one of Queen Evaraine’s personal maids. Perhaps had Queen Evaraine not already been quite so fragile…” His sigh echoed loudly through the otherwise silent council room, filling Vaniell’s mind and pounding across his temples like a death knell.

Evaraine,dead?

No. No, this could not be true. Vaniell’s hands began to shake, and he realized he was murmuringnounder his breath, over and over. She’d held so much strength, so much fire in that tiny frame, and his brotherlovedher. Loved her enough to break himself free from Melger’s control and confront the truth.

“…was already tenuous, and now the kingdom views King Danric with growing suspicion.”

Grendish was still talking. Why did he not stop? How could there be more terrible news?

“It remains to be seen whether he will be allowed to keep the throne without Evaraine’s support, or be deposed in favor of one of the more popular nobles.”

Danric had already lost so much—how could he lose Evaraine, too?

How could the world ever be made whole after this?

Vaniell’s knees hit the floor. He felt warmth on his shoulder—the firm grip of Karreya’s hand holding him upright—but he could not speak. What could he even say?

And still, beyond that merciless square in the wall, the conversation plowed inexorably forward.

“Why now?” an older man among the councilors demanded. “Why would they attack now? Why like this? Why not make their demands known first?”

“Because this is what the Empress does.” Grendish did not flinch as he spoke those words. They rolled off his lips and stabbed deep, like unseen knives, finding their way past Vaniell’s emotional armor and all the way to his heart. “She conquers using fear and unrest. By dividing us among ourselves. By informing us through her calling card of death and destruction that she can strike at anyone, at any moment, and there is nothing we can do to stop her. Not unless we all stand together.”

There was much nodding among those assembled, but one man remained unswayed. The First Councilor stood tall and confronted Grendish, suspicion written on his lined, bearded face. “We all know your king has ambitions, Lord Grendish. We know he dreams of uniting the Five Thrones under one name—his own. So why should we believe that you come in innocence, speaking of unity, when we have no proof of what you say?”

“Whether you believe me or not, Faraden, this war is coming,” Grendish replied harshly. “And you have not yet heard my final piece of news. The deep, personal tragedy that has at last driven my king to act.”

Vaniell’s breath caught, and a steel fist seemed to close around his heart. What fresh horror was he to learn of now?

“Not long after we learned of the attacks on Eddris and Farhall, Garimore also suffered a grievous blow.” Grendish allowed his chin to drop to his chest. His voice grew tight, pained, and tremulous in the extremity of his grief. “An enemy entered the palace by night. The king’s guard apprehended him, but discovered afterwards that they were too late. He had long since done what he came to do.”

He paused and swallowed, as if the words refused to be spoken. And when he did speak, it was in a hoarse whisper, ragged with pain.

“He had robbed King Melger of his beloved wife.”

The Irian councilors gasped as one. “You mean…”

“Queen Portiana is dead.” The ambassador’s tone was hollow. Empty of everything but horror. “She was stabbed through the heart with an imperial dagger. Just like His Majesty, King Trevelian.”

The words seemed to reverberate in Vaniell’s head, magnified by the chorus of disbelieving cries from the councilors below. Like cannonballs rolling loose in a ship’s hold, throwing him off balance and leaving shattered wreckage in their wake.

She was gone. The one person who had ever loved him, ever understood him, ever tried to protect him…

Dead.

And it was Vaniell’s fault. Once he disappeared, the man wearing Melger’s face hadn’t needed the queen as a hostage anymore. So he’d killed her. Disposed of her like garbage. Made her the final piece in his diabolical master plan.

Even as the pain and the horror tore gaping holes in the fabric of his world, Vaniell’s mind was still assembling the full picture of the Garimoran king’s treachery. How better to convince the other Thrones that imperial assassins were responsible for these tragedies than numbering his own wife among their victims? And if he claimed he had proof of the assassin’s identity, who could gainsay him?

But Vaniell knew who the true assassin had been. And suddenly, he could not stop the terrible images playing in his head. The knife in his “father’s” hand. The terror on his mother’s face. The realization that she was alone, and no one was coming to save her…

Suddenly Vaniell was ripping at the collar with shaking hands, tearing ineffectually at the catch. He needed to breathe. Needed it off.

“Stop.” The voice was low and firm. Warm fingers fastened on his and set them aside. “I will do it.”

Karreya. Somehow, she knew exactly how to release the collar, and when it fell away, Vaniell hit his knees, his breath coming in harsh gasps, his heart pounding in his ears.

Whether it was the collar, shock, grief, or the potent combination of all three, his mind whirled and he could not seem to get enough air.

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