CHAPTER SIXTEEN
“Your Majesty,” Lord Brandon said, his voice more affected than ever.
“I know you have already met Princess Olivay of House Kanos, Daughter of the King and Queen of Spartva.” He pushed me forward.
“But now, may I humbly present to you Princess Olivay of House Lafir, betrothed to the crown prince of Eskalon. Your son’s future wife, and your soon-to-be daughter. ”
I sank to my knees, the voluminous skirts of my dress spiraling out around me as Lord Brandon took a ridiculously low, dramatic bow.
“Your Majesty,” I said, looking up and blinking slowly.
Out of habit, a burst of magic rushed to my eyelashes, lengthening and darkening them as I stared back at him through them, a shy, innocent smile upon my face.
It was less about pleasing him and more because I felt the need for armor, for something to distance myself from him, from the monster he was.
“I am honored to join the royal House of Lafir,” I said, my voice coated in honey, “and to pledge my loyalty to Eskalon. To my prince.”
“Your loyalty is to the crown, to your king,” he said.
“Yes,” I amended. “Of course, to the crown, to you, Your Majesty.”
He laughed and rose from the makeshift throne, his hand on his belly.
“Rise,” he said jovially. “Come now. I know you are well spoken, but such formalities are of no use here. We’ve already met.
” He stood and offered me a hand, then tugged me close, his gray eyes carefully inspecting me head to toe.
He was being gentle with me, for the moment at least. Far friendlier than I’d expected, especially considering his attitude barely one moment ago.
I knew men like him. Overly friendly when they thought they had the upper hand. Doing away with the formalities that normally wrapped tightly around their existence. This was a trap. He thought he’d caught me off balance and would force me to let my guard down—to see how far he could take it.
My stomach tightened with the shadow of a warning.
“Yes.” The king continued inspecting me.
Looking Olivay over like I—she—was a thing.
“Very nice. You played your part well. And I trust you will continue to do so through the wedding, and then after.” His hand wrapped around my waist, his fingers digging into my curves as he pulled me against him.
The scent of alcohol clung to his breath as he turned me to face the pavilion set aside for House Kanos.
Nearly everyone there had risen from their seats to bow before the king, holding the posture until he signaled.
The purple flags, all silvered with their sigil of the unicorn, seemed to fade, and I felt a wave of homesickness.
Not for Spartva. But for my own house. House Zakros of Azeal.
I was homesick for a mother who loved me.
For a family who cared enough to travel with me in order to attend my wedding. For people who did not despise me.
Something I would never have.
“Now be a good girl and wave to your parents,” Tirian commanded. “To your old king and queen.”
A chill rushed down my spine. I didn’t like his emphasis on the word “old.”
The Spartvan King and Queen watched us from their pavilion, their eyes rapt with worry.
They knew. They understood what was happening, and exactly what they’d agreed to when they signed a marriage contract for their daughter to the son of a tyrant.
They might remain at the castle through the wedding party. But this was goodbye.
And though I knew it was in my best interest, I couldn’t help but feel the heaviness of the moment for them, in my heart, and then through every vein of my body. Even at this distance, they offered enough emotion for the Azete to take a long sip from both of their lifeforces.
I waved as commanded, feeling the king’s hand slide up my back, his fingers clamping down on my shoulder.
“You may go,” King Tirian said to the Hermit, who still hovered, watching closely.
Protectively, almost. “Your services aren’t needed now, Lord Brandon.
Enjoy yourself. Mingle. Gossip. Watch the games. ”
“Of course, Your Majesty.” Lord Brandon bowed, but the Hermit looked at me, and for once, he seemed worried. Concerned. And yet he retreated to his seat amongst the other nobles of Eskalon without looking back.
“Good,” the King said, alone with me. “Sit.”
I frowned, looking around, naively expecting a chair to appear beside his or at least for a servant to begin carrying one, but there was nothing. Only a small red carpet beneath his boots.
“W-Where, Your Majesty?” I asked. Surely he couldn’t mean …
“At my feet,” he snarled. Then with a sudden wave of violence, he pushed me to the ground.
My knees hit the wooden floor of the pavilion, and pain shot through my legs. I wasn’t even permitted the grace of landing on the carpet he used for his boots.
“You’re House Lafir now, and a citizen of Eskalon,” he said, and I recognized the coldness in it.
It was a perfect match for Jaron’s. “You’re my family,” he continued.
“My blood. My subject. My daughter. Mine to command, and you will obey. Not after your wedding. Not after you spread your legs for my son. But here, sitting at my feet.”
I bit back a snarl, fighting to keep my face as neutral as possible. To remember all of my training not just as a princess but as a dancer at Geoffrey’s. Keep the customer happy and paying, and then when their guard lowered, I would get what I wanted.
King Tirian was no different than any other man who liked to prove his worth by humiliating others. It was almost boring how easily I’d imagined his cruelty, and just how easily he matched it.
I was suddenly imagining every place I’d like to stab him. I let the visions go as I took a deep breath.
Olivay would never have such thoughts. Olivay was a good princess.
She was going to do as she was told. And since I was her, I would have to wait until the time was right.
So I carefully rearranged my skirts to fan out around me on the floor, and pushed back my shoulders, affecting the proper posture of the prince's betrothed.
“I know how princesses are treated in Sparva,” the king continued.
“Here though, you are to obey me. I want you to understand that. I don’t care how far my son stuck his tongue down your throat.
Nor do I care that a thousand witnesses saw it.
I wouldn’t care if they watched him breed you in your marriage bed.
Displease me, and I will send you home in disgrace. ”
“I understand, Your Majesty,” I said, forcing my voice to shake, hoping it conveyed fear. And not the rage boiling inside me. “I am your loyal daughter now.”
“We’ll see if you are,” he said, sitting back on his throne. His legs spread wide to either side, framing me from behind while he tapped loudly against the armrest.
My stomach twisted. Had Olivay known what she was getting into?
I imagined her face in the cave, how desperately she wanted to return to her prince. Understanding now that she wanted to return to Brennan, I understood her genuine desperation for him. But something told me she didn’t know what she was bargaining for with the king.
I stared out into the field, to the various knights saddling up onto their moonstags, their squires tightening their armor or handing weapons to them.
Finlay and Thomas started up a rhythmic beat, and notes of a new song began to play in the distance as dancers I recognized from the tavern performed, including Cecelia.
A few yards beyond them, Brennan met up with his squire.
The boy adjusted Brennan’s cloak, fanning it out behind him, and checked his belt before stepping back and watching the crown prince climb up onto his moonstag.
There were several shouts as he did so, revealing that his stag’s name was Aurick.
Jaron emerged from the stables only a few feet away.
His armor was darker than the others, almost black instead of the silver that seemed to shine across the field.
I’d never seen anything like it. I leaned forward and squinted, trying to get a better look.
There was something about it, something strange.
And familiar. There was a pang in my gut, a feeling I couldn’t explain.
One that reminded me of meeting the witch at the cave or seeing Brennan the first time.
Only this felt dark, almost ominous. The king leaned forward then, watching me carefully, his eyebrows raised as if he had expected my interest.
“That was my brother’s armor,” he said.
I glanced back, meeting his gray eyes. “Your brother?”
Brothers weren’t exactly common in the royal line, at least, brothers that weren’t bastards. Tirian, of course, had one son. He too had been an only child, the crown prince of Eskalon when Brennan’s grandfather, King Nathan, sat on the throne. At least, that was the truth as far as I knew it.
Blinking, I tried frantically to remember anything I knew about the king’s brother, if he’d been mentioned when I was growing up.
Or if he’d been in the Hermit’s notes about Olivay.
Fuck. I tried to remember if his brother had ever been a topic of conversation in the tavern.
But I couldn’t think of a single thing. Not one mention.
I vaguely remembered my early studies where I’d learned that years ago there’d been several outbreaks of civil war between royal brothers.
They were always vying for the throne of Eskalon.
Too many heirs had been a problem for quite some time.
Royal houses split, and the people further divided themselves by throwing their support behind the ruler of their choice.
Towns turned against each other, even families divided when certain members supported, in their eyes, the wrong king.
At some point, the rulers of Eskalon began to have only one son to avoid such fates.
There was no more heir and spare. But one who was destined.