Page 67 of The Faceless Queen

My eyes burned with unshed tears, my whole face hot.

He will die.

The Hermit clucked his tongue in admonishment. “Enough. Stop this. You have no time to grieve in advance. What you need to do is make yourself pretty for the king.” Already he was leading us forward, smiling graciously at the nobles of House Lafir and waving as we approached the throne. “Remember, it’s not all doom and gloom. It’s his reign you’re ending.”

I stood up straighter. He was right. And so I looked boldly into the king’s eyes. They were gray and tired. And cold. I imagined they were once as green as his son’s, but that age and evil had stolen their pigment. Because how could such a beautiful color be allowed to live in the face of a tyrant? The man who drove the witches into the wilds of Azeal, who cut us off from the resources we needed to survive, and banned us from visiting the ocean that renewed our magic. Who abandoned us to the violence of the chimera.

Who sent his men into the woods to kill my mother. Whose actions left us defenseless against the beasts that mauled her. Who created a culture that allowed men like Jaron to flourish.

I eyed the Hermit and nodded. Brennan was innocent in all of this. And it was likely going to destroy me. But at least I wouldn’t be alone in my destruction. I would have a way to avenge my mother’s death.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

“Your Majesty,” Lord Brandon said, his voice more affected than ever. “I know you have already met Princess Olivay of House Kanos, Daughter of the King and Queen of Spartva.” He pushed me forward. “But now, may I humbly present to you Princess Olivay of House Lafir, betrothed to the crown prince of Eskalon. Your son’s future wife, and your soon-to-be daughter.”

I sank to my knees, the voluminous skirts of my dress spiraling out around me as Lord Brandon took a ridiculously low, dramatic bow.

“Your Majesty,” I said, looking up and blinking slowly. Out of habit, a burst of magic rushed to my eyelashes, lengthening and darkening them as I stared back at him through them, a shy, innocent smile upon my face. It was less about pleasing him and more because I felt the need for armor, for something to distance myself from him, from the monster he was. “I am honored to join the royal House of Lafir,” I said, my voice coated in honey, “and to pledge my loyalty to Eskalon. To my prince.”

“Your loyalty is to the crown, to your king,” he said.

“Yes,” I amended. “Of course, to the crown, to you, Your Majesty.”

He laughed and rose from the makeshift throne, his hand on his belly. “Rise,” he said jovially. “Come now. I know you are well spoken, but such formalities are of no use here. We’ve already met.” He stood and offered me a hand, then tugged me close, his gray eyes carefully inspecting me head to toe. He was being gentle with me, for the moment at least. Far friendlier than I’d expected, especially considering his attitude barely one moment ago.

I knew men like him. Overly friendly when they thought they had the upper hand. Doing away with the formalities that normally wrapped tightly around their existence. This was a trap. He thought he’d caught me off balance and would force me to let my guard down—to see how far he could take it.

My stomach tightened with the shadow of a warning.

“Yes.” The king continued inspecting me. Looking Olivay over like I—she—was a thing. “Very nice. You played your part well. And I trust you will continue to do so through the wedding, and then after.” His hand wrapped around my waist, his fingers digging into my curves as he pulled me against him. The scent of alcohol clung to his breath as he turned me to face the pavilion set aside for House Kanos.

Nearly everyone there had risen from their seats to bow before the king, holding the posture until he signaled. The purple flags, all silvered with their sigil of the unicorn, seemed to fade, and I felt a wave of homesickness. Not for Spartva. But for my own house. House Zakros of Azeal. I was homesick for a mother who loved me. For a family who cared enough to travel with me in order to attend my wedding. For people who did not despise me.

Something I would never have.

“Now be a good girl and wave to your parents,” Tirian commanded. “To your old king and queen.”

A chill rushed down my spine. I didn’t like his emphasis on the word “old.”

The Spartvan King and Queen watched us from their pavilion, their eyes rapt with worry. They knew. They understood what was happening, and exactly what they’d agreed to when they signed a marriage contract for their daughter to the son of a tyrant. They might remain at the castle through the wedding party. But this was goodbye.

And though I knew it was in my best interest, I couldn’t help but feel the heaviness of the moment for them, in my heart, and then through every vein of my body. Even at this distance, they offered enough emotion for the Azete to take a long sip from both of their lifeforces.

I waved as commanded, feeling the king’s hand slide up my back, his fingers clamping down on my shoulder. “You may go,” King Tirian said to the Hermit, who still hovered, watching closely. Protectively, almost. “Your services aren’t needed now, Lord Brandon. Enjoy yourself. Mingle. Gossip. Watch the games.”

“Of course, Your Majesty.” Lord Brandon bowed, but the Hermit looked at me, and for once, he seemed worried. Concerned. And yet he retreated to his seat amongst the other nobles of Eskalon without looking back.

“Good,” the King said, alone with me. “Sit.”

I frowned, looking around, naively expecting a chair to appear beside his or at least for a servant to begin carrying one, but there was nothing. Only a small red carpet beneath his boots.

“W-Where, Your Majesty?” I asked. Surely he couldn’t mean …

“At my feet,” he snarled. Then with a sudden wave of violence, he pushed me to the ground.

My knees hit the wooden floor of the pavilion, and pain shot through my legs. I wasn’t even permitted the grace of landing on the carpet he used for his boots.

“You’re House Lafir now, and a citizen of Eskalon,” he said, and I recognized the coldness in it. It was a perfect match for Jaron’s. “You’re my family,” he continued. “My blood. My subject. My daughter. Mine to command, and you will obey. Not after your wedding. Not after you spread your legs for my son. But here, sitting at my feet.”