Page 51 of The Faceless Queen

“I will hold you to that.”

The Hermit removed the scabbard from his belt, the one which held his stave, and placed it inside his bag before he replaced it with the scabbard of a sword. Then he buttoned up the front of his shirt, concealing his torso, and smoothed back his long dark hair, carefully tossing the purple velvet cloak over his shoulder. Then he extended his hand to me. Like a gentleman would.

Or, Lord Brandon.

“Shall we, Princess?” he asked, his accent suddenly posh and affected. He was even standing differently, his chest puffed out in the way some men posed when they were trying to appear more important than they were. “We have a tournament to attend in Eskalon. A great joust to see. And your betrothed is waiting for you.”

Jaron.

Dizziness washed over me again. But I took the Hermit, Lord Brandon’s, hand.

He grinned, offering me a smile more fake than any I’d ever seen. “Come now, Olivay. Let’s reunite you with your prince.”

CHAPTER TWELVE

Numbness washed through me as I approached the mouth of the cave, stumbling past the female witch. She watched me carefully, too carefully, giving me the uncanny impression that she could still see me, the real me. The girl beneath Olivay’s face. And so could the Hermit. Or, Lord Brandon, as I now had to refer to him. My new confidant who’d be endlessly at my side, reminding me of people’s names and Spartvan customs.

But mostly, I knew he planned to be there for my aunt’s sake, making sure I fulfilled my oath.

The female witch’s eyes roamed slowly over my body, or Olivay’s, I supposed. A shiver ran down my spine, and for a second, I could remember flying, red scales covering talons and wings. Fire burning inside me as my body took on a form that I’d only managed once, a form I still feared to this day. I stumbled back, feeling as if the wind had been knocked out of me from the memory alone. I wasn’t changing–not again. Not becoming that thing. The Azete was at rest, curled up inside of me for the time being, still drunk on Olivay. And yet I was experiencing the sort of vision that was only brought about by a deep connection with the beast inside. It didn’t make any sense. There was nothing there. Nothing to grasp onto. Not from the witch—she was too old, or perhaps not truly mortal.

And yet the strange sensation remained.

She nodded, the gesture offering a kind of finality, but there was a sparkle in her eyes as she bid farewell to the Hermit and vanished into the cave. The sound of her shell dress pinged quietly as we made our way outside, back into the bright light of the afternoon, and the noise of robins tweeting back and forth as if my life hadn’t just been shattered again.

The Hermit was no Azete. I couldn’t explain the transformation he’d undergone. But little more than buttoning up his shirt, donning a sword, and fixing his hair had shifted him completely into Lord Brandon. And it was Lord Brandon who led me through the clearing, away from the woods where my mother had died. Where part of me had, too.

“You need to walk like her,” he snapped.

“What, now? Here in the woods?”

“You need to practice,” he said.

“And how am I to do that? There was no description of her gait in my study guides.”

“I know it.” He threw his head over his shoulder, and again, his entire demeanor shifted. His snobbish, cocky smile vanished and was replaced by a shy, coy one—Olivay’s. I mimicked it automatically. He nodded in approval. Then he pushed his shoulders back and began to walk. No swagger. No masculinity, just the sweet, inconspicuous stride of a princess.

I began to walk forward.

“No. No. No!” he shouted. “You’ve worked in the tavern too long. Your hips move too much.” He started to walk, swishing his hips side to side, mimicking me. Then he repeated his princess walk again. “See? Olivay’s don’t. They are still and docile.”

I tried again, nearly grunting with the effort to keep my hips from swishing, from engaging in the walk I’d used for as long as I could remember, sometimes earning an offer from my gait alone.

The Hermit licked his lips, his eyes full of concentration, then he nodded. “Good. You keep that walk up.”

I groaned. But he was right. And so I moved, my hips still, through the forest, my calves burning from exertion, and my stomach tensed.

But thankfully, I got the hang of her walk, and we had made our way to our destination. Waiting beneath the canopy of trees we’d been approaching, stood our moonstag. I hadn’t been this close to one in years–not since Jaron. He used to ride his personal stag to the tavern. And I’d sometimes pet him when I saw Jaron out after a night of lovemaking. His name was Barron, and he’d always taken a liking to me.

Since then, the only moonstags I’d seen had been in the sky flying over Eskalon. Up there they looked so small. I’d forgotten that up close they were nearly three times the size of a full-grown deer. Tawny fur covered its body, and its curled wings jutted out from its back. They were made up of thousands of feathers in every shade of brown, the tips peppered with white and gray. Its bright eyes watched us carefully before gracefully turning its head to the side, revealing the early regrowth of antlers. The stag immediately stuck its head out toward me, wanting me to pet it. I obliged, stroking the soft fur between its antlers, memories of Barron and mornings after with Jaron rushing toward me. Feelings of warmth and love turned to disgust.

“Make sure you keep that hood up,” the Hermit said, reaching forward to tighten the folds of the cloak across my chest. Then he nodded, satisfied with his work.

I stared down, my cloak once more camouflaging me, making me blend in with the grass and trees.

“They can see Lord Brandon flying into Lafir Castle,” he said, stepping away and patting the moonstag’s face. “But Princess Olivay is supposed to be alone in her room, taking a beauty nap and preparing for tonight’s big announcement.”

“And I am supposed to what?” I threw my hands up. “Just sit there in your camouflage cloak, pretending not to exist?”