Samir wasn’t as happy about the prospect as his mother was. A civil war wasn’t something he’d ever wanted for his grand clan. It would lead to bloodshed and sanctions from the other grand clans, and that would destroy their economy.
“Don’t look at me that way,” Dalatteya said, raising her eyebrows. “It’s his own fault. For once, I did nothing. Well, almost nothing, besides a few strategically dropped comments around certain lord-vassals.”
“Mother,” Samir said exasperatedly.
“It’s not my fault he’s too stubborn to play politics. The current state of affairs is entirely his own doing.” She looked very pleased. “I didn’t expect it to be so easy. Emyr was never as shortsighted as his son. We won’t even have to do anything. All we need to do now is wait.”
Samir just shook his head, but it wasn’t like his mother was wrong. Warrehn’s shaky political standing was mostly his own doing. On the bright side, he wouldn’t have to seduce Warrehn if things worked out as his mother expected them to.
Now the waiting game began.
***
They would never know if Warrehn’s political standing would have deteriorated enough to lead to an open revolt, because a few days later, Warrehn brought home his younger brother, who had turned out to be alive.
And that changed everything.
Apparently, Prince Eruadarhd—or Eridan, as he called himself now—wasn’t actually killed in the attack all those years ago. And he was now Warrehn’s heir if something were to happen to Warrehn.
It probably went without saying that Samir’s mother was furious. Now taking Warrehn out of the picture wouldn’t accomplish anything. Moreover, Eridan looked uncannily like the late queen-consort, who had been beloved by the common folk, and their people seemed to be softening toward Warrehn by proxy. The revolt that had seemed all but inevitable a few days ago was now just a distant possibility. Everyone was too busy discussing the miraculous return of the long-lost, beautiful prince who had been raised by the monks of the High Hronthar, and the happy reunion between the brothers. It was the good press Warrehn had so badly needed, so Eridan’s return completely ruined Dalatteya’s plans.
And yet, Samir’s mother seemed rather fond of Eridan—which made no sense.
“Something is amiss,” she said, rubbing at her temples with a frustrated look on her face. “I like Eridan. I should despise him as much as I despise Emyr’s other spawn. And yet, I like him. It’s inexplicable.”
Frowning, Samir sat up straighter. “You think someone has messed with your mind?”
His mother’s lips thinned. She said nothing, but her silence was answer enough: she clearly had similar suspicions.
“Who?” Samir said. “Do you think it has something to do with the mind traps in your mind that Warrehn mentioned?”
“I think…” she said, looking away. “I think it’s the High Hronthar. The mind adepts aren’t as harmless and apolitical as they pretend to be.”
“What?” Samir stared at her. “What makes you think so?”
Dalatteya’s expression became blank. “Emyr has told me. He told me to never stay alone with them or look them in the eye if I could help it.”
Suppressing the urge to tell her that it was bizarre of her to trust the words of a man she had hated—and had killed—Samir considered it for a moment. “But why? Why would someone from the High Hronthar mess with your mind to make you like Eridan?”
“That is the question, isn’t it,” Dalatteya murmured, her face pensive. “The latest revelation that they have been hiding Eridan all these years almost certainly proves that they have their own agenda. I wouldn’t be surprised if they groomed Eridan into their puppet with the intention to place him on the throne when the time was right.”
Samir still had trouble believing that. But he supposed that would explain why the mind adepts of the High Hronthar would mess with his mother’s mind. Dalatteya wasn’t even sure why she had been so confident that Eridan was dead when the body had never been found. That conviction—as well as her positive disposition toward Eridan—could have been planted in her mind. It wasn’t impossible.
Either way, the result was the same: with Eridan’s return, there was no longer a point in trying to remove Warrehn from the throne.
Truth be told, Samir was relieved. All the options they’d had—seduction, revolution, or assassination—ranged from bad to horrible. He did want to be the king, yes, but he wanted to be a decent person more. Maybe he really was soft, as his mother said, but Samir was fine with it.
So he gave Warrehn and his brother a wide berth, relieved not to have to deal with Warrehn’s hard, disdainful gaze on him. Not that Warrehn didn’t look at him at all. Samir still caught him looking at him sometimes—before quickly looking away.
It made him wonder.
Samir also wondered why Warrehn seemed to look unhappier and more stressed as the days turned into months. He often saw Warrehn lurking in the darkest corners of the ballrooms, clearly not wanting the attention his status as a king warranted. Eridan seemed to be the one doing most of the socializing, but Samir noticed that even Eridan’s bright smiles started to turn strained with every passing day.