Quietly, she told him what happened – the fight in the dungeons, the throne room, Balak’s troubling presence, and Castien sitting at that bitch’s side.
Vern shook his head. “And now we have two people to save. Are you so certain Castien wants to be saved?”
How dare he ask that? “You know what they did to him. You saw him. If Octavius is right–”
“And if he's wrong?”
Her father was still refusing to consider the idea that Castien was innocent. Everyone was a threat in his eyes. “This is not the time for this conversation. We are getting him out.”
The question was how. She couldn't wait for the tournament. Castien looked hale and whole, physically speaking, but she didn't trust Yelena to honor the truce, to ensure the tournament was fair, and especially not to uphold her bargain and let Castien go.
The prince of Akerami was another problem. The sight of him had been a shock, but she’d forgotten about him the moment she found Castien cowering like a beaten puppy. Balak must have sailed straight to Nadraken from her court. The prince was a rogue but a loyal one. He wouldn't be here without his mother's approval. Why would Akerami send a prince to Nadraken?
Vern murmured, “Declare me as your champion. I will demand to duel Balak first – or kill him before the tournament begins.”
She paced. “No. Don't let them see you. I won't have you in the dungeons, too.”
Two of her Escorts were trapped here. Her claws pricked her palms. “I will handle Balak. Get Jerome.”
He nodded and turned to the window.
A heavy knock sounded on her door. Softly, a male voice murmured, “The Queen sends refreshments, your highness.”
The shadows beside the bed shifted.
The door opened.
Anais stepped to the table, hiding her sword with her body. A servant barging in without permission was a deliberate insult. She was a Queen. Yelena was provoking her.
But it wasn’t the servant carrying a tray whom she glared at.
The insufferable Prince Balak strolled around the boy and into her prison. “Hello, beautiful highness Anais!”
Her new sword flew out of its sheath and beneath the prince’s chin. Behind him, the servant halted, the dishes on his tray quivering. Two tall women rushed through the door. Two more swords slid from their sheaths.
Balak blinked. “Oh. Am I not welcome? I only wanted to greet my favorite Queen.” His smile was steady as he flicked his fingers at his protectors. They backed up a small step.
Anais said coolly, “Wouldn’t that be your mother?”
“Jealousy doesn’t become a beautiful, intelligent woman such as yourself. My mother is my mother. You, your majesty, are a Queen. And far more interesting than Yelena.” His tongue ran over his lips, and he winced. “I really do hate the desert.”
“I did not grant you an audience, Prince Balak. You may go.”
His grin widened. “Yes, well, what's a little posturing between monarchs?”
“You are not a Queen.”
“No, but– Ah, careful.” He gently pushed her blade a few inches away from his neck. “My mother does love me. The spoiled third child, you know. Or maybe not? I heard your siblings hardly ever visit court.”
She stared at him. If she ran him through, would that be considered an act of war? The Consort Tournament’s contestants were permitted to sabotage each other. There was no such thing as cheating, though murder was frowned upon – unless she wasn't caught. She could claim he attacked her. He had rudely invaded her room; she was only defending herself.
Slowly, she lowered her weapon. The prince was the enemy she knew. Yelena would no doubt provide a worse obstacle to Castien if the prince were removed from the board. “Unlike yours, my mother is dead.”
Balak winked and casually turned his back to her, wandering to the four-poster bed. “Yes, family can be difficult. Is that why you have your Escorts? Obedient, loyal, well-trained pets. Muchmore reliable than unruly siblings. My sister, for instance – a whiny, ungrateful bitch. I bring her the loveliest pearls the sea has to offer, and she can't be bothered to thank me. Can you believe she's the heir?”
His guards stared at her. She watched all three of her intruders. The servant had disappeared, his tray perching on a small table beside the door.
She set her blade on her palm and pretended to examine it. “Your personal problems are of no interest to me. What do you want, Prince Balak?”
