Page 113 of Royal Rebel

Grandeur tugged at the cuffs of his sleeves. “Thank the fates you showed up. The man was an imbecile, and disrespectful. Not what I’d expect from a supposed ally.”

“He was doing his job,” Bennick said, his tone hard despite the voice in his head that urged caution. “You weren’t expected.”

“Expected or not, that’s no way to treat a royal.” Grandeur tracked the guard as he wandered back to them, careful to lift his voice so his next words would not be missed. “Especially the brother of your future queen.”

The guard came to a halt beside Bennick. “Apologies, Prince Grandeur,” he said firmly. “Security measures have been heightened since recent events. I only asked that you remain out here until Princess Serene’s return.”

Grandeur’s mouth tightened. He glanced back at the carriage behind his own, but before he could speak, Bennick said, “You should get back inside the carriage and go up to the palace. I’m sure you must be tired after your travels.”

“Indeed.” The prince lifted his chin. “I would prefer to speak to my sister after I’ve had a chance to recover from the journey.”

Bennick didn’t want Clare coming face to face with Grandeur at all, but he knew that was inevitable. The best he could do was attempt to put it off.

Grandeur turned to re-enter his carriage. Unfortunately, that’s when Clare stepped out of her carriage.

One hand remained curled around the edge of the open door as she stilled, her gaze locked on Grandeur. Her expression was surprisingly blank, though a myriad of emotions flashed in her eyes. Shock. Anger. And, finally, hatred.

Bennick’s stomach dropped. He darted a look at Venn, who had emerged to stand just behind Clare. Unfortunately, his friend didn’t look inclined to hold her back. Not when his own dark eyes were trained on the prince.

Silently cursing, Bennick hurried toward them, the back of his neck prickling under the stares of everyone watching—Grandeur, Dervish, the prince’s other guards, and the Mortisian guards.

He stopped right in front of Clare, blocking her view of Grandeur.

Her eyes cut to his, and the pain there hit him solidly in the chest.

“Easy,” he cautioned, his tone low. “This isn’t the time or place.”

Her breathing was tight and shallow, and she trembled. Tears gathered in her beautiful blue eyes, heated and full of grief.

He ached to touch her, but he held himself back.

She was still clearly struggling with her emotions, but she straightened her spine. He knew reason had won out, at least for the moment.

Footsteps scuffed the cobblestones behind Bennick. He tensed as Grandeur stopped beside him, his attention fastened on Clare.

It was obvious when he saw through her disguise. He exhaled slowly, a strange light entering his eyes. “On second thought,” he said, “I’d like to talk with my sister now. We clearly have much to discuss.”

Chapter 27

Desfan

Desfansatonastone bench in the small garden of Duvan’s asylum. He had no guards with him, because he’d wanted to ensure Karim’s privacy.

Karim had argued this point, but Desfan had won; partly because Avao had sided with him, citing the security measures at the asylum were sufficient so long as Desfan remained inside the grounds.

When they’d arrived at the asylum, Karim had insisted on going to his mother’s room alone. So, Desfan waited in the inner courtyard, praying to the fates this visit would help heal his friend, not tear him further apart.

Desfan scanned the garden, though calling it that was perhaps a bit generous. It was a simple inner courtyard within the walls of the asylum. Sandstone columns ringed the small yard, and it was open to the sky. There was a fountain in the center, with four paths leading to that single point. Desfan sat in one of the four quadrants, surrounded by green fronds and shaded by olive trees. The silver-green leaves rustled gently in the breeze, accompanied by the trickle of water from the fountain. Vibrant flowers of yellow, orange, and red bloomed all around, scenting the air with their fresh fragrance.

Down the path he could see a couple of people standing near the fountain, studying the bright turquoise and gold tiles that lined the basin. They were the only other people in sight.

He should probably make use of this solitary time to puzzle through the rose that had been left at the orphanage for Clare—or Serene, he supposed, since the princess was the assassin’s actual target. He could also think on Liam’s cryptic words about the olcain mystery, or even sort out a good response for Yahri’s imminent scolding about the deviation in his speech at the orphanage.

Instead, his thoughts turned to last night.

He’d been struggling to sleep since Imara had been attacked by her bodyguard, and last night had been no different. Instead of lying abed uselessly, he’d begun sorting through crates the servants had moved into his new suite. The rooms still didn’t feel like his; even without all his father’s things, the walls and furniture remained the same. This was a place Desfan had gone to for comfort as a child. The rooms of his mother and father had always made safe, full of laughter, warmth, and love. Until Farrah Cassian died and Saernon Cassian became hollow.

By the light of a glowing lamp, Desfan had sat on a rug that had lain on the sitting room floor since long before his birth, and he’d rifled through the crates. He’d found trinkets from his youth, long-forgotten in the dusty corners of his old room. He’d found a collection of drawings from Tahlyah and Meerah. The sight of those images, drawn by hands so small and precious, clawed his insides. He’d set them gently aside, though he trailed his fingers over the curling corner of one. He didn’t remember receiving these drawings. He hoped he’d thanked his sisters before tossing them in a trunk.

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