CHAPTER SEVENTEEN #2
“Away from a princess who denies me.” He frowned, and then something malicious sparked in his eyes, and he looked back at me.
He already thought I was familiar to him. Was already remembering me, asking me if I liked to dance—like Alyra.
But seeing Cecelia at the same time he saw me, it was a Godsdamned death sentence. For both of us.
“I have no idea what you mean,” I said.
He brushed a finger over his lips, urging his moonstag forward. Then he licked his lips again, looking back and forth between Cecelia and me.
Suddenly, our attention was turned across the field as shouts rang out.
Brennan’s stag, Aurick, raced forward, charging through the lanes of the tourney toward us.
He reared to a sudden stop beside his cousin’s mount.
Dust exploded against the ground as Brennan jostled his moonstag before him, effectively placing himself between us.
“Did you ask my betrothed for her favor? The night of our engagement?” Brennan hissed.
Jaron frowned and jerked his chin at me. “Well, I’ve been trying. But she’s been rather stubborn.”
“She’s nothing of the sort,” he said, voice still low and venomous.
He turned his moonstag in a circle, slowly drawing attention back to himself, and shook his head good-naturedly.
Then he smiled and called out, “You are more delusional than I thought, Cousin, if you believed my betrothed would offer you her favor.” He spoke jovially, like this was all a game.
All in good fun. “You know the customs are different when it comes to the favor of a princess. Perhaps it’s been so long since you encountered one, you forgot.
But Princess Olivay can only offer her favor once in this tourney.
” He puffed out his chest. The steel of his armor gleamed in the sunlight, which was turning a bright orange and red, signifying sunset.
It was a stark and beautiful contrast to the darkness of Jaron’s chest plate.
Brennan’s green eyes found mine. “She’s going to give it to me.
Aren’t you?” he asked. His voice was soft and kind.
It wasn’t a question. Or an order. It was guidance. He was helping me.
Jaron sneered at Brennan, maintaining eye contact, even as he turned Barron in a circle, waving to the crowds.
“What do you say?” he roared. “Should Princess Olivay forfeit tradition and offer me her favor? Do you want to see her plunge her white ribbons upon my lance and tighten it into a bow?” The suggestive question turned my stomach.
From the look on Brennan’s face, it had registered with him. His eyebrows narrowed.
But Jaron was grinning ear to ear as he made a fist and pumped it into the air.
The crowd booed in response, shouting no, and commanding him to leave the princess for her prince. But then everyone sitting atop the pavilion burst out into laughter, and the sound swelled across the crowd. It was all in jest. One big joke.
Jaron was only playing at being the villain. At least, in this instance.
“Well,” King Tirian said. “What say you, Princess Olivay?”
Brennan stilled, his eyes moving quickly between his father and cousin. Then he nodded at me, a small smile urging me on to keep playing the game. My stomach tightened. He was going to help me through every step of this—all while I stole his life force, and brought about his end.
But carefully, my heart pounding, I undid the lace tie at my wrist and held it up to be clearly seen by all observing.
“There is only one man and one man only who shall wear my ribbons for this tourney, one man who shall ride into battle with my favor.” Then I smiled and narrowed my eyes at Jaron as I held out the lace and shook it.
The crowds around us roared with delight.
“Away with you,” I shouted, meeting his eyes.
My voice was playful and coy—exactly as it should’ve been.
Then with my eyes on Brennan, I said, “My favor is for my betrothed. For my prince.”
Jaron pretended to hang his head in shame and defeat, his black armor glinting in the waning glow of the sun. But when he straightened, backing his stag from the pavilion, his nostrils flared with anger.
The cheers of the audience grew in volume. Even the nobles of House Lafir were laughing. So were the nobles of House Kanos. Olivay’s parents looked relieved. Only those seated at House Bathiner remained stiff.
“Uncle,” Jaron said, bowing to the king. “Your Majesty.”
King Tirian nodded and waved him off.
Aurick centered his body before me. The stag’s eagle wings tucked against his back as Brennan’s eyes met mine, green and glowing.
“I’m sorry about him,” he said, petting the moonstag between his antlers. “If he said anything to you—”
But I could only shake my head. It was all I could do to keep my body from shaking.
A court jester wearing a cloak of a dozen mismatched fabrics raced onto the center of the field, blowing a horn.
“Princess Olivay, our Lady of Beauty. Newly betrothed and dangerously close to offering the wrong Jaron favor.”
The jester did a cartwheel, landing roughly on his boots as dust puffed around his ankles.
“But can you blame her? Who names all of their children the same thing over and over again?” he shouted. “Be my friend, Your Highness. You’ll never be confused, for I am not named Jaron!”
The crowd laughed, and my cheeks flushed.
But Brennan coughed, looking at me earnestly. “Princess, will you grant me your favor tonight?” His voice was low. He was actually asking, asking as if I wasn’t bound to say yes. As if it weren’t part of the script. As if part of him worried I might say no—could say no.
Then loudly for the benefit of our audience, he shouted, “Princess Olivay, grant me the honor of your favor. Bring me luck for this tourney. And I will name you our Lady of Beauty and then name you my wife.” He lifted his lance high above his head, and angled it toward me, positioning it so the tip lay just over my belly.
I held up the lace ribbons, still tied in a bow when Brennan had placed them on my wrist. I slipped them over the tip of his lance and tightened them before releasing the ribbons to slide down to the base.
Brennan and I watched as it fell, the ends curling around his hand. His fingers took hold of them, entwining them with his grip.
“You had it before you asked it of me,” I said. And I meant it. In a way he’d never understand—could never understand.
Brennan grinned, the smile reaching his eyes. Something shifted between us. Something unnamable. He nodded once, definitively, placing a hand over his heart. “I will fight for you, Princess. My betrothed. And my Lady of Beauty.”
He pulled his visor down and yelled for his moonstag to run, taking him back into the tourney. The court jester rushed out of the way just in time.
Then all the knights lined up for the presentations.
Over two dozen who’d be competing over the next two days.
I spotted Rowan’s red hair before he covered it with his helm, and Kienan’s dark head of hair, representing House Kanos, my house now.
Or rather, Olivay’s old house. There were several other knights from other noble families across Eskalon.
But at least half seemed to represent either House Lafir or House Bathiner.
It felt like some remnant of their civil war still visually making itself.
The first knight was announced, called up to show his skill with the bow and arrow, a member of a smaller house, House Atros, which resided by the shores of Eskalon. I tried to watch, to be a devoted, interested princess in the proceedings. To be Princess Olivay.
I wanted to join in on the excitement from the hundreds gathered to watch.
But even as Brennan came forward, and his accolades were announced as he strung his bow, I couldn’t focus.
Not when the archery competition ended and the axe throwing began, or when the final presentation started—a ring tilt—and the crowd, hours into their cups, had debauched into revelry and drunkenness.
Brennan charged down the lists, as crown prince, he was last to ride out. He was the only one to thread his lance through the smallest ring, the one made of gold. It slid down to the hilt, gleaming against my white ribbons.
He looked back at me, triumphant and proud.
But all I could see was Jaron still staring at me as he had done so through each event. All I could hear as the crowd roared for Brennan was Jaron’s voice in my mind, saying over and over again, “You remind me of someone.”
It shouldn’t have been possible for him to make the connection so easily. Azetes were the most rare amongst the witches, amongst the people Eskalon referred to as demonons. And Olivay had been at the castle for days already without suspicion.
Maybe I was being paranoid. Maybe all the lies and deceit of acting like Olivay had caught up to me–was making me afraid. But my gut said otherwise. He had no proof–none that anyone would believe anyway.
But it didn’t matter. Jaron would find a way in the end to catch me, to put me in one of his boxes. It was only a matter of time. Because despite everything, I could feel it. He knew.