CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
“Well, well, well, Your Highness,” Geoffrey said, his voice like silk. His appearance was as it always was. Black-haired, black mustache and beard, and somehow, though I knew he was clean, he looked oily, even in his formal tunic and cloak. “Felicitations on your grand match.”
“Thank you,” I said primly, my body perfectly still.
He laughed. “The illusion is remarkable. Not that I was ever fortunate enough to come by this face before. It is divine. I must say, I’m impressed.” He cocked his head to the side, scrutinizing me even closer. “You wear this one perfectly. Confidently. Even your voice changed. Your little walk.”
I shook my head. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean.”
“Don’t you, Olivay?”
Ice ran through my veins. “You are too informal with me, sir. You will address me by the title my station affords. You will address me as princess. Or be removed from the premises.”
Geoffrey took a sip of wine and bowed low. “My apologies.” He rose up and took a step toward me, and then another. Until he was close. Too close. “Congratulations on your betrothal, Your Highness, Princess,” he grinned, “Shamhira.”
I grabbed his arm, pushing him from the crowd. “Are you mad?” I hissed, then immediately released him and stepped back, checking to see if anyone had noticed.
“Mad? I’m happy. Only saying hello to a dear old friend.”
“A friend you’ve threatened for years. Stay the hell away from me and the prince, or I swear to the Gods, I will bring you down with me.”
“Bring me down?” He shook his head. “You don’t want to do that.”
“You no longer get to tell me what I do or do not want.” My nostrils flared. “I’m no longer working for you. In fact, I’m about to have a lot of say over whether you live or die. So how about you tell me what the hell you’re doing here, Geoffrey.”
He laughed.
“No. No laughing.” My nails sharpened to knives. “Answers only. What the hell do you want?”
“Oh, put your claws away. We’re in public.” His eyes sparkled. “And your say over me may not last quite as long as you imagine. I’m also familiar with certain prophecies unfolding in the Book of Orsete.”
My nostrils flared. “I don’t hear an answer to my question.” Then, with a deep breath, I trimmed down my nails back to the length and style Olivay wore them in.
He smirked. “Answer to your question. Let’s see. What the hell do I want? It’s really nothing.” He shrugged. “Much.”
“I could have you killed,” I snarled. “All I need to do is yell out. One word. Dozens of guards stand ready to defend my honor.” I gestured at the blue cloaks.
“Do you really want to find out if they’re the type to strike first and ask questions later?
” Thinking back on all the years of servitude to Geoffrey, the forced affairs, the ill treatment and threats, his utter lack of care for me, and the others who didn’t fare as well, who didn’t have the power to fight back the same way I could—maybe I should call out to Brennan’s guards. Maybe he did deserve to die.
“Go ahead. Call out to your guards,” he said. “Have me killed. But I should warn you first. If any harm comes to me—any at all—then certain precautions that I have arranged to protect myself will go into action. Immediately. Betray me now, and you’ll be in a box by midnight.”
“Precautions?” I asked.
“You see, I came here innocently with the others, all invited to the castle by none other than our wealthy, altruistic nobleman himself. The Crown Prince Jaron. Or as he is more commonly known,” he grinned, “Brennan.”
“What have you said to him?” I asked.
“Said to him?” He frowned. “Oh … about you?” He smirked. “Nothing. He … he has remained quiet in my presence regarding the dancer Samara.”
I stilled.
“Though I heard he’s looking for her. Hasn’t asked for my help.”
Because he didn’t trust him?
“No. The prince only seems to be offering me his help.” He scoffed. “Who would have thought? A kind and generous prince, one really does exist.”
My hands clenched into fists. “And yet you flout his kindness and generosity by threatening his betrothed.”
“His betrothed?” Geoffrey laughed. “That’s rich coming from you. And speaking of which, what exactly have you done to his betrothed? Is she alive?”
“Of course, she’s alive! I’m not a monster.”
He grinned wider. “Oh, my dear. You gave that up so easily. So she does live.” He lifted his wine goblet as if to make a toast. “I thought I’d have to work a lot harder to learn that.”
“Go to hell.”
He chuckled. “Not that I really needed to ask. I suspected as much. You’re still too soft, too kind.”
“I’m not as kind as you think I am,” I growled. Too long had he taken advantage of me. Too long had I been a mere pawn for him to use for his own gain under the guise of protection.
“No?” he taunted. “And I’m sure you had nothing to do with her vanishing. You’re not exactly one for making a plan. Though you’re likely to end up as part of one.”
“Well, you would know. You love to make them. So what is it now? What do you want?” I seethed.
“The same thing everyone wants. Money. Power. Freedom.”
“And?” I asked. “To what end are you aiming? Why ask me about Princess Olivay?”
He shrugged. “Why not ask? Information is valuable. I like to know things. You never know how much that trinket of knowledge might be worth one day.”
“That information is only hearsay and rumors. It’s valuable only if she is found, or my identity is revealed.”
“Yes, that is true, good point,” he said, like he was speaking to a small child.
I wanted to strangle him. “Hmmm. Speaking of identities, you should know that,” he straightened, fixing the cloak over his shoulder, “Jaron recognized me the moment I arrived and sought me out straight away. He was very eager to inquire about Cecelia.”
So the fucker did remember her name. But I knew that.
“You didn’t!” I hissed.
“I didn’t have to. She was front and center. So what he spent the most time asking me about,” Geoffrey continued, “believe it or not, was you. At least, one version of you. Alyra.”
I stiffened, my chest tightening. No one had said that name to me in years. Because no one else knew it. And the only ones who did thought I was long dead. But if Jaron had asked Geoffrey, then it was as I feared. He knew she was alive.
Nausea roiled through me. “What have you done?” My voice shook.
All of Jaron’s suspicions toward me rushed to the surface: his memories, the strange looks, the way he repeated things to me that we’d said in our prior conversations—conversations when I’d been someone else. Barron’s reaction to me, and the way Jaron had forced my interactions with the stag.
“Well, of course, I told him the truth,” Geoffrey said.
“Alyra was an Azete. I mean, obviously, as an innocent tavern owner, I had no idea when I hired her. I was fooled.” He placed a hand over his heart, his expression one of mock scandalization.
“And, so what else could I do, but tell him she lived?”
“You—”
“Oh hush. He knew. Do you think I gave him new information? You’re smarter than that.
Or you should be. Two years ago, I told you he thought you were dead so you’d calm down, so you’d get back to work and earn your Godsdamned keep.
And to keep you safe, I told him that you had left my establishment.
That you had changed your face and ran. I told him that you could be anyone, anywhere.
Oh, don’t look at me like that. After all, you’re the one who stormed into Cecelia’s room, changed your body before witnesses, and attacked him.
Did you think he’d forget such a thing—that he didn’t have eyes at the time? ”
“So that means …” My chest felt so tight, I could barely breathe. “He’s been looking for me, all along. Looking for me for the last two years?” That was why he was so quick to see through me at the tourney. He was always searching, always suspicious.
Geoffrey sucked air through his teeth. “He has, I’m afraid. He’s been spearheading the organization of soldiers who go out specifically to perform those boxings.”
By all the fucking Gods, old and new. The boxings weren’t just ordered by Eskalon. They’d been ordered by Jaron himself. To find me. To hunt me. And I was standing in the same room as him.
The walls and floor of the ball suddenly seemed to circle around me even though I remained still.
My gut roiled. I was going to be sick. All this time.
All this fucking time. They weren’t just hoping that the women in the boxes would reveal they were Azete.
They were hoping they would reveal themselves to be me.
I could see it clearly. See Jaron inspecting the results at the end, seeing the imprisoned women dead from dehydration or infection.
And the cruelest truth of all was that even if I’d been caught, even if I’d been drained to my original form and killed, he still wouldn’t have found Alyra.
Because he had no idea what I actually looked like. What my true form was.
No one did.
Except … Brennan’s vision of me at the lake. But he’d just drowned, barely conscious. And that had been a fluke—a hallucination.
I eyed Jaron across the room, drinking and mingling with nobles from House Bathiner, his arms still around that one young girl.
“What does Jaron know now?” I gritted through my teeth.
“He knows that you were at the tourney these last two nights.”
“You told him!”
“He asked.” Geoffrey shrugged. “I told him I saw you there.”
I clutched my stomach, then immediately forced my hand away, using all the strength I had left to stand straight, to remember that Olivay would never look less than perfect at her engagement ball.
That she shouldn’t even be talking to Geoffrey.
But I had to know, and the nausea kept roiling through me.