Chapter 28 Basten #2
A line of carriages waits in the front courtyard.
Lord Kenan takes the first, along with a fleet of our highest-ranking soldiers.
Then, it’s the royal advisors, and the next few carriages are all taken by minor lords and ladies.
Lady Suri climbs into one pulled by dappled gray mares, and Rian attempts to casually slide in beside her—but she shuts the door in his face, then shuts the window, too.
I have no idea what’s going on between the two of them. A few days ago, he had his lips all over Sabine, so I’d be hard pressed to believe he has any real intentions with Lady Suri.
On the other hand, it felt clear in that tussle on the throne that Rian might have once desired Sabine, even fancied himself in love with her—but it wasn’t real love. Not as I love her.
And I think Rian understands that now, too.
He chuckles, intrigued by Suri’s challenge, before getting in the next carriage with Folke and Ferra.
Sabine and I are shuffled into the royal carriage at the end, pulled by Ranger and a matching chestnut gelding.
Sabine slides her hand into mine but is silent as we roll through the city.
We stare fixedly out of either window at the lines of citizens waving and calling to us, carrying children on their shoulders to witness this monumental day.
“A day one thousand years in the making,” I murmur under my breath, heavy with irony, as I wave my hand in the air like a showman. “The Third Return.”
Sabine rolls her eyes good-naturedly at my dramatics. “Does it count as an official Return if only seven out of the ten have risen?”
I shrug. “Who’s counting when it’s gods?”
We both smile, but it doesn’t quite reach our eyes. I can hear in the hammer of her heart how nervous she is. To say a lot is riding on these Fae Games is an understatement. The whole damn world is in the balance.
“At least I get to see Tòrr,” she muses with a fond smile.
I groan. “Oh, great. The murder horse.”
She bumps her shoulder into mine.
We reach the royal arena too soon for comfort. I climb out, helping Sabine down, and we paste on smiles and wave to the crowds who have been waiting in lines overnight.
We’re funneled into the stands, already packed with crowds who have been there since dawn to snag the best seats, and then we’re ushered by a thick battalion of soldiers to the Immortal Box.
I sweep in, shading my eyes against the direct sun, and am immediately greeted with a champagne glass thrust in my face.
“Compliments of Folke.” Ferra presses the glass into my hand, then another into Sabine’s. She jerks her head toward the arena, where I spot Folke speaking with the announcer and a fleet of arena guards. “He figured you’d both need a drink.”
“Only one?” Sabine jests, though her nerves betray her as her hand shakes.
Despite being the kingdom’s official race grounds, Old Coros’s Royal Arena is actually smaller in size than Duren’s arena—but not by much.
It’s also a perfect circle, compared to Duren’s oval shape.
The greatest difference, though, isn’t the architecture—it has similar statues to the ten gods, stadium seating, and columned breezeways.
The difference is tradition—and it’s striking.
In Duren Arena, the sand is raked clean after every match. Not a drop of blood is left to dry. The moment a blade is lowered, crews sweep in—restoring the floor to a pristine, unblemished gleam. The audience demand it. They come for spectacle, not the stain of consequence.
But the royal arena?
Here, blood is left to rot.
This is no place for sport—it is a pit of judgment. Trials are ended here. Executions carried out. And the sand carries that history. Layers of death soaked into the sand, until the arena floor sheens a deep, rusted red.
“I need to go backstage and find my father and the other fae,” Sabine says.
I clutch her hand, suddenly not wanting to let go. She looks at me a little mournfully as she slides her fingers from mine.
She isn’t gone long before Rian sidles up, swirling a pewter goblet. “Well, well. How long before Vale sweeps in and takes credit for my dirty work? Let’s put some coin on it. I say ten minutes.”
I lean on the railing, rubbing my hands together. “If you didn’t want him taking credit for your supposed miracle, you shouldn’t have staged it that way.”
He only stares at me, and I sigh.
“Twenty minutes,” I wager.
This earns me a grin.
Slowly, I give a pointed glance back toward the women on the other side of the Immortal Box. “Did your so-called miracle have to involve kissing Lady Suri?”
Rian snorts before taking a deep sip of wine. “Merely a trick to escape.”
“I may not be as trained in tactics as you,” I say slyly, “but surely there were easier ways to steal the keys from her. You have seventy pounds of muscle on her—you could have overpowered her with your pinkie.”
He tsks as though I’ve suggested something outlandish. “She was merely a means to an end.”
“You risked your freedom to return to deliver snacks to her. You stuck around to make sure she’d be comfortable. You left her cinnamon cookies.”
“Don’t forget the sherry. An excellent vintage. Imported from Clarana.” This earns the ghost of a rakish grin. “I’m not a monster.” He finishes his wine in one swig and sets down the goblet, cutting a long look toward Lady Suri. His tone is softer when he says, “She’s much too good for me.”
“You have that right.”
He slams a fist into my shoulder, and I grunt darkly to know I hit close to home.
“Really,” he says, serious now, lowering his eyelids as he observes her. “She sees the good in even the vilest creatures. I could never abide that—if she started to see some good in me. Then our little game would be no fun at all.”
I slap him on his back. “Don’t worry, little risk of her finding much good in you any time soon.”
This earns me another punch.
Just then, trumpets blare to announce the start of the procession. The mirth vanishes from my face, and apprehension licks up my spine. I swing by the refreshment table to throw back my own steadying glass of wine.
“King Basten,” Kendan prompts. “They’re ready to begin.”
I choke back another glass for good measure, wincing at the sweetness, then draw myself up to my full height. Squires approach with my cloak, crown, and king’s sword, moving in an efficient dance as they dress me to play the part of the ruler.
When, let’s be real, everyone knows a mortal king is only a figurehead against a fae one.
Still, damn if I’m going to let that show on my face.
Gripping the king’s sword hilt, I stride over the burgundy rug to the front of the Immortal Box, where the announcer bows with his loudspeaker in hand.
The trumpets finish with a flourish, and after a long stretch of applause, the crowd falls silent.
The announcer puffs out his chest, raises his loudspeaker, and cries, “Citizens of Astagnon, those dwelling in Old Coros and arriving from towns far and wide, I present to you on this auspicious day, King Basten Valvere of Astagnon!”
I’m not entirely prepared for the roar that swells from the stadium. Even after all this time, I can’t get used to the fact that I—me, Basten the Bastard—deserve so much as a pauper’s devotion.
But as soon as those thoughts rise, they fall away.
Royal blood flows in my veins. Yeah, that’s never meant much to me, but more so, I have the love of the most powerful woman in the known world.
And that? That makes me feel like I could fucking fly.
I draw the king’s sword, thrusting it up toward Vale’s blue sky.
“Astagnonians!” I cry. No loudspeaker. No heralds.
Just the grit of my voice on the wind. “You welcomed me as your king. You welcomed my bride, Queen Sabine of Bremcote, not only as your queen, but as a symbol of unity between the mortal and immortal worlds. Today, I bid you welcome the Fae Court of Old, King Vale the Immortal, and his Immortal Brethren!”
Trumpets blare, drums beat their triumphant thunder, and the fae enter in a procession.
The first through the gilded arena arch are Samaur and Thracia. God of Day, Goddess of Night. They ride in twin chariots pulled by palomino steeds, hands clasped as they wave to the adoring crowds.
Next to me, Rian sidles up and murmurs, “Thracia’s been awake, what, three days? And already parade-ready?”
“Fae are born parade-ready,” I mutter back.
I have to admit, Thracia isn’t entirely what I expected.
All the illustrations of her in the Book of the Immortals vary, based on the particular edition, but most show her as a hardened woman with thick black braids.
This Thracia has the braids, yes—but she looks like she’s about sixteen years old.
Her warm brown skin is spotless, not so much as a wrinkle, plump as a babe’s.
I’d almost feel a soft spot for her, a paternal protectiveness—if I didn’t see that four-thousand-year cunning in her eyes.
And Samaur? That grinning bastard looks like he’s won the fucking lottery, holding such a nubile beauty on his arm.
The trumpet blares again.
Immortal Irye and Immortal Woudix ride in next, on gilded chariots, though they don’t clasp hands. I have to silence a growl at the sight of the God of Death, who dared to prowl around Sabine without my knowledge.
Directly behind them comes Immortal Artain, riding on the back of a sleek bay stallion, shooting cotton-ball-tipped arrows into the crowd with gifts of rose petal pouches affixed to the ends. Women swoon, elbowing one another in the closest rows to catch one of his prize arrows.
I’m far enough from the crowd that I can safely roll my eyes.
In any other Return, Immortal Solene—Sabine—would be riding in a chariot right by his side, hands interlaced just like Samaur and Thracia, fated lovers time and time again.
Today, that motherfucker rides alone.
The satisfaction positively burns.