Page 122 of Royal Rebel

“Your father made those arrangements many years ago,” Yahri said, almost distractedly. “But Vakesh wasn’t a scribe.”

Desfan frowned. “He wasn’t?”

“No. He was a spy.”

Karim coughed. “That man was a spy?”

“Yes,” Yahri confirmed.

“Why do his records say he was a scribe?” Desfan asked.

“Your father thought it would be best to keep his official appointment a secret. Spies thrive, after all, with anonymity.”

“He’s not thriving,” Desfan felt compelled to say.

Yahri sighed and leaned back in her chair. “He had an accident. We still don’t know if he was attacked while returning from his last mission, or if something else happened. But he struck his head and lost many parts of himself. His memory, his ability to communicate—even his grasp on reality. Your father saw to his care, naturally, but there was nothing else for it. The last I heard, Vakesh was barely cognizant.”

“He seemed aware of things today.”

“He thought youwere your father,” Karim said blandly.

Desfan sent him a look.

He shrugged, unapologetic. “He was raving. Nothing he said made actual sense. He’s clearly trapped in the past; anything he tried to tell us, our current spies will have a better understanding of.”

He had a point.

That didn’t dispel Desfan’s curiosity, though—or drive away the memory of the man’s desperate, almost manic words.

Desfan turned back to Yahri. “Do you know the details of his last mission?”

“No. And I’m not sure you’ll find any good records,” Yahri warned. “Your father was very careful about any written reports from his spies. You can speak with the current spymaster, of course, but I don’t know how much help he’ll be. Vakesh served the crown long ago.” She nodded to Karim. “I would take Karim’s advice and let it rest. You have more current problems. Like Prince Grandeur and preparing for dinner.”

“I won’t create a political incident by accusing Prince Grandeur of crimes in Mortise,” Desfan assured her. “At least not until my investigation of Salvation is complete.”

“Thank you.” Her head tilted. “Have you chosen an heir yet?”

The unexpected question caught him off guard. Yahri had delivered a list of candidates to him over a week ago—he hadn’t even looked at it.

“No,” he said.

Yahri pursed her lips. “I know you don’t want to consider anyone but Meerah. But—”

“She’s my heir. If something happens to me before she returns, that’s my will—you and Karim are my witnesses.”

“There are other factors to consider,” Yahri said, almost as if he hadn’t spoken. “Meerah faces a dangerous journey. Even if she makes it back, she may not wantthe responsibility of the throne.”

That made Desfan pause. Yahri had a point, and he felt like an idiot for not considering it sooner. After all,hehadn’t wanted this crown—at least not in the beginning. And considering all Meerah had been forced to do, he refused to make her wear a crown she didn’t want.

Yahri’s expression grew somber. “There is another factor to consider. Meerah may not beableto rule. We don’t yet know the extent of what she endured in Ryden. We don’t know what state she’ll be in—emotionally, physically, or mentally.” True pain sparked in her eyes. “Desfan, she may not even speak our language anymore. And the last formal education she received was when she was seven years old.”

A strange dread had settled on his chest. “It doesn’t matter. She’s alive—that alone is a fates blasted miracle.”

“It is,” Yahri agreed. “Which is why I don’t think you should hope for more. She may not be the sister you remember—or she might be frozen in many ways, just exactly as she was.”

She’s fine. Perfect.That’s what Grayson had said—quite defensively—when Imara had asked about Mia’s condition.

Desfan’s throat felt horribly dry. “This is all speculative. Until she returns, we won’t know anything for certain.”

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