the weather worsening, the wind shaking the tent. Lydia was almost glad of it, because it hid her uncontrollable shivers. Do not faint, she told herself. Don’t you dare.
Consumed by her own discomfort, it took her longer than it should have to notice that silence had fallen over the tent.
Peering around the tapestry to ensure no one was there, Lydia sank to her knees, fighting to regain her bearings after standing still for so long. Blood roared in her ears, but gradually the nausea faded and she picked up the faint sound of snoring.
This was her chance. He was alone. No one knew she was here.
But with the opportunity came a thousand doubts she hadn’t had before about whether she was capable of murder. Calculated and cold-blooded. And the means by which she was supposed to do it … She remembered the feel of the corrupted’s life flooding into her in those dark tunnels beneath the palace. The pleasure of it. Like a drug. What would it do to her to take a life in its entirety? Would it make her corrupted herself?
Easing aside the drape, Lydia peered inside. The King rested on his side beneath a heavy blanket, barely visible in the dim light. Unarmed. Unconscious. Helpless.
It’s one life, she told herself. One life, and in exchange you will save so many. You’ll save Killian.
She hesitated, swaying on her feet, palms damp with sweat. He was a terrible man and a terrible ruler; that much was true. He needed to be replaced, and while Lydia had no fondness for Malahi, surely she’d be a better choice. Especially with Killian at her side.
The thought of it made her cringe, and Lydia took a step back, bumping against the desk, setting the lamp to rattling.
Clenching her teeth, Lydia reached out to steady it, her eyes latching on the piece of paper illuminated by the flame.
It was the cipher.
You don’t have time for this, she silently told herself. You need to get this done and then figure a way out of this tent.
Yet the page tempted her. What had Malahi written to her father that she hadn’t wanted anyone else to know?
That she hadn’t wanted Lydia to know.
Picking up a pen, she dipped it in a pot of ink and then drew a blank page in front of her. She needed to remember what Malahi had written exactly or this wouldn’t work. Even the smallest error would render the task fruitless. Closing her eyes, she envisioned Malahi’s letter, falling back into the moment when she’d crouched next to a tiny fire, reading and rereading the message before resealing it. The page came swimming into focus behind her eyelids, and she read the contents once more before opening her eyes and starting to write.
The letter flowed swiftly onto the page in the Princess’s overly flowerily prose, a plea for her father to help the innocents, to not abandon his people. And when she’d finished, Lydia drew the cipher next to it, carefully circling the letters until she’d reached the end. Then she sat back, reading and rereading the message.
Citizens evacuated to Abenharrow. March to them with all haste. Mudaire is lost.
It was a lie. Mudaire was not evacuated, and with the Gamdeshian fleet burned and sunk, there had been little chance of it being so before the arrival of the Derin army. A lie that seemed to have no other purpose but to ensure that the Royal Army bypassed the ford, abandoning the soldiers there as well as the city they protected.
But why? What could Malahi possibly gain from doing this when it risked so many lives?
Think, Lydia, she screamed at herself. This girl is a politician. You know politicians. What is her end game?
If Malahi saved Mudaire and its civilians after they’d been abandoned by the Royal Army, the people would support her rule. And if Killian defeated Rufina alone, it would certainly bolster the people’s faith in him. If they pulled it off, no one would question their reign, not when it would seem to be mandated by the gods themselves.
Yet if that was her plan, why bother sending a message to her father lying about the evacuation of Mudaire? Why risk it when her father was already doing everything Malahi wanted him to?
Lydia’s hands abruptly turned to ice as she understood.
Malahi hadn’t just lied to her father; she’d lied to everyone.
The King never intended to abandon Mudaire. At least, not until now. Malahi was gambling with the lives of everyone,