Except this boat might be the only chance she had at escape. She couldn’t lose it.
“Come on!” Paddling hard, her arms quivered, but panic fueled her strength as she fought the current.
It was a losing battle, the swamped boat too unwieldy. Cursing, Zarrah grabbed the rope still fastened to the front and jumped.
Water closed over her head, the cold a knife to the chest, but Zarrah ignored it and swam. Her boots hit the rocky bottom, but she kept swimming with the current even as she angled up the beach.
Waist-deep.
Thigh-deep.
But she was running out of beach.
“Better hurry,” someone called from above, this time a different voice, though the amusement was the same. This was a joke to them. Entertainment to break the doldrums of boredom.
Looping the rope around her hands, Zarrah twisted and braced as the submerged boat floated past.
The rope went taut. She heaved, trying to pull it onto the beach, but the current was so strong.
Zarrah screamed, drawing on every reserve of strength as she took one step back. Then two, pulling the boat with her. She was fully out of the water now, heels digging into rocky sand as she dragged the small vessel partially onto the beach.
Sucking in breath after breath, she watched water flow from the holes in the boat, waiting until it was mostly drained before pulling it far enough away from the deadly flow that she deemed it secure.
Then she fell on her ass.
And looked up at those who had taunted her.
Across the stretch of water before her rose a cliff, braziers hanging from L-shaped brackets bolted to the rock, illuminating the water and the beach as though it were a stage and the guards the spectators. “Fuck you,” she screamed at them, hating that her people would behave this way. Like she was theater for them. Just like everyone else who’d been brought to the island.
Everyone else …
Zarrah’s blood went cold. You idiot. You cursed, loud fool.
Hand closing on a rock, she slowly turned to look at the island behind her. An island full of the worst criminals in all of the Valcottan Empire.
And found eyes staring back at her.
HE KEPT LOW to his horse’s neck, one fist clenched tight in its mane to keep from being blown out of the saddle as his mount struggled its way up the hill. Around him, his guards did the same, the wind as vicious as he’d ever seen it. Only those desperate or mad were out in the storm. Keris was both.
Please be all right.
The guard who’d brought the message hadn’t known details, only that something had happened.
That someone had tried to steal his eight-year-old sister.
He’d kept her at Greenbriar because it had felt safer. Granting the harem their liberty had meant allowing them to come and go as they pleased, which compromised the security of the inner sanctum.
He’d been afraid Sara might be an easy target for anyone who got inside. With everyone around him dropping like flies, keeping the sister he loved best far away had seemed the wisest choice.
He’d been a fool to believe distance would be enough to protect her.
Digging in his heels, Keris urged his mount down the lane leading to the austere building. He dismounted in front of it, drawing his sword as he raced to the doors, finding them barred from the
inside.
His stomach clenched, and he hammered on the wood, hearing cries of dismay from beyond.
“Open up in the name of the king,” Dax roared, having come up beside him. “You are not in danger from us! Let us in!”
“How do we know this isn’t a trick?” a woman called through the latticework on the upper part of the door, only her shadow visible.
Keris’s patience snapped. Ripping back the hood of his cloak, he snarled, “Open the door and take me to my sister, or we will break it in.”
Her eyes fixed on him, then widened. “It’s the King himself!”
Her surprise was warranted because his father wouldn’t have come. Would barely have looked up from his desk if he’d learned one of his daughters had been endangered.
There was a shuffle of motion, and then the door eased inward. Ignoring Dax’s urging that he hold back, Keris pushed inside. “Where is Sara? Is she harmed?”
The woman bobbed three curtsies in a row, and he was about ready to scream at her to stand up straight when she said, “The Princess is unharmed, Your Grace. I’ll take you to her. We have captured the perpetrator. He is injured, but alive.”
Not for long.
Sword still in his hand, Keris followed the woman, two of Dax’s men pushing ahead, their eyes wary. Then they drew to a halt.
Breaking into a run, Keris rounded the corner to find a cluster of women. They stiffened at the sight of armed men, then pulled back to reveal Sara sitting on the ground next to a still woman, a pool of blood around her. “Sara?”
His little sister looked up, face streaked with tears. “Keris?”
He dropped to his knees, blood soaking his trousers as he pulled her against him. “Are you hurt?”
“No,” she sobbed. “He dragged me out of my room. When the abbess tried to stop him, he stabbed her.” Sara broke off with a choked breath. “She stabbed him back with a knitting needle, and he let me go.”
Keris glanced down at the dead woman, recognizing her as the one he’d threatened should anything happen to his sister. His stomach tightened, because he didn’t think that it was threats from him that had driven her to protect Sara with a knitting needle.
“Your Grace,” Dax muttered, and he pointed to the splatters of blood leading down the hallway.
“Stay here,” Keris murmured to his sister, handing her off to one of the women and following the trail of blood, Dax at his elbow. His heart beat with steady thumps fueled by anger, but as he rounded the bend to find two women with heavy candlesticks standing over a prone form, Keris sheathed his weapon and said, “Hello, little brother.”
“Keris,” Royce said through gritted teeth. “It’s been an age.”
“That’s Your Grace to you, you little pissant,” Dax growled, but Keris waved a calming hand at him before turning to the candlestick-wielding women. “You have my gratitude for your service, sisters. Thank you.”
The women grudgingly lowered their weapons, dropping into curtsies before retreating down the hall. Keris walked slowly and crouched next to Royce, eyeing his scowling half brother. Royce was years younger than Keris and, last he’d heard, was stationed at one of the garrisons in the southern Kestark mountains. He was also next in line for the throne if Keris didn’t produce an heir. Royce was bleeding from a wound on the side of his head, presumably from one of the candlesticks, but the
knitting needle jutting out of his side was of more immediate concern. “What brings you to Vencia?
Thinking of taking vows to God and joining the cloth?”
“Fuck you, Keris.”
“Incest aside, I’m afraid you’re not my type.”
Royce’s glower deepened. “You were always a smart-mouthed little prick. Yapping like a dog about your stupid ideals and then scuttling behind Otis whenever anyone challenged you. The only reason no one killed you was because you weren’t worth the effort.”
Thud.
God help him, but Keris wished he could burn that sound from his memory. “Hiding behind Otis is no longer an option. So by all means, say and do what you will, brother.”