CHAPTER NINETEEN #2
Thankfully, he seemed to tire of touching my hair, or at least, tired of the effort required to lean over and hold it. He wouldn’t have had to struggle so much if I had just been given a Godsdamned seat.
A second later, he released me, sitting back on his throne almost like he was bored, his chin resting on his hand.
His fingers impatiently tapping his cheek.
Though his eyes remained sharp. “The attack on Eskalon happened because those damned demonos—those cursed witches—broke free of their enclosure.”
Enclosure? The wall we had to fucking build to keep out chimera—the wall we needed for our safety because the only land he had allowed us to live on and tend to was overrun with the beasts?
I took another deep breath and nodded in return, willing my heart to stop thudding as I looked up at him, blinking innocently.
The herald announced the next two ranking knights to enter the lists. They mounted their stags, pushed their helms down, and lifted their lances, their ribbons and garlands of favor blowing in the breeze.
“It was demonos who sent the chimera into town to attack,” he said.
I shook my head, pretending to be amazed, even as my blood boiled. The Godsdamned liar. “I had no idea they could do such things. How fortunate for Eskalon that the men of your guard are so brave and so strong.”
And that I was fucking there. That I fought them off, that I saved his son. Killed two in one night.
His eyes narrowed on me, his lips tight, like he knew Godsdamned well I was flattering him.
Even worse, he knew I was doing it poorly.
But then he shrugged, like he didn’t even care.
Because this was a man who took all compliments the same way.
He accepted them at face value. After all, he was king.
Even if offered in bad faith, for him, all compliments were true.
And I suspected all harsh truths were lies.
“Yes,” he grunted. “Very fortunate, indeed.”
What did he really think happened that night? Did he know an Azete had been the one to save everyone? To save his son? Did he even know Brennan had been outside the castle?
“I’m confused, though,” I said. “It was the witches who sent the chimera? How are they able to do so?” I was suddenly curious as to the crown’s explanation for the attack. Witches had no control over chimera. Even the most powerful among us. The Hermit. My aunt. My mother.
Gods, did I wish they did.
If that were the case, we’d have been able to protect ourselves all these years. And my mother—if she could have controlled the beasts, if she could have commanded them, then she wouldn’t be—she wouldn’t …
I swallowed, pushing back my thoughts.
But the king only shrugged again. “Don’t worry about those demonos. We’ll keep them behind their wall. And any that try to come out will find a box with their name on it.” His eyes landed on me. “We’ve already boxed several suspects this week.” His gaze intensified.
Several suspects. My throat tightened. For years in my exile, I feared anyone coming to find me—not just because I didn’t want to be found, but I genuinely worried they’d be caught and boxed.
I knew now that all the boxings were for women of Eskalon.
Innocent women. My heart hurt with the knowledge.
How could they not understand that the fucking boxings didn’t prove a Godsdamned thing? Unless they did know—and didn’t care.
“Sounds like you’ve come out on top of the situation then,” I said, barely keeping myself from seething out the words.
“I always do.”
“Yes,” I agreed, my hands fighting not to fist in my lap. “And with so many guards present,” I gestured at the obscene amount of force present, “I know we’re safe.” I met his eyes, the Azete inside me stirring. Angered. Hungry. “What demonos would dare come in here?”
“None that wish to live.” He shifted in his seat, looking back out on the field. The conversation was over.
My heart thudded. All I knew was that the king didn’t suspect me as a fake. Not yet anyway. But Jaron still had his eyes on me, his brows furrowed in concentration. And if I wasn’t careful, Brennan was going to soon realize exactly who I was.
The King and Queen of Spartva caught my eye and waved. I waved back, guilt gnawing at me from inside. I turned my attention back on the field.
The jousts continued into sunset, until finally only two remained in the tournament. Brennan and Jaron.
Both of them had entered the lists several times as the day wore on, and the afternoon passed into evening.
But this was their first time facing off against each other.
Every joust before this, every set of knights they encountered—they’d fought hard against, sometimes violently.
But there was something about each fight that felt good-natured at the end, even sportsmanlike.
Brennan had defeated Rowan at one point, and they’d shaken hands when it was over, then embraced.
Though I suspected there were rivalries amongst the men, as there were within any group, and some of the jousts carried an air of bitter intensity, each fight ended with everyone cheering, excited for the next round as drinks flowed.
But all of that energy was extinguished when Jaron and Brennan faced each other. The air shifted with them, filling with tension so thick I could feel it, taste it.
Brennan and Jaron took to the field, mounting their moonstags.
Because this was the final match, and both of them were equal in tallied points, their accolades were read out again one last time as trumpets blasted and they rode off in opposite directions.
One final round of seeking favor before they met in battle.
They’d ridden off in opposite directions, smiling and waving as their lances were adorned, and flowers thrown onto their laps.
But something unusual began to happen. The crowds began to shout out the houses they fought on behalf of instead, rather than the name of the knight they supported.
House Lafir for Brennan. And House Bathiner for Jaron.
The shouts seemed to overall favor Brennan, with more calls of support for House Lafir.
Which made sense. He was the crown prince, and he was the one celebrating his betrothal—fighting to defend his princess, the tourney’s Lady of Beauty.
And Jaron had been established as the villain, the challenger.
And yet, there was another stark shift in the energy of the tourney as the two continued to gain favor from the crowds.
House Bathiner’s pavilion, rather quiet through most of the games, began to shout in encouragement for Jaron, waving their flags, and calling out what seemed to be some kind of house words.
“Undefeated, unburied, we burn. Undefeated, unburied, we burn!”
King Tirian shifted in his throne and made a fist against his leg.
Had that always been their motto? Or was that a new one since they lost the throne?
It certainly didn’t sound like the motto of a royal cadet house, not when one of their own was facing off against the crown prince.
That was the motto of a rival, a rival whose heir possessed the black armor meant to pass through the line of succession.
Then from behind me, every noble in House Lafir began to chant in response, calling out their own house motto.
“From the ashes we rise, we fly. From the ashes, we rise, we fly.”
The chants from the crowd shifted from naming the houses to each one’s motto, creating a cacophony of noise, the words barely distinguishable. Until those of House Bathiner rose above the din, drowning out the calls of support for Brennan. For House Lafir, and thus, for King Tirian.
“Undefeated, unburied, we burn!”