Page 78 of The Faceless Queen

All of the knights entered the field, each one adorned with the colors of their house, their lances boasting the favors they’d collected, a rainbow of ribbons and flower garlands. Only Brennan’s was plain and simple. My white ribbons and the golden ring he’d won last night.

The first melee began. A dozen knights rushed the field, half carrying clubs, the other half attacking with a staff. The goal was to knock the opponent over and keep them down for a count of ten seconds. Within a few moments of chaotic hits, punches, and tackles, the knights’ staves and clubs clashing as often as fists met faces, a third of the knights had been eliminated.

Those who remained were announced again and offered a score to compliment their presentation scores from the previous night.

Then the second melee began. This one included Brennan, Rowan, Kienan, and Jaron.

I watched, holding my breath as the three friends formed an alliance, watching each other’s backs. Rowan and Kienan guarded Brennan much the way they had in the tavern, and I was beginning to see just how deep their friendship truly was. But also, how damned strong Brennan was on his own. He raced for an opponent of House Bathiner, their cloak red, and a chimera painted across their shield. He held out his staff and knocked him down with one blow.

Everyone on the field and in their seats cheered, calling out his name.

But his formal one.

“Prince Jaron! Prince Jaron!”

I flinched, hating that that was what he was known as. That he was called this by his people, called the same name as his monstrous cousin.

Jaron was once more in his black armor, looking ever the villain. He’d shown remarkable skill in the presentation, shooting arrows with precision, as well as throwing his axe. Jaron’s lance had pierced the silver rings in the final game, garnering him second place in the tourney overall.

But he was taking down far more opponents with his club than Brennan, and by the end of the melee, they were tied for first place.

The third fight broke out, and then the fourth with those who remained. Only a few more knights were culled, leaving around fifteen to enter the lists for the joust happening before dinner.

The knights cleared the field, returning to their squires as Finlay led his musicians out to perform. The dancers followed. Cecelia positioned in the middle. And once again, Jaron noticed. It was the first time all day—at least when he wasn’t in battle—that he’d taken his eyes from me.

I had to get her out of there, far away from him. But I was still trapped at the king’s feet. And Lord Brandon, who was again in our entourage, was completely useless, sitting too far from me to speak to or ask for help. If he would even give it. Something told me he wouldn’t, not unless he saw it as a way to guarantee the success of our mission.

Food was brought out to the pavilions along with endless drinks: wine, mead, beer and cider. Hours had passed since I’d first come outside, and my knees were beginning to ache having sat on the ground so long.

But it was obvious that King Tirian had no intention of letting me sit in a chair—not even to eat.

Plates of fruit, cheese, bread, and small cakes were laid on the red rug where I perched. I could feel the eyes of hundreds on me as I ate slowly and daintily, as I knew Olivay would. And regrettably, passed on the offer of chocolate cake.

The musicians slowed, their last song coming to a close, the dancers wrapping up their performance. The court jester returned, cartwheeling his way onto the field.

He bowed low to the king, then spun on his heels, one hand over his eyes for shade.

“Look at all the faces here, come to see our valiant knights joust.” He lifted up one arm, his fist by his head as if to show off his muscle. But there was none. “And of course, all of the usual suspects are here. Armorsmiths, farmers, dancers, musicians, our esteemed nobility, His Majesty King Tirian. And of course, seven dozen men named Jaron.”

Laughter rang out across the field and through the seats.

King Tirian was not amused though, one hand fisted at his side, his gray eyes slanting, his face sneering.

“But what’s this? An uptick I see in the king’s men? So many soldiers! So many brave guards. What threat is here amongst so many hot-headed knights, each one with an ego bigger than the last?” He turned again in a circle. “I hear talk,” he shouted, “whispers in the dark! Of chimera!”

And then he looked right at me. “And then I hear there are demonos who will sneak into your beds at night, disguised as your wives, suck out your soul with a kiss and eat your children for dessert.” He laughed. “Oh, and Princess Olivay is here, too.”

My cheeks heated, my heart thrumming. It was just a joke. Not a pointed attack on me. It couldn’t be. How would he know? But from across the field, watching me with his green eyes, and his entire body turned to face me, black armor gleaming, was Jaron.

“Enough, fool,” King Tirian called. “There’s no chimera here! The ones in town were slaughtered. Hunted down and killed by my own guard.”

There were several shouts of support, as well as claps for the king. The soldiers standing guard used the hilts of their daggers to drum against their shields in support.

The jester bowed. “So I have heard of their bravery. The chimera slain.” He mimicked a sword impaling his belly. “But what of the demonos?” He turned again in a slow circle, his finger pointing. “Any woman here could be one.”

“So could any man,” the Hermit yelled. He’d pushed through our pavilion and came to stand at the edge. “How do we know you’re who you say you are?” he asked, his voice affected to be Lord Brandon’s. But I could hear the edge, the anger and the power beneath.

“Too true, my lord,” the jester cried out. “But if you want proof I am who I say, and not an Azete in disguise, then this is for you.”