The Fire Prince (The Cursed Kingdoms Trilogy Book 2) (15 page)

Yasma flushed. Her glance to Britta was shy, pleased.

A while later, Karel laid down his scroll. “‘Pepperwort. A herb that, when infused overnight, produces a colorless, odorless liquid with a peppery flavor. Pepperwort infusion may be used to warm the blood of patients with sluggish circulation, in particular those whose extremities are cold to the touch. Its application upon an object or trail renders hounds unable to follow a scent.’” He looked up. “And the instructions for preparing the infusion are here.”

“That’s everything, then,” Britta said. “Let’s make a list of what we need to purchase.” She glanced at the armsman. “What
you
need to purchase.” The risk in this next step was his. “And I must write a formal request for your grace day. And one for Torven.”

Yasma scrambled off her chair and fetched parchment, ink, and a quill.

Britta penned notes to the commander of armsmen first, requesting that Karel receive a grace day the day after tomorrow, and Torven the shift after that. She worded them as commands, signed her name in flourishing letters, and affixed royal seals of scarlet wax and gold leaf. Let him ignore
that
.

Then they spent an hour checking and rechecking quantities in the scrolls and compiling a list of everything Karel needed to purchase. “Let’s see those perfume vials,” he said, once it was done.

Britta fetched an inlaid wooden box. Inside were four delicate blue glass vials with silver lids. She lifted one out and removed the lid, showing the slender tube that descended from it. “You fill the vial, insert this and screw it tight, press the lid, and it sprays the perfume out through this little hole.”

Karel examined the vial and its lid. He filled one with water, screwed the lid on, pressed. A puff of spray misted out. “Ingenious. I’ve never seen anything like this. There must be a spring inside the lid.”

“They’re not made in the Seven Kingdoms. They come from somewhere called Margolie.” Britta touched a vial with a fingertip. How many gold pieces had it cost?

“None of these have been used?”

Britta shook her head. “Rikard gave them to me.” His name seemed to choke in her throat. She hurried past it. “As a wedding gift. I haven’t opened the box since he showed me them.” How long ago that seemed. And yet her wedding had been less than two months ago. “They shouldn’t smell of anything.”

“I’ll rinse them all,” Yasma said. “Just to make sure.”

Karel emptied the vial and replaced it in the box.

“What do you think?” Britta asked.

“I think they’re perfect for the All-Mother’s Breath. Better than a soaked cloth. And we can use them for the pepperwort, too. Two vials for each. We’d best check they all work, first.”

Someone rapped loudly on the outer door.

Britta flinched, her heart lurching in her chest. Yasma’s face drained of color.

Karel rose swiftly to his feet. He pushed his chair in and headed for the door, his hobnailed boots making no sound on the soft rugs.

Yasma scrambled from her chair, pushed it in, and ran on tiptoe to the bedchamber, the sable cloak bundled around her and the box of vials clutched to her chest.

The loud rapping came again. Karel glanced across the parlor at Britta. She nodded, hastily rearranging the scrolls on the table.

Karel opened the door. Britta heard the murmur of voices. After a moment the armsman turned and announced: “Duke Frankl and Lady Agata, highness.”

K
AREL LISTENED TO
Princess Brigitta greet her guests. “...a private word,” Lady Agata murmured. “Perhaps your armsman could step outside?”

Karel saw the princess hesitate, then nod. “Armsman, wait outside.”

He opened the door, caught her gaze for a brief moment—
Be careful
—and stepped out into the marble corridor. Two other armsmen stood there: Duke Frankl’s and Lady Agata’s.

Karel closed the door and planted himself squarely in front of it, trying not to let his uneasiness show. What did the new commander of Osgaard’s army and his sister have to discuss with the princess?

The corridor was wide, quiet, secluded, curving away to the right. The only other doors were the gilded one to Prince Harkeld’s empty suite of rooms, and a smaller, discreet door to the storage room the prince had used as a wine cellar. No one passed by; this was no thoroughfare. Karel heard his own breathing and, once, the creak of boot leather as Lady Agata’s armsman shifted his weight.

The door behind him opened while the tenth bell was ringing. Karel stepped aside. Duke Frankl and his sister emerged, and the princess.

“This is the room,” Princess Brigitta said, crossing the corridor and opening the door to the storage room. All three of them entered. Karel heard the murmur of voices.

He scanned their faces surreptitiously as they came out, trying to guess what was going on. The duke was younger than Rikard had been, trimmer, with no gray in his close-cropped hair and beard. A tiny smile sat on his mouth.

“Thank you for your visit.” Princess Brigitta sounded grateful, tremulous. Karel looked sharply at her. Her expression was almost child-like in its innocence.

Duke Frankl bowed and kissed her hand, his sister curtseyed.

Karel followed Princess Brigitta into her suite and closed the door. The princess went to stand before the fire. Her expression was suddenly a lot more adult. Thoughtful. Worried.

“What was that about?” Karel asked. Words he would never have dared utter two days ago.

“That—at least I
think
it was—was Frankl positioning himself to take Osgaard’s throne.”

“What?” Karel strode across to her. “How?” And how would this change their plans?

Yasma emerged from the bedchamber. Princess Brigitta glanced at her. “Did you hear any of what they said, Yasma?”

The maid shook her head.

“Sit, both of you. I’ll try to explain.”

Karel sat on the settle. Yasma perched alongside him.

Princess Brigitta touched her fingers lightly to her forehead, as if organizing her thoughts, and took a deep breath. “They started by telling me that the boys are innocent and someone’s taking advantage of Father’s death to destabilize Osgaard’s throne. Not Jaegar. They said he’d been duped by armsmen’s lies, but Frankl must know that’s not true. He
must
know Jaegar’s behind this!”

Karel nodded, his eyes on her face.

“He said the boys’ arrest has caused alarm in court, and a number of nobles have petitioned Jaegar for a stay of execution and an investigation into the allegations.” She shrugged. “That may be true. Frankl said he’s trying to persuade Jaegar to agree. He seemed to think he would. And he seemed to think the boys would be cleared.”

Karel nodded again.

“And then he said... and Agata said it too... that I would be safer if I were married to him. And the boys would be safer too. He could protect us all from further plots. And he said that if Jaegar were to die, he’d be a good regent until Rutgar is of age. And... and what I
think
is that he sees his way to the throne, because if he
is
regent and the boys die, it’s a short step from regent to king. Especially if he’s married to me. Unless... perhaps I misread him?”

“I think not,” Karel said, remembering the tiny smile on the man’s face. Frankl had won Rikard’s dukedom and command.
Now he wants Rikard’s widow
. “He’s risen high in Osgaard’s hierarchy in a short time. No man does that without strong ambition and ruthlessness.” The duke commanded Osgaard’s army. Add to that, marriage to a royal princess and guardianship over two blood-heirs... Yes, Frankl could well be aiming for the top.

“What do we do?” Yasma asked anxiously. “Does this change our plans?”

The princess met Karel’s eyes. “It doesn’t, does it?”

“No. The coronation is the only time the bondservants’ corridors will be empty. If we wait, we lose our opportunity.”

Princess Brigitta’s expression relaxed. “Yes, that’s what I thought.”

“Why did you show him the storeroom?”

“Oh! That’s the last thing Frankl said... he’s trying to get the boys moved to somewhere more fitting of their status.”

Karel frowned.
That
could change their plans.

“I suggested the nursery, but he said it wasn’t secure enough—doors to the bondservants’ corridors and so on—and then I thought... why not here? In
this
wing? It would make it so much easier for us!”

Karel’s frown deepened. “He wouldn’t... would he?”

“To make me look more favorably on his suit? I think he’ll try. I was
very
effusive about how much I’d like to have the boys close. And he did say the room was suitable. Only one door, and no windows.”

If the boys were moved here... Karel quenched the hope in his breast. “Jaegar will never allow it.”

“No. Probably not.” The princess hesitated. “Should I tell him about Frankl’s visit?”

“You have to. If he hears about it from someone else, it will look bad for you. He
has
to believe you still trust him.”

The princess sat on the settle alongside Yasma and reached for the maid’s hand, gripping it, as if needing reassurance. He saw fear in her eyes.

“You can do it,” Karel told her. “I know you can.”

Princess Brigitta smiled faintly. “That’s what you said in the gardens.” She took a deep breath. “When? Not tonight?”

“Tonight, or tomorrow morning. Tell him you’ve heard the boys may be innocent. Let him see you’re confused and worried. Ask for his guidance. And make sure he knows you’re still obedient to his wishes about the Fithians. He must have
no
reason to send you away early!”

“Tomorrow morning,” the princess said. “I need to think what to say.”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

T
HE DAYS BLURRED
together, rain-drenched, muddy, endless. Tonight’s campsite was like last night’s, and the night before’s. Discarded branches, rotting bark, a muddy creek, tree stumps.

The lesson was much like yesterday’s too. Cora had him practice throwing his magic, and then manipulating the fires he’d lit from a distance.

“Well done,” she said, when Harkeld had built a pillar of fire into the sky and then managed to shrink it back to one, tiny, glimmering flame without putting it out.

Harkeld shrugged off the praise. At least tonight he hadn’t burned anyone.

“Dinner!” Katlen called.

They walked back to the campfire, Justen trailing behind, and ate bowls of stew. The stew, with its Ankenian spices, was also becoming tediously repetitive.

We’re doomed to ride through this landscape forever,
Harkeld thought glumly, as the rain dripped steadily from his hood. Doomed to be perpetually rained on, to never be dry again, to eat peppery stew forever.

The dreams were good, though. Sunlight and sex. He was looking forward to crawling into his tent, rolling up in his damp blanket, and falling asleep.

After they’d eaten, Cora had Frane and Rand drape an unused tent between two tree stumps. She unrolled a map beneath its shelter.

Harkeld’s interest sparked. This wasn’t part of their evening routine.
Maybe we
are
getting somewhere.

Everyone crowded close.

“Katlen, some light, please,” Cora said.

Katlen snapped her fingers. The flickering flames on her fingertips illuminated the map.

The mountain range that cut Ankeny off from the sea to the south was marked with jagged saw-tooth shapes, but the plateau of forest and woodcutters’ camps they rode across was blank apart from the black line of the road they followed and the blue lines of several rivers flowing north.

“This is where we are,” Cora said, pointing.

Harkeld examined the distance they’d traveled into Ankeny. Were they even a third of the way to the next anchor stone? “Why didn’t we go by ship from Stanic? Wouldn’t it have been quicker?”

“Too dangerous,” Rand said. “The coast east of Yabrsk has a fearsome reputation. There’s hundreds of reefs, not to mention the shallows. Drowned Man’s Shallows, they call them. Can’t remember what the reefs are called.”