CHAPTER SIXTEEN #2
It was around that time that House Bathiner and House Lafir became one.
Before they had joined, they were at the center of the civil wars and had become the most bitter of rivals.
According to the stories, their battles were the bloodiest and most savage of them all.
Until one day, a peace treaty was struck.
They laid down their arms and united. No longer opposed, the royal line of Lafir became one large house that continued to rule and occupied the throne for king after king.
But seeing the presence of House Bathiner now, their pavilion so proudly decorated before the field, I realized that was no longer true. They were their own force to be reckoned with. A house that had not been swallowed by the other, but one that was determined to remain independent.
Or … more likely, determined to rise back to power.
King Tirian nodded. “You may have heard that my mother, Queen Anya, had only one pregnancy.”
I nodded. I hadn't heard those words specifically. But since it had been the norm for the queen to birth only one child, I’d never heard anything different.
“Well, that was true,” he said. “Following tradition. She was pregnant once and labored once. And yet, I had a brother. Not a bastard, mind you. He was my twin. Rowan.”
The king looked at me expectantly, waiting for a response. Was I supposed to know this, or was I meant to be shocked?
“Your Majesty,” I said, partly to appease him, partly to buy myself time. “I must confess, I know little of your brother.”
He snorted. “Of course, you know little. You would know nothing. He’s dead.”
“Oh.” I blinked. “I am sorry to hear that.”
He shrugged, like it didn’t matter. Then he pointed at Jaron. “He was older than me, you know? Rowan. Only by five minutes, or so I’m told.” He scoffed, “Five minutes. As if that can truly mean a thing in the span of a life.”
Maybe not. But I knew it mattered a hell of a lot if those five minutes meant being born second to the crown prince. Not sure how else to respond, I nodded. “I didn’t know that, Your Majesty.”
“Well now you do. I’m telling you.”
I frowned. This felt like dangerous information to have. Dangerous for the king to share. Something in my gut told me that I was the one in danger by the mere fact he was offering such secrets to me. A test? Or did he see me as so insignificant, he could speak freely before me?
I met his eyes, lifting my chin defiantly. “I am honored you trust me with your family history. History that shall be mine now.”
Some strong emotion began to stir in him. But it wasn’t directed toward me. It was toward himself. I couldn’t read it, nor could I feed from it. But it was there. Powerful. Personal.
He shrugged. “You should be honored. Spartva is small and weak, and now you’ve risen to be here.” His eyes narrowed. “But this goes beyond honor or welcoming you to the family. You should also know I’m telling you this because I like to know who I can trust.”
“You can trust me, Your Majesty,” I said, blinking innocently.
He laughed, the sound mirthless as his gray brows drew together, his eyes narrowing. “I’ll find out soon enough if I can.”
What the fuck did that mean? How would Olivay react? Godsdamnit. How could the Hermit have given me so little time to prepare? It had felt like my own fault when he found me at the lake. My fault for exposing myself, for using up all of my magic on Brennan, and then on running away from him.
But he knew about the tavern. He knew where I was.
And he’d known about the fucking prophecy for twenty years.
Why the hell had he waited so long? Why wait until the last possible second to bring me on board?
Why not find me before I met Jaron. Or before I met Brennan, before I got to know him, before I started to fall—
I caught the Hermit’s eyes from across the pavilion.
He was deep in conversation with another noble, an elderly woman with white hair piled high on her head.
They were both drinking wine. Based on her body language and the way she’d thrust her cleavage into his face, she was definitely planning to take him to her bed when the tourney ended.
Something I realized he didn’t mind at all.
He lifted one eyebrow as if to acknowledge my attention on him, but then eagerly returned to his conversation.
Tirian leaned forward. “Jaron’s black armor was a gift from my father, King Nathan. Passed down to me, as it’s always passed father to son.”
I frowned. If it was passed father to son, why then was Brennan not wearing it? Why had it gone to Rowan’s son?
“And you gifted it to your nephew?” I asked.
“I could have given it to my son if I really wanted. But …” He shrugged and pointed to those seated beneath the banners of House Bathiner. “It was requested. My sister-in-law, Jaron’s mother, is Lady Alena, House Bathiner.”
I looked over to her. She was sitting completely still, her back straight. Her hair in the sun was the same golden color that his hair turned in the light, but she did not have his curls. That must have been a Lafir trait.
“Have you heard of her?” he asked.
I shook my head. “I cannot say that I have, Your Majesty.”
He smirked. “She is not known by that name, but as the Almost-Queen.”
My eyes widened. I had heard of her–of a bitter woman who’d believed she’d become queen of Eskalon.
But I’d never heard any details. Mostly her title was used as a jab.
Someone who made an unbelievable claim was often referred to as the “Almost-Queen.” I’d thought if anything she might have been a contender for King Tirian’s hand in marriage, and had lost to his wife, Brennan’s mother.
I watched her curiously. I’d never known the Almost-Queen had had a good reason for her title.
“So stories of her folly have reached Spartva,” he said smugly, reading my expression. “She asked me for it, begged, actually. She was desperate for her son to possess the armor, despite tradition. She wanted him to have something of his father’s.”
I nodded, understanding. If Rowan, Lady Alena’s husband had lived, Jaron would have naturally inherited the armor.
And then the crown. Considering the civil wars between the houses, this seemed like an easy way to avoid dissent.
I wondered how her title had come about though, how it had become a saying of ridicule.
”Beautiful, isn’t it?” the king said. “The steel is unlike anything you can find in Eskalon. In all of Eley. You’ve never seen of, or heard of such a thing, have you? Not even in Spartva.”
My throat was dry. So we were done discussing who inherited the armor, or its political implications, in favor of its origins.
I had to respond like Olivay, and I knew nothing about the armor common in Spartva.
I decided to take a gamble in my response.
At the very least, it was becoming clear that the king didn’t particularly care who Olivay was, or what she thought.
For him, she was simply a body he could talk to, someone he was using to hear his own voice.
I shook my head. “No, I haven’t heard of such a thing.”
“They say it's witch armor,” he said, his voice now low and conspiratorial.
“Witch armor?” I asked, too stunned to stop myself. That wasn’t witch armor. There was no such thing. Witches wore armor, of course, but it was made out of regular old steel like everyone else’s. Silver and bright. Not black.
“It’s older than the witches,” he continued. “Said to have come from a knight who faced the horned-God himself.”
“Batrir?” I said.