In the Wake of the Ruined (The Siren Mage, #2)(7)

I froze, wedged between the sharp edges of my rage and curiosity.

A hard gaze bored into mine. “It was because of me.”

Some sick, heavy feeling began to fill my stomach. I let go of his shirt and straightened, keeping my face even, inscrutable.

“Your father, he was full of zeal and passion, wasn’t he?” He smoothed the rumpled front of his clothes. “But not for his crown, and not for your mother—never her. I had to encourage their consummation, you know. Had to feed him a draught to help him conceive their first child. He only had eyes for that mistress of his.” He shook his head. “After years and years of my tireless efforts, I decided it would be best to rid him of his distraction.”

Coolly, Eftan lowered himself to the chair and stacked the contracts into a tidy pile.

The sounds of the ship preparing for sail—the shouts and whistles, the creaks and booms—all faded behind the sudden hammering in my ears. “You killed her.”

An eerie stillness overtook him as he watched me with fevered eyes. “An overdose of pure nepenthe oil. Quite simple. Quick.” He straightened his sloped shoulders, pride pouring off him like a miasma.

I thought only of Imogen and the threat he posed to her safety as I rounded the table and violently tipped back the chair in which he sat. I hovered over him like a dark cloud.

He raised his hands in surrender, speaking in a frenetic rush. “It was because of my intervention that you were born. It was because of my guidance that you excelled. I’d always known you’d be a better ruler than he ever was. I let him know it and he finally agreed to the transference.” Despite his alarm, he still managed a nonchalant arrogance. A keen, tactical air. “And it was all for the best.”

For the best.

What an insultingly tidy way to describe the brutal death of my father, my own self-inflicted poisoning, and my premature ascension. I released my hold on his chair and let its front legs crash to the floor. “You have murdered. You have abetted regicide—”

“No, I have done the difficult, dirty, necessary work.” Eftan set a firm hand atop the contracts. “I made you,” he said in a soft voice. “I made you to be even greater than the Great God Panos himself.”

I pressed my fists into the table and leaned in. I fought to leash the thrashing anger within me so that he wouldn’t know how deeply I felt it, but my words came like spitting venom nonetheless. “Hear me clearly and understand. Whatever power you think you possess can be taken as easily as your head can be severed from your neck.”

He dipped his chin, unfazed, and in a tone that rocked through me with its surety, said, “It is not power that I wield. It is love.”

“Love…”

“Every decision, every action I have taken, has been for the kingdom and the crown, yes, but at its root, it has been for you.” His gaze locked with mine and he spoke with precise conviction. “And there is no action too vile or ignoble—there is nothing I would not do to keep you and this kingdom together.”

My roiling anger turned at once to icy fear. Eftan was ruthless, calculating, determined. He located and extricated a person’s weakness with a healer’s precision. And he viewed Imogen as more than just my weakness. To him, she was a disease. A blight. Suddenly, the thought of him letting her leave Varya—as he’d said he’d done—felt impossible. Not when letting her do so meant she could possibly return.

“What did you do to her?”

He went still. He did not blink. Did not breathe.

I stepped nearer, glaring down at him. “If you harmed her—”

“I told you the truth,” he said. “Shockingly, she did what was right. Left of her own accord. Had enough sense to let you marry and leave you be.”

He straightened his spine and tipped back his chin. Resoluteness hung about him as he made for the cabin door. Slowly, he bent and retrieved the sack that lay before it and took his time returning, heeled shoes clacking languidly over the floorboards. When he reached the end of the table, he tossed the sack upon it, careful not to hit the wine flagon and stack of contracts.

“Do you remember the last words she spoke to you, Theodore?”

The air knocked from my chest. I remembered her last words. They had left a festering gash in their wake. I stared blankly at the sack, unable to pull in a full breath.

Eftan spoke in a light, mocking tone. “‘See to your duty and let me see to mine.’” I could feel the weight of his attention. When I remained still and quiet, he pointed to the sack. “Go on. Have a look.”

“I have no interest in entertaining your manipulations, Eftan.”

“Very well, I will do it for you.” Like a viper attacking, he snatched the sack and ripped open the tie, then poured a heap of iridescent black silk onto the table. Afternoon sunlight snagged on the gentle blues and greens and purples that swirled over its surface.

The binding gown I’d gifted to Imogen.

Something rocked through me. Hot, then cold. Pain, then numbness. And yet I made myself like stone.

Eftan took the gown and laid it out over the table with care. “It was found discarded on the Hercule. The ship that Mela had reserved for her. The one whose captain she murdered. It is no surprise to any of us that the ring you gifted her was nowhere to be found.”

It took every ounce of strength I had to remain impassive.