The Heir: A Snow White Retelling (The Twisted Kingdoms Book 3) Page 6

  At least, he believed you enjoyed it.

  Holding her hands out to the fire, she huffed. Tempest had never been able to blush on command, but her cheeks always pinkened when she was angry. The king had no clue how close he was to being stabbed in the throat.

  He’d probably like that.

  Another shiver wracked her body, and she wrapped her arms around her waist. He hadn’t bothered to hide his thoughts tonight. The king’s expression had been far too heated, and his eyes had darted toward his bed one too many times. It hadn’t escaped her, either, that he had circular hooks on all four posters of his bed—presumably to tie all his mistresses down.

  All his dead mistresses.

  “Don’t dwell on such things,” she muttered.

  Abandoning the fire, she moved to the large mirror to the left of the hearth. There was no way she’d be able to get out of the tight dress without using her reflection. Tempest turned her back to the mirror and reached her hands to the laces in the back, craning her neck to make sure she didn’t knot the ribbons. She slowed as she noticed how pale her complexion had grown. Just a few minutes in the king’s presence, and he’d reduced her to a quivering ninny.

  “You’re no shrinking violet,” she whispered to her reflection. “You’re better than this.”

  Tempest managed to unlace the gown without cutting the laces and tossed it onto the nearest brocade chair near the fire. Pondering the king’s depravity wouldn’t help her. In fact, there were much more important goings-on that deserved her attention.

  The Crown had rebels in their dungeons. The question was who were they? Just some poor Talagan scapegoats? Or were they from the Dark Court? Either way, she needed to know what was going on.

  Her skin pebbled as she moved away from the fire and into the wardrobe. She pulled on a pair of simple trousers and a cotton shirt, grabbed her boots, and then moved back to the fire, sitting on the floor to put her boots on. It was time to make a plan. It wasn’t a question of discovering the rebels—Tempest already had their location—but she could hardly walk down to the prison and sleuth around, let alone free anyone who needed to escape.

  Or could she?

  Learning the guard rotations was one of the first things she’d done after being moved from the Hounds’ barracks to the palace. She squinted at the clock on her nightstand. Only half an hour until the guards changed rotation. That was hardly enough time to get to the dungeons, but Destin had announced that they were to be executed in three days’ time.

  Her stomach twisted uncomfortably. Trusting anything that came out of the king’s mouth was a risk. She couldn’t rely on his word. Destin could change his mind and have them killed the next day. She had to move now.

  With a deep, shuddering breath, Tempest finished lacing her leather boots, braided her hair back, and slipped a midnight-black cloak over her shoulders. Her fingers dug into the pockets, double-checking her weapons. Satisfaction curled through her when she felt the hilt of a small dagger and the little leather pouch that contained her lock-picking tools. Her gaze darted to the sword leaning against the trunk that rested at the foot of her bed, but she thought better of it. Tonight required stealth, not power. And, besides, if she was caught fighting, it would only put her in hot water. If anyone managed to catch her, she had to rely on her lying skills.

  On silent feet, Tempest ghosted out of her room, down the corridor, and then down several flights of stairs, making sure to keep to the shadows when anyone passed by. It was ridiculous how easy it was to slip through the palace unnoticed. No one noticed her as she glided down the servants’ corridors. Music echoed through the hallways from the betrothal ceremony that still raged on. She rolled her eyes. The courtiers never needed an excuse to drink themselves into stupors and make asses of themselves. Her mind turned back to the king. Had he returned to the celebration or stayed in his room? The last thing she needed was to run into him.

  The music faded to a dull roar as she descended deeper into the belly of the castle. She slowed as she neared the dungeon. Tempest peeked around the corner, and her heart thumped when she caught sight of the large, wooden door to the prison cells. No guards. She’d arrived at the perfect time.

  Tempest wasted no time rushing around the corner and got to work with her lock-picking tools. Within seconds, the mechanism in the lock clicked, and she eased the door open, wincing when it creaked loudly on its hinges. It was either laziness or brilliance on the guards’ part to leave it so no one could sneak out without making some sort of ruckus; she was guessing laziness.

  Tempest tucked away her tools in her little pouch and edged inside the dungeon, making sure to close the door behind her. Carefully, she snuck down the dark staircase to the prison below. Everything had gone so smoothly. Her uncles would have been impressed by her abilities. She slowed near the bottom.

  You have five minutes, maybe less. Find the rebels and then get out.

  The dungeon was one long, solitary corridor lined with cells on either side, with a shadowy alcove between each space to separate them. She made sure her hood was pulled low over her face as she stalked across the dusty stone floor, making sure to peer into each and every cell for a face she might recognize. Many prisoners were asleep. Others called nonsensical things to her, but the ones who stared blankly at her like their soul had long since departed the world left her chilled.

  Whispers followed in her wake, and she resisted the urge to hide. There wasn’t time for such a thing. A huge man approached the bars of his cell and licked his lips.

  “Come closer,” he whispered.

  She ignored him and continued on, even though her skin was crawling. There was no way he could discern she was a woman. Perhaps he was just trying to intimidate her or take advantage of the situation. Her pulse ratcheted up as each excruciating second passed. How the bloody hell would she know which ones were the rebels?

  Tempest rushed forward and glanced to her left, then almost missed a step.

  Brine.

  Oh, God.

  Forgetting to be cautious, she lunged for the bars of his cell and wasted no time getting to work on the lock. She had to get him out now.

  “Time to go,” she murmured, her fingers steady despite her fear.

  Brine’s wolf-like eyes glowed in the darkness as he pushed away from the back wall, his chains slithering across the floor. She’d be able to break the locks on the manacles easily, but it would still eat up valuable time.

  He paused on the other side of the bars and curled his fingers around hers. “No,” he growled, urging her to stop.

  “It’s already done,” she hissed, pulling another lock-pick from her cloak, pressing it into his hands. “Get started on your cuffs. We don’t have much time.”

  Brine shook his head. “I am exactly where I need to be. Do not get me out.”

  Tempest paused and met his stare, not believing what she was hearing. “They will behead you in a matter of days,” she snapped quietly, tripping over her words in her urgency. “There is no guarantee that I’ll have a better opportunity than this to get you out. And the king might change his mind and kill you tomorrow for all I know. So, I—”

  “You must get out of here,” he cut in, voice far gentler than Tempest was used to. He squeezed her hands. “It is far too dangerous for you to be here.” He quirked a smile. “Do not worry about me. I know what I am doing. This isn’t my first time in a royal prison, pup.”

  “That isn’t funny.”

  “It wasn’t supposed to be.”

  “Then—”

  An ungodly yowling filled the air from the end of the prison, freezing both Tempest and Brine to the spot. The man responsible for the noise screeched and screamed all manner of incomprehensible things and rattled the bars of his cage until the inevitable sound of guards’ heavy footsteps tramped down the stairs.

  “Go,” Brine urged, holding the lock-pick out to her. “I’ll see you soon.”

  She stared at his outstretched hand and snarled at him. “Keep
it. I’ll not leave you without some sort of weapon.” There’s no way she would leave him without helping in some way.

  Tempest retreated into the closest alcove, hoping against hope that the shadows in the dungeon and her black cloak would obscure her from the eyes of the guards long enough for her to escape. A dark smile drifted across her face when the guards thundered past her, their armor clattering as they moved deeper into the dungeon. People only saw what they wanted to see. They were too focused on the screaming prisoner to even consider there was an enemy lurking in the shadows.

  Fools.

  All the better for her.

  Taking advantage of the clamor, she crept out of her alcove and ran through the dungeon as quickly as she dared. She slowed when approaching the stairs. There had been two guards who had come to investigate. That should have been all that were on duty, but one could never be sure. Tempest almost rolled her eyes as she reached the top. The guards had left the door open. Someone needed to train their men better.

  Get out. Their laziness is your good fortune.

  She held her breath as she slunk away from the prison doors, keeping an eye out for anyone who might be lurking about.

  Tempest exhaled one huge breath when she had put three levels between herself and the dungeon. The corridor to her rooms came into view, and her heart began to slow. That had been too close. If the guards had been even the least bit competent, she would have been discovered.

  She let herself into her room, closed the door, and leant her back against it. What the wicked hell was going on? Why was Brine in the prison, and why did he want to be there? Sweet poison, she hated being out of the loop. The Jester would be hearing about this. Her gaze strayed to the bed as fatigue washed over her.

  He’d hear from her in the morning. Maybe he’d have a reasonable explanation.

  She snorted.

  Highly doubtful.

  Eight

  Tempest

  Sleep evaded her.

  She glared at the moonlight shining through her southern window, her mind reeling with unanswered questions and possible conspiracies. Was this how Pyre planned to send a man in to meet her? It seemed a bit extreme, but the Jester was known to be unhinged. She punched the pillow, trying to get comfortable. If Brine wasn’t there for her, why was he here? And why was he in the dungeon? Brine was one of the stealthiest people Tempest knew. What was the ploy?

  She needed to talk to him properly.

  There was no way she could reach him until at least the next change in the guards, which wouldn’t be until well after dawn now. There was no choice but to let things remain as they were for now.

  Go to sleep.

  Temp huffed and kicked at the long nightgown she’d been given. It was undoubtedly the softest thing she’d ever worn, but it tangled around her legs every time she went to bed. It was so annoying. If someone attacked, it would be a hazard to try to escape. It would be better to just sleep naked. Her lips twitched at that. Her maids would be shocked.

  Her arms wrapped around the down pillow as she flipped onto her other side so she could stare at the flames dancing in the hearth. Her eyelids began to flutter, and, at some point between worrying about Brine and plotting her next move, she sank into an unsettled, reluctant slumber.

  Dark dungeons and bloodthirsty lions greeted her.

  Tempest gasped and rolled out of bed, blade in her hand.

  She scanned the room, her heart threatening to pound right out of her chest. Was it the nightmare that had awoken her or something else? Her vision was gritty, limbs heavy, and the moon was still out. Not more than a few minutes or hours must have passed. What time was it anyway?

  She straightened, her toes curling inward at the chill of the floor. She rubbed at her left temple as her brain fought against her grogginess to function properly.

  A piercing scream cut through the night.

  That wasn’t something she’d imagined.

  Bang. Bang. Bang.

  Despite herself, Tempest jumped at the pounding on her door. It was as if someone was trying to break down the door. She lifted the hem of her nightgown and tied it into a knot, exposing part of her calves, ankles, and feet. Silently, she retrieved her sword from the foot of the bed, pulled it from the scabbard, then approached the door.

  “My lady!” a man bellowed from the other side.

  She yanked open the door, her teeth bared, ready for a fight. The soldier blinked at her, his gaze moving from her sword to her hair and then down to her bare feet.

  “What is going on?” she barked, pulling his attention back to her face.

  “You need to evacuate.”

  “What…” she broke off as an almighty yell echoed down the hallway, followed by harsh commands.

  King Destin.

  Without waiting for the soldier to explain the situation further, Tempest pushed past him and sprinted down the corridor, her bare feet slapping against the cold floor. She skidded around the corner into the wing and froze to the spot, not daring to breathe.

  King Destin knelt on the floor, clutching a small body to his chest with shaking hands. Blood spattered the floor around him. A brown braid trailed over his arm and pooled on the carpet.

  Ansette.

  “No…” Tempest uttered, not daring to believe what was before her eyes. “No, not—”

  “My daughter is fine, by a stroke of luck I will forever be thankful for,” Destin said. He lifted his head and glanced over his daughter’s body.

  Tempest took several slow steps forward and edged around the king, then knelt near the princess’s slippered feet. The king loosened his hold on his daughter just enough for Ansette to sit up. Her eyes were wide and white, her face tear-stained, her opulent lilac dress a macabre mess of blood and dirt. What the bloody hell had happened? Not to mention that Ansette should have been in bed at this time. Why was the princess still galivanting around?

  “What happened here?” Tempest asked gently, placing her hand on the girl’s leg. “Where are you hurt?”

  “I’m not.”

  “I’m glad to hear that,” Tempest murmured. She glanced at the blood soaking the blue carpets. “Whose blood is this?”

  Destin trembled, and he glared at the floor. That was an interesting reaction. She’d thought him a man with no heart. He hadn’t even wept for his oldest son, and, yet, he seemed genuinely shaken and upset about the princess. More upset and in shock than angry, even, which was more genuine emotion than Tempest had ever seen from the king.

  It doesn’t change anything.

  He was still a mass murderer who’d allowed one of his children to be murdered. His favoritism for his daughter wouldn’t sway her view of the man.

  “S-s-some…” Ansette stuttered, her bottom lip wobbling. “Someone tried to—”

  “Someone tried to murder my precious daughter,” Destin muttered, his shock contorting into rage. “Had my rebel of a daughter not decided to sneak back to the party downstairs, they would have succeeded.”

  “Rebel?” Tempest ventured, flinching at Destin’s choice of words.

  “I—I did not mean to act so improper,” Ansette cried, rubbing her tears into her father’s chest. “But I just wanted to stay at the party. It was going on so late, I didn’t want to go to bed, I—”

  “Then who was hurt?” Tempest asked, pointing at the blood on the floor. “The would-be assassin?” Her gut told her that this was not the case.

  Destin sighed. “Ansette knew I would not be happy if she returned to the party so late. She changed into another gown, so she would not be recognized, and had her handmaid sleep in her bed, so if anybody checked in on her, they would believe it was Ansette asleep there. It is the handmaid’s blood you see on the floor, Tempest. The handmaid was murdered.”

  Sword in hand, Tempest stood and moved cautiously into the princess’s room. The huge four-poster bed was a mess of feathers and torn silk curtains, bathed in crimson. She’d seen battle, even some carnage, but nothing like this. Everything
was red. It was a literal bloodbath. Her stomach rebelled at the stench of iron in the air, and she gagged before holding a hand to her mouth when she spotted what remained of the handmaid.

  It had not been a clean and simple assassination. Whoever had committed the crime, reveled in the pain and destruction.

  Thank the stars that Ansette had not been in bed.

  No one deserved such a death. The poor handmaid.

  “Someone needs to notify the girl’s family,” Tempest muttered, feeling a bit numb herself.

  “It’s already done,” Madrid’s voice said softly from the shadows.

  Tempest’s blinked hard when he materialized at her right side. In the madness, she’d completely missed his presence. That was sloppy.

  “Any idea who did this?” That should have been her first question.

  “No.”

  “No one saw anything?”

  Madrid glanced toward the grim soldier staring blankly at the room. “No one saw anything. The guards outside the room were drugged, and the blood now in the corridor was from the traffic in and out of this room. It’s been suggested that the assassin fled through the window.”

  Tempest blinked at the open window. Scaling the palace would have been nearly impossible without being discovered.

  Madrid watched her. “We are dealing with no ordinary assassin.”

  No ordinary assassin… Did he mean he thought they were dealing with someone who was Talagan? “A shapeshifter?”

  “A bird is easily unnoticed.”

  The king stepped into the room and stood at her left side.

  “You believe the rebellion did this?”

  “I have their men,” Destin said. “Of course it was them. They were taking their revenge.” He was vicious in his certainty.

  While it was possible it was someone with the ability to shapeshift, Tempest doubted this was the work of the Dark Court. Even Pyre, in all his cruelty as the Jester, would never lay a hand on the princess. Ansette was innocent. She was good. She was not like her father at all.

  “Triple the guards on this floor,” Destin ordered Madrid. “We will not have a repeat of this attempt on either my daughter’s life or that of my future queen. Do you understand?”