Page 104 of Royal Rebel

For so long, everything had seemed to be about the treaty signing between Mortise and Devendra. Now that it was done, what would come next?

War seemed the obvious answer.

Desfan set the towel aside, his movement pulling her from her depressing thoughts. He reached for his discarded shirt and shot her a look. “Would you like to stay here, or are you ready for me to take you back to your room?”

After inadvertently memorizing every hard plane of his chest, the last thing she needed was be held against it for any period of time.

“I’ll stay,” she said. Besides, she wasn’t ready to go back to her bed.

Desfan tugged the loose white shirt over his head. “I’ll return as soon as I can, but others might catch me on my way back. If you tire, any of the guards can assist you back to your room.”

“Thank you. For everything,” she added, indicating the cane beside her.

His answering smile made her heart skip.

When he stood, Karim joined him almost instantly, and Razan offered to get Imara a plate of food. She gratefully accepted the woman’s help, and she watched as they all walked across the sands.

Off to her right, a group of men were gathered close in quiet conversation. They were comprised of noblemen, and many had visible bandages in place. She’d dismissed them earlier as uninteresting, but in the silence left by Desfan’s absence, words floated toward her, low and tinged with unease.

“. . . so many of them. That’s what concerns me.”

“It does seem suspicious. The timing of it, I mean.”

“Yes. First their princess comes, and then all these refugees follow. I don’t trust it.”

“Do you think it could be a coordinated attack?” the first man asked, his voice more worried than before.

“I think it’s possible. Newlan might think he can sneak in refugees, but they could actually be soldiers lying in wait to strike.”

Imara nearly turned toward them, but caught herself. She didn’t want them to realize she could hear their words.

“Did you know the serjan sent supplies to that Salvation camp?” one of the men asked, sounding torn between affront and disgust.

One of the men scoffed. “He should have dismantled the place. The Devendrans have no right to create a stronghold here.”

“This is the sort of thing that worries me about his rule. He isn’t protecting Mortise; he’s just doing whatever fates-blasted thing strikes his fancy. There’s no plan to any of it.”

“I think he’s afraid. He doesn’t want to make a wrong move, so he makes no real moves at all. Take the Kaelin princes for example. They’re just sitting in their cells, when we should have sent their heads back to their father ages ago. Make a bold statement, that’s what I say.”

“It’s the only way to gain the respect of the other nations,” another man readily agreed. “Especially in these troubled times.”

“Did you hear about that village on Dorma? All those people, sickened and dead, with no explanation.”

“In Madihr?” someone asked quickly.

“No, it was a smaller village on the other side of the island. But it happened soon after the late serjan’s death, and that feels like a sign.”

“Desfan seems to be cursed.”

“Or he’sourcurse,” one of them muttered.

There were several grunts and other sounds of agreement.

Anger bubbled up in Imara, along with a rising desire to tongue-lash them all.

Before she could decide if that would only make Desfan’s image worse in the eyes of his court, a new voice spoke. “He’s had a harsh hand dealt to him. He had to step in as regent, negotiate with Devendra for Princess Serene’s hand, and then suffer an underhanded attack from Ryden. Not to mention the betrayals from within the council and the trouble with the olcain in Duvan. Then he lost his father, became our serjan, and now faces calamitous times. You have to admit, Eyrinthia itself hasn’t seen such turbulence since the last war with Ryden. I do not envy him.”

Imara peeked from the corner of her eye to identify the speaker. He was middle-aged, and he had a bandage that pinned his arm to his chest.

---