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Eugenides knew what it looked like when Relius lied. If he were only a king, he wouldn’t have been able to get a clear picture, not when Relius was always carefully polite and always shutting him out of any substantial conversation. However, whatever the court might think, Eugenides was not just a king, and as a Thief, he’d had plenty of opportunities to watch Relius and learn which lines of his face and shades of his voice indicated truth, evasion, half-truth, lie.
Lounging against his throne in the warm room, Eugenides kept up the disengaged look he’d worn all morning. Yet behind his indifferent expression, he trained his whole attention on Relius. Attolia couldn’t afford for her spy network in the Mede Empire to fail, especially not on this scale. Not if they were to have any hope of keeping off the Medes.
He heard the moment Relius faltered. It wasn’t even a full lie, not if he was reading him right. But when Relius said he would know tomorrow who had betrayed them, there was a small quiver in his voice that shouldn’t be there. A barely perceptible tightening of the muscles around his eyes. Relius already knew.
Eugenides glanced at his wife. Irene looked concerned, but no more than usual. She hadn’t noticed.
He didn’t want to tell her.
If Relius had betrayed them, it could wreck the nation of Attolia. If Relius had betrayed her, it would wreck Irene. He weighed the two evils in his mind as Relius left the room and the returned spies were helped out.
He knew what he would rather do, but Irene had asked him not just to be her king, not just her husband. He opened his mouth. He hated being king.
Relius’s hands didn’t shake as he wrote, though his eyes kept darting to the vial on the edge of his desk. I have failed you, my queen. I am your betrayer, though believe me, I did not seek to be so. He hoped she believed him, little though he would deserve it.
He had always known that one day he would be here, that he would not sink down to the grave in peace. Since Attolia had married Eugenides, he’d felt the end drawing nearer. He had been arrogant enough to expect a trap from the new king, to think himself loyal enough to his queen to stay at his post in spite of the danger. He’d thought he could die a hero, even if disgraced in the eyes of the world.
Yet here he was, writing out a confession of betrayal. The king had not meddled—not framed him falsely or even revealed his true failure. Relius had dug his grave all on his own, and now he was not faithful enough to confess it to his queen’s face. He was a coward who would not face the punishment he had doled out to many traitors before him.
Relius looked again from the poison to his pen. She would be disappointed. Eugenides would be pleased. Teleus would hate him. Feet rumbled on the stairs. Relius dipped his pen in the ink pot and wrote faster.
Teleus’s heart beat quicker than it should have, even with the rapid pace at which he and his men climbed the stairs toward Relius’s rooms. He knew the charge was nonsense, but unlike Attolia’s courtiers, he had no intention of underestimating the once-Thief. Since the goatfoot had weaseled his way into the crown, he and Relius had known their days were numbered. If Eugenides had managed to frame Relius without the Secretary of the Archives catching him, Teleus wasn’t sure he could prove that the evidence against his friend was faked.
They arrived at the door. Teleus knocked heavily. “Open in the name of the queen.”
Relius would know this was no social call.
Moments passed. Teleus’s heartbeat sped up slightly more. It was obvious he was here as the Captain, not as a friend. Relius would have no reason not to answer quickly. No reason except what he was accused of.
Teleus turned to two of his men. “Get it open.”
A minute later, he strode into the room. Relius was sitting, hurriedly writing something. He jumped when he saw Teleus, eyes wide with fear, and his hand jerked towards a vial on the edge of his desk. He tried to bring it to his lips, but Teleus leapt across the room, his hand closing around his friend’s wrist. Relius tried to shake him off, but Teleus easily overpowered him. Teleus had always assumed he could. He’d never thought he would find out.
The smell of the spilled liquid rose to his nose. It was sharp and bitter.
“Poison,” he said. His eyes landed on the letter Relius had been writing. He saw only a few lines, but they was enough. He looked back up. “It’s true,” he said. “I wouldn’t believe it, but you betrayed us.”
They had said he would die serving their queen rather than leave and keep their lives. Teleus had meant it. He thought Relius had too.
“Teleus,” Relius began.
He cut him off, voice hardening even as his heart tore. “In the name of the queen, I arrest you and charge you with treason.”
He turned to the guard on his right. “Bind him.”
The Queen of Attolia was said to be made of stone, and of stone she kept her face throughout Relius’s confession. Attolia tortured and executed without compunction—always with justice, never with mercy. She did not care for any man—only for her country.
But Irene was not made of stone, and she had a heart that had recently been allowed to soften. She knew why Gen hadn’t come with her to the dungeons. For his sake, she was glad. He had enough nightmares without adding new fuel. For herself, though, as she paused in an alcove for a moment before descending to the prisons, turned away from her attendants, she wished he was here. Wished his arms could comfort her for a moment before she descended. She wished Relius were here to give her a nod and his partnership in interrogation, ridiculous as the thought was.
Teleus came up behind her. “Is anything the matter, My Queen?”
She turned, stone face back in place. “No, Captain. I was merely reflecting. You are dismissed.”
He didn’t need to see what came next. Irene didn’t want to either, but Attolia must.