Page 68 of The Faceless Queen

I bit back a snarl, fighting to keep my face as neutral as possible. To remember all of my training not just as a princess but as a dancer at Geoffrey’s. Keep the customer happy and paying, and then when their guard lowered, I would get what I wanted.

King Tirian was no different than any other man who liked to prove his worth by humiliating others. It was almost boring how easily I’d imagined his cruelty, and just how easily he matched it.

I was suddenly imagining every place I’d like to stab him. I let the visions go as I took a deep breath.

Olivay would never have such thoughts. Olivay was a good princess. She was going to do as she was told. And since I was her, I would have to wait until the time was right. So I carefully rearranged my skirts to fan out around me on the floor, and pushed back my shoulders, affecting the proper posture of the prince's betrothed.

“I know how princesses are treated in Sparva,” the king continued. “Here though, you are to obey me. I want you to understand that. I don’t care how far my son stuck his tongue down your throat. Nor do I care that a thousand witnesses saw it. I wouldn’t care if they watched him breed you in your marriage bed. Displease me, and I will send you home in disgrace.”

“I understand, Your Majesty,” I said, forcing my voice to shake, hoping it conveyed fear. And not the rage boiling inside me. “I am your loyal daughter now.”

“We’ll see if you are,” he said, sitting back on his throne. His legs spread wide to either side, framing me from behind while he tapped loudly against the armrest.

My stomach twisted. Had Olivay known what she was getting into?

I imagined her face in the cave, how desperately she wanted to return to her prince. Understanding now that she wanted to return to Brennan, I understood her genuine desperation for him. But something told me she didn’t know what she was bargaining for with the king.

I stared out into the field, to the various knights saddling up onto their moonstags, their squires tightening their armor or handing weapons to them.

Finlay and Thomas started up a rhythmic beat, and notes of a new song began to play in the distance as dancers I recognized from the tavern performed, including Cecelia. A few yards beyond them, Brennan met up with his squire. The boy adjusted Brennan’s cloak, fanning it out behind him, and checked his belt before stepping back and watching the crown prince climb up onto his moonstag. There were several shouts as he did so, revealing that his stag’s name was Aurick.

Jaron emerged from the stables only a few feet away. His armor was darker than the others, almost black instead of the silver that seemed to shine across the field. I’d never seen anything like it. I leaned forward and squinted, trying to get a better look. There was something about it, something strange. And familiar. There was a pang in my gut, a feeling I couldn’t explain. One that reminded me of meeting the witch at the cave or seeing Brennan the first time.

Only this felt dark, almost ominous. The king leaned forward then, watching me carefully, his eyebrows raised as if he had expected my interest.

“That was my brother’s armor,” he said.

I glanced back, meeting his gray eyes. “Your brother?”

Brothers weren’t exactly common in the royal line, at least, brothers that weren’t bastards. Tirian, of course, had one son. He too had been an only child, the crown prince of Eskalon when Brennan’s grandfather, King Nathan, sat on the throne. At least, that was the truth as far as I knew it.

Blinking, I tried frantically to remember anything I knew about the king’s brother, if he’d been mentioned when I was growing up. Or if he’d been in the Hermit’s notes about Olivay. Fuck. I tried to remember if his brother had ever been a topic of conversation in the tavern. But I couldn’t think of a single thing. Not one mention.

I vaguely remembered my early studies where I’d learned that years ago there’d been several outbreaks of civil war between royal brothers. They were always vying for the throne of Eskalon. Too many heirs had been a problem for quite some time. Royal houses split, and the people further divided themselves by throwing their support behind the ruler of their choice. Towns turned against each other, even families divided when certain members supported, in their eyes, the wrong king. At some point, the rulers of Eskalon began to have only one son to avoid such fates. There was no more heir and spare. But one who was destined.

It was around that time that House Bathiner and House Lafir became one. Before they had joined, they were at the center of the civil wars and had become the most bitter of rivals. According to the stories, their battles were the bloodiest and most savage of them all. Until one day, a peace treaty was struck. They laid down their arms and united. No longer opposed, the royal line of Lafir became one large house that continued to rule and occupied the throne for king after king.

But seeing the presence of House Bathiner now, their pavilion so proudly decorated before the field, I realized that was no longer true. They were their own force to be reckoned with. A house that had not been swallowed by the other, but one that was determined to remain independent.

Or … more likely, determined to rise back to power.

King Tirian nodded. “You may have heard that my mother, Queen Anya, had only one pregnancy.”

I nodded. I hadn't heard those words specifically. But since it had been the norm for the queen to birth only one child, I’d never heard anything different.

“Well, that was true,” he said. “Following tradition. She was pregnant once and labored once. And yet, I had a brother. Not a bastard, mind you. He was my twin. Rowan.”

The king looked at me expectantly, waiting for a response. Was I supposed to know this, or was I meant to be shocked?

“Your Majesty,” I said, partly to appease him, partly to buy myself time. “I must confess, I know little of your brother.”

He snorted. “Of course, you know little. You would know nothing. He’s dead.”

“Oh.” I blinked. “I am sorry to hear that.”

He shrugged, like it didn’t matter. Then he pointed at Jaron. “He was older than me, you know? Rowan. Only by five minutes, or so I’m told.” He scoffed, “Five minutes. As if that can truly mean a thing in the span of a life.”

Maybe not. But I knew it mattered a hell of a lot if those five minutes meant being born second to the crown prince. Not sure how else to respond, I nodded. “I didn’t know that, Your Majesty.”