Page 36 of The Faceless Queen

I climbed onto a stool and pulled it down, unclasping the golden lock. As it sprang open, I gasped. I’d seen hundreds of these sets before, but it had been years. And I couldn’t recall keeping one in my room. The box had been specially designed with indents to hold miniature deities—statues of the three Gods most famously associated with the Doom, the same three worshipped by both the witches of Azeal and the people of Eskalon. Batrir, Kavrir, and Orsete. The Goddess had always been the only one that mattered in the castle. And yet, over the last seven years …

My stomach twisted as I realized the day I’d begun to acknowledge Batrir, the day I’d begun to call upon and invoke the God of strife, was the day I lost my mother. Never before that day had I uttered “by Batrir,” and then suddenly, it had become my normal. But seeing the box in my hands, and the deities, and moon engravings, Gods, it reminded me of her. Reminded me of a life before I needed Batrir’s name to help me through the day. Reminded me of goodness and love, of the time before my body felt like a weapon. But most of all, it reminded me of my mother.

I pulled Batrir’s figurine out first, feeling the heavy weight of the sculpted metal in my hand. He’d been designed with a male warrior body, muscles thick enough to defeat a chimera with his hands alone. Two horns protruded from his head, much in the way he was depicted in the art around Eskalon. Especially the art at Geoffrey’s. Something began to niggle in the back of my mind—some uncomfortable truth—but I couldn’t name it or remember.

I set the deity down, and reached for his nemesis and enemy, the golden-haired God of Eskalon, Kavrir. Orsete’s lover. I never understood how it happened—but Eskalon had claimed him centuries ago, making him their own, and worshipping him with such fervor. I found him almost off-putting. According to their stories, he married the wild Orsete and tamed her—an idea as insulting as it was infantilizing. Not once had I read a single story in our histories to corroborate that idea, and I’d read plenty.

But despite Eskalon’s claims on him, and their twisting of his stories, Kavrir always had and always would be ours. I turned his body in my hand, taking in his golden hair and armor, the longsword he used to fight his enemies, and his shield with the seven-pointed star that was said to defend the rest. To defend his consort, his lover, his leader, and his queen.

Orsete. But her statue was missing from the set. The Goddess who’d meant so much to my mother, whose likeness she’d kept at the altar in her bedroom. I traced the box, my fingers moving over the space where the Goddess was supposed to be. Her cut-out was the widest—for often Orsete was depicted with wings of fire. Had this once been my mother’s set? I could imagine it. Imagine her removing Orsete, placing her on an altar, lighting candles whose flickering flames would make her wings look like fire, and then leaving the other two Gods behind without a thought. Perhaps, in my aunt’s desire to remove anything that reminded her of me, she’d also removed my mother’s personal possessions, the trinkets and treasures she would have kept in her bedroom. The Queen’s room.

The room that was now my aunt’s. I closed my eyes, afraid I might cry from the thought. But all I could see were the walls of my mother’s old bedroom, and statues of Orsete placed carefully around her altar. Her firewings blazing, looking real in the firelight. My mother always kept a bowl of rose petals plucked from the castle vines. And before bed, we’d pour the petals over Orsete’s head to request good dreams. In the mornings, we’d leave tiny pieces of parchment at her feet, full of our wishes for the day.

I closed my eyes, realizing just how long it had been since I’d done that, since I’d even thought of those quiet moments between us. Where was the statue? Gods, I just wanted to see one—see anything that once was owned or touched by my mother.

There was a sharp knock against the door, pulling me back. I replaced the figurines in their box and closed the clasp right as the door opened. The Hermit stepped inside.

“You’re supposed to wait for me to tell you to come in,” I said, annoyed. Quickly, I wiped my eyes and pushed the box behind me.

“I knocked. That was me telling you I was coming in.” He swept his long blue cloak over his shoulder. His black tunic was made of a shiny, delicate material I didn’t recognize. Perhaps one he acquired in his travels. The front was cut low, exposing the expanse of his torso to his belly button. Two tassels trimmed in gold thread hung from either side. A thick leather belt, with golden coins depicting the old Gods sewn into the center, cinched the tunic at his waist. “Sleep well?”

“No,” I said flatly. I peered back out the window. It was dawn when I fell asleep. It couldn’t be much later than that now.

“Bed uncomfortable?” He frowned, looking at the disheveled sheets and pillows.

“No.” I folded my arms across my chest.

He shrugged and made a tsking sound with his tongue. “I fear there’s no pleasing you. I mean, the little tavern with your previous bed burned to the ground three nights ago. So that certainly wasn’t an option.”

“Three nights ago!” I yelled. “No. Last night.”

“Three, you slept through the day you arrived, and the following two nights.”

I crossed my arms over my chest, the echo of my dream, of my mother’s death, still lingering against me. It hadn’t felt like that much time had passed. Had I been dreaming of her death for nearly three whole days? Was that why it had felt so intense? By the Gods.

“Now,” the Hermit continued, “I assume sleeping in the tower of a princess must surely be better than the grass and dirt of Kalder Forest.” He cocked his head to the side.

I glared, a retort on the edge of my tongue, but I slammed my mouth shut as his words sank in. “How long?” I asked. “How long had you known about the tavern? How long had you known you would find me in the forest?”

“A while.” The Hermit smiled, his entire expression catlike. “I know many things.”

“None of which you’ll tell me,” I said through gritted teeth.

He laughed. “That might be the first intelligent thing you’ve said since I found you.”

“So what happens now? You drag me to court? Humiliate me before my people? Show off that you found me after all these years until my aunt throws me in prison?”

“No.” He grimaced. “I know it’s been a few days for you, but I already explained. No one knows you’re here.” He gestured with his finger for me to come closer. “And no one will. As far as the witches of Azeal are concerned, Princess Shamhira remains in her prison cell, still suffering and paying for her crimes to this day.”

I blinked. “Remains?” There was a hollow feeling spreading through my body. I’d been on the run for years, hiding, terrified of being found, and all this time … “You mean they think—they think I’ve been here all along? That I wasn’t in exile, but imprisoned?”

“Yes, you remain. Quite securely, I might add,” he said.

I wanted to vomit. The lie felt like a betrayal I could not explain. Years I’d hidden, and no one had been seeking me.

The Hermit shook his head. “Secrecy concerning your whereabouts has always been of great importance to Her Majesty, and me.”

“Why?” I asked.