The Spirit Heir (3 page)

So instead, Jinji simply reached her hand up, cupping his warm cheek—peachy against her dirty fingernails. To her surprise, his eyes softened and his hand followed, holding hers tightly against his freckles.

"You're alive?" she asked, her emotions hanging by a thread. There was one thing her illusions could not do, one thing only a real person could create—noise.

Rhen smirked, left side of his lip raising slightly, and responded, "Barely."

Joy flooded Jinji's body, filling her up, and spilling over into tears that she could not contain. Just as she thought her legs could hold her no longer, that it was too much and she would fall against him just to feel his embrace, it was Rhen who faltered. Clutching his stomach, he slumped, stumbling as one leg gave out beneath him.

Against all of her predictions, Jinji was the one who caught him.

2

RHEN

~ RAYFORT ~

Rhen opened his eyes to a world he did not recognize.

It was white, bright, filled with blurred colors he couldn’t quite make out. He blinked, trying to clear his spotty vision. But it was more than that.

There was an emptiness inside of him.

A hole that had not been there before.

"Get the king regent," a low voice said.

Rhen shifted his head, trying to see, but it was useless. Memories flashed before his eyes, raining down on him, a flood. The Naming. Little Whyllean. And then after, the banquet hall…

Rhen gasped, his body convulsing as the fissure filled itself. He remembered. The fight, a terrible fight against the lords of his homeland, against people his father would have named friends.

His father.

Gone.

The king was dead. His eldest brother Tarin was dead.

Rhen had not been fast enough. He had not uncovered enough information. He had been unable to convince his father of the truth. And now, the Ourthuri were on his homeland, fighting with his people against the crown.

Jerking forward, Rhen sat upright, coughing. But his stomach burned, unable to hold his weight, and he fell back again, clutching his wound.

"Whyllem?" He forced the words through gritted teeth, trying to hide his pain.

"He is coming, Prince Whylrhen." A shadow fell over him, a face he couldn’t see clearly, but the voice sounded familiar. Frenetic.

Rhen nodded, trying to push past the ache in his muscles. But instead, one more image slipped into sight. The face of a girl, a copper-skinned girl with closed eyelids, passed out on the ground surrounded by broken glass.

Jin.

Jin, the woman.

A sting pierced his heart, punctured it just enough to be painful, to make him wince. All of the lies. All of it lies. Their friendship. Their trust.

Rhen was a fool. He had not seen past a false face. He had not seen past King Razzaq's treachery. He had not seen his best friend's father for what he truly was—a traitor.

The Lord of Roninhythe? More like, the Lord of Rebellion.

As if his mind knew the truth to his thoughts, Rhen's vision finally cleared. A canopy came into view overhead, red velvet with a tear down the middle and hole in the upper right corner—a side effect of Rhen's overactive imagination as a boy. He was in his own bed, in the castle, home. Which at least meant the kingdom had not fallen—not yet.

Rhen looked to the side, through the cascading curtains surrounding his bed, and saw his servant Liam pacing nervously before the fireplace. He knew he’d recognized that voice.

"Liam," he said, his tone scratchy and soft. Liam stopped moving and spun around immediately, unclenching his hands.

"My Prince?"

"Water, please." Rhen coughed.

Liam rushed to his side, lifting the pitcher that had been waiting full next to his bed. He filled a silver goblet, then paused, put it down and turned back to Rhen.

"Pardon," he said, wrinkling his eyebrows and twitching his fingers.

Rhen sighed—the man had been his servant for years, would he ever just relax? But Rhen knew what he was getting at and held back the roll in his eyes. There was punishment after all, for touching a royal without first receiving permission. "Yes, Liam, please help me sit up."

The man's shoulders visibly relaxed, and he reached his arm behind Rhen's back, using surprising strength to arch it higher. Rhen waited, trying to ignore the growing ache in his stomach while feathery pillows were quickly rearranged. A moment later, Rhen was released to sink back into his perch.

"Thank you—" Rhen started to say, but in that instant, the wooden door of his bedroom was thrown open, snapping against the white stone wall with a loud
bang
.

Whyllem
, Rhen thought, laughing silently to himself. Typical entrance from his brother, but it didn’t matter. Because it was his brother. Alive. Healthy. One person Rhen had been able to save.

A smile spread across his dry lips as loving warmth sprouted in his heart.

"Leave us," Whyllem pronounced. Rhen looked on, amused to see his normally playful brother so commanding. He wore the red robes of the king, almost bright enough to match his hair. But no crown rested on his head, and no ruby seal decorated his finger. A king regent, not a king.

More so, Rhen noticed that his overcoat was black, decorated with golden threads. A little bit of glitter that could not outshine the mourning. Dark circles dipped from his brother's weary eyes, and his entire person slumped as soon as the heavy doors closed behind him. Older. That was the only word that came to mind. As though his brother had aged years rather than what Rhen hoped was only days since he had last been awake.

"Rhen," Whyllem said, excited in a way that was almost heavy. He walked over and gripped Rhen's arm, tight and clenching, while his lips wobbled and his eyes filled with moisture. "You're finally awake."

Rhen lifted his weak arm, bringing his free hand around to clasp his brother's grip. They remained still for a moment, Rhen basking in the affection he rarely received, until his brother blinked and stepped back, sniffling.

"Are they gone?" Rhen asked. He did not need to clarify. Whyllem looked at the floor and reached behind for the chair by Rhen's bedside—a reach that looked familiar, as though second nature by now.

"Father and Tarin have both passed," he said, throat tight, as though he had to fight to get the words out. "We held the death rites little over a week ago."

Whyllem looked up, meeting Rhen's stare. His pain was echoed in the eyes of his brother—one set hazel, one set emerald, but both clouded over and gray. "I wanted to wait," his brother's voice cracked slightly, "but we couldn’t. No one knew when or if you would wake, and Mother, Awenine… The women needed it, needed to be able to say goodbye."

So did his brother, Rhen knew, taking in the exhausted tone. Still, his blood boiled slightly. Rhen could be angry if he let himself. Could be furious that they did not wait for him to wake, did not give him the chance to say goodbye to his brother and to his father. But in truth, Rhen was hardly surprised. He had always been the forgotten one. So instead of yelling he just nodded, granting his brother forgiveness for proceeding without him—a small gift, but one he was in a position to give.

His family had endured much in his absence, especially his brother, adopting a position of power that he had never been groomed for, never prepared for. Rhen did not envy him. King was a role neither of them had ever wanted to play, especially king to a crumbling regime. He would do whatever he could to lighten the load.

"Whyllean?" Rhen asked, moving on to lighter topics. Grief, he always felt, was better left to lonely times, when no one else could read the pain.

His brother smiled and a little bit of light reentered his eyes. "The baby is perfect, a bundle of joy in this place that so desperately needs it. He will make a fine king one day."

"Until then, you'll do," Rhen teased, trying to maintain the bright mood, to make it last an instant longer.

"I'll try," was Whyllem's solemn reply.

Rhen paused, unsure of how to proceed. He knew what he wanted to ask, and he knew what was proper to ask—what was right, what was princely.

"Whyllem?" His brother blinked, refocusing his gaze, retreating from the thoughts that had taken hold. Rhen should ask about the rebellion, inquire about the war, question if the Ourthuri were knocking on their doors. But as usual, his royal side lost the battle and his impatience took over. "My friend, the oldworlder that traveled with me. What happened to hi—" Rhen stopped himself. Swallowed. "Her?"

Whyllem frowned, leaning back while confusion flooded his gaze. "Why?"

"Last I remember, she had been lying beside me in the rubble, not quite dead but not alive either."

Rhen's heart pounded faster as Whyllem's gaze narrowed. His palms began to sweat. Something was wrong. Terribly wrong.

"Rhen, she tried to kill you," his brother said. Rhen sucked in a breath.
No, they would not have…
"She stabbed you, she almost stabbed Mother."

"What?" Rhen gasped, sitting up in protest, even as his body screamed at him to be still. "No, that's not, who told you that?"

"I saw it, plain as day. You doused the fire and she ran toward you, clothed in some sorcery of a disguise. An instant later, you had fallen to the ground, and a knife was at Mother's throat."

Rhen grabbed his brother's shirt, half threatening, half holding himself upright. But what could he say? That he was wrong, that it had been a phantom shadow, that their own mother had stabbed him? The ramblings of a mad man. Rhen loosened his hold, but did not let go. Settling on the one thing he desperately needed to know, he asked, "Did you kill her?"

Whyllem detached himself, forcing Rhen back to the pillows with one hard shove. Still older. Still in charge. "No," he said, and Rhen instantly relaxed, allowing himself to breathe. "She was locked up with the other traitors, waiting for questioning. I believe she waits still."

"In the dungeons?" he asked, horror making his voice shallow. He had seen people in the dungeons, heard them beg for mercy, covered their lifeless bodies when their will to survive had given out. Every knight in the kingdom had spent his share of time down there—on the side of the victor. A memory strong enough to keep grown men in line, to keep rules from being broken, for no one wanted to visit those dungeons on the side of the defeated. "For how long? How long have I been asleep?"

"Almost three weeks."

"The gods!" Rhen cursed softly, lifting his hands to his face, rubbing hard, trying to wash the reality away. Three weeks? A lifetime in the dark, enough to drive a man insane. But she was a woman, he remembered, a woman who had been through more already than one person should, and it still had not been enough to break her.

"Bring her to me," Rhen ordered, uncovering his face, meeting his brother's hard gaze with iron of his own.

"Rhen," Whyllem warned. And he understood what that tone entailed, but his brother had it all wrong. This was not romantic. This was not about her being an oldworlder not fit to wed a royal prince. This was about saving the life of someone who had saved Rhen time and time again, no matter the state of their friendship—or current lack thereof. He owed her…everything.

"Whyllem." There was no budge in his voice, no relenting. His brother would heed his command, king regent or not.

Whyllem sighed and leaned back, turning away from Rhen to the door, recognizing his younger brother's unbreakable stubbornness.

"Guards," he shouted. The door immediately opened and a member of the king's guard poked his head through.

"My Liege?"

"Get the girl from the prisons, the oldworlder, and bring her to—"

"My sitting room," Rhen interrupted. Whyllem nodded his consent and the guard bowed, swiftly closing the door and moving into action.

"Rhen," Whyllem began, but Rhen was in no mood to talk about Jin any longer. Not when he knew exactly what his brother wanted to say.

"What of the war?" he interrupted, changing the subject. "Have the Ourthuri landed on our shores? Do we know where their armies gather? What has been our response? Do we know which cities of Whylkin still align themselves with the crown?"

Questions rolled off his tongue, quick and sharp. His body might be ill, but his mind was not. The fight was not over—quite the opposite in fact. It had just begun. At least, he hoped so.

Whyllem leaned back in his chair, weary, taking a deep breath. "I'm afraid, Rhen," he said softly, almost so Rhen could not hear, but he did. And he heard the defeat in his brother's voice.

"Tell me," Rhen urged. Whyllem and Tarin had always had minds for politics, but it was Rhen who had always had the mind for war. Why would his older brothers have studied it? In a strong, unified kingdom there was no need. But Rhen, somehow in the back of his mind, had always known this day would come and had prepared for it.

"Roninhythe, Fayfall, and Lothlian have unified with the Ourthuri against us. Ostemeade, trapped geographically between Roninhythe and Lothlian, has declared neutrality and will not fight for either side. Airedale remains silent, as does the mountain city of Brython. I doubt we can expect aid, but I have sent messengers nonetheless. I'm waiting to hear if they will at least help guard the Straits against a sea attack, fighting only the Ourthuri and none of our own countrymen."