Page 70 of The Faceless Queen

I shivered at the word, and right at that moment, he leaned in, bringing his face even closer to me, so close I could scent the alcohol on his breath again.

I looked back toward the field, trying desperately to recenter myself. Finlay had started to beat the drum to a new song. Jaron’s moonstag spread its wings, rising wildly up on his hind legs, nearly kicking his squire. The boy dodged, but only barely and at the last moment, escaping what might have been a fatal blow. And of course, Jaron was laughing, riding his Barron forward without a care, the stag nearly trampling over the poor squire. Almost like it wasn’t an accident.

The king watched, seeing exactly what I saw. He had no reaction to such a blatantly obvious cruelty. So this was common.

Then his gaze narrowed on me, his lips pursed together. “We always have to watch out for witches, for demonos. They sneak through the night, steal faces and bodies of innocent women, and attack good men, if they don’t outright lure them to their death.

“Well,” I said, fighting to keep my voice from shaking, “I see we’re well protected. Especially here at the tourney.” And before he could bring the conversation back to demonos, I said, “I’m excited to cheer for Brenn—I mean—” I bit my lip. “For Prince Jaron.”

“Prince Jaron,” he snorted again. “You’re about to marry the boy. You can use the name he actually goes by while in the castle, and with me. Less confusing that way.”

“Prince Brennan,” I said.

The king rolled his eyes. “My son never wanted the name, Jaron. Not when his cousin several years older already bore it. He always preferred Brendathan.” He shrugged. “A fine familial name. And it wouldn’t have been a problem for him to choose it. But the little lout couldn’t pronounce it as a child. Called himself Brennan. And the Godsdamned thing stuck.”

A vision of young Brennan suddenly flashed in my mind. A boy with unruly curly brown hair sparring with wooden swords. I could easily imagine him young, his large green eyes, too big for his face, and his hair even more wild as he tried to say his name. Then the pride he must have felt when he’d found a name that he could pronounce, that was less formal, that felt like his. He’d chosen his name, chosen Brennan, then made it his own. My heart thundered.

“You like that story?” the king asked.

I couldn’t help but smile at it. “It’s sweet.”

The king shook his head. Almost annoyed.

The song playing came to an end, followed by a round of applause as the dancers began to prance toward our pavilion, alongside the musicians. Cecelia was front and center, biting her lip, looking almost as afraid of the king as she had been of the chimera, and of me when they attacked.

He barely glanced at her, something I was grateful for, before he sent them away. There was a small roped-off section beside our pavilion for them to watch the tourney. Not so much a place of honor from the looks of it, but a place of convenience so they could be called back out to dance at a moment’s notice. King Tirian accepted bows from the musicians, from Finlay and Thomas. They were also dismissed to move beside the pavilion.

I tried to keep sight of my friends as they walked away. It was strange for me to be sitting up here alone, for me not to be with them. For them to be so close, and yet not know me. But I’d been in this situation before. After Jaron. After I’d shed my red hair and the name Alyra. After I shed all that Jaron had known. Partly so I could forget the incident. Partly so it was never mentioned to me again. Mostly so he didn’t come to kill me.

Right at that moment, he was charging across the field while heralding trumpets blasted. The knights were dispersing toward the crowds and the pavilions, holding out their lances to collect favor. Noblewomen dropped small flower wreaths over them and tied ribbons around the tips of each lance as it was presented. Others too far to reach were tossing flowers over their heads. Petals were catching on their helmets and in between their plates of armor.

Jaron paused at the pavilion for House Bathiner. His mother’s house. The old rulers of Eskalon. Four women, all around my age, all beautiful, dropped flowered wreaths of every color around his lance. Several of the older women tossed flower petals that easily stuck to his curls.

Then, as if he was a predator sensing its prey, he turned his head, moving toward the seat of King Tirian. He looked past the king, and straight at me.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

I’d seen Jaron on the field from where I stood on the pavilion—seen his hair, his eyes, his black armor. The way he moved his body as he rode his stag through the crowds, claiming favors and ribbons. But this was the first time since that night I was seeing him up close. That he was near enough for me to see the shine of the curls peeking through his black helmet, to see the individual hairs of his eyebrows, or parse out the stubble on his chin.

And the rough scar that marred his bottom lip, that discolored the skin just below. The scar I gave him. The constant reminder of what he was. A liar. A monster.

A rapist.

And yet, he was grinning widely, easily, his body relaxed, his air of privilege and wealth untouched. This was the same man who strolled into my tavern and made me think he was a prince. The same man who, when he realized I was going to fight back, waited until dark and returned like a fucking coward to attack the girl he knew would not.

Aside from the Goddamned scar on his mouth, aside from what I now knew, there was almost no difference between those men—even two years later.

And that infuriated me far more than anything else in the last few days, and I had a lot to be fucking infuriated over. My hands curled into fists in my lap as he brought his stag even closer, its bright eyes searching over the edge of the stage, nostrils flared, and winged feathers rippling in the wind.

I had to look at the stag, because I didn’t want to look at Jaron. I didn’t want to see him or hear the false charm in his words.

But he was upon me, and I wasn’t Samara—or even Alyra, the girl he knew. I was Princess Olivay, barely swallowing back the bile in my throat, as I smiled at him.

“Your Highness, Princess Olivay.” Jaron grinned in return. “I was just on my way to see you.”

“Is that so?” I asked.

“But of course. I came to beg you for your favor before the presentation.” He winked, all of the old charm snaking through his voice. His tongue poked out, wetting his lips, and it slid down the length of his scar.