Page 79 of The Faceless Queen

He turned around, bent over, pulled down his pants, and let out the loudest fart I’d ever heard in my life.

I looked away and covered my nose, even at the distance I sat away from him. I was completely horrified. And disgusted.

But the entire tourney erupted into laughter and bawdy cheers. And a few other men decided it was time to fart. The jester’s crude joke had actually worked in my favor.

Because the soldiers were coming onto the field and grabbing the fool, though making sure their actions were overly theatrical and in jest, before they dragged him away.

No one was looking at me. Only the spectacle of his show, and its disgusting end.

Well, with two exceptions. Brennan. And Jaron.

Brennan’s face was scrunched up, his mouth tight, clearly disgusted by what he’d seen and heard. But Jaron—he was looking at me with the same intensity as the night before, the same accusation in his eyes. It had to be a coincidence that the jester made a joke about chimera and Azete in my presence. It had to be. They were the talk of the country this week because of the attack. Because it was news. Just as I was news, because of my betrothal. But my doubts were already creeping in. The Hermit placed a hand on my shoulder.

“Steady,” he hissed. “Just a fool.”

“Are you so sure?” I mouthed, looking at him.

His brows drew together, and he yelled out, “Ah, time for the jousts. Come on herald, redeem the tourney from its flatulence.”

The herald stepped forward, wearing a tunic of blue and red. A moonstag embroidered across the center, a trumpet in one hand. He bowed before the king.

“The games begin at your command.”

King Tirian stood. “Let the jousts begin.”

CHAPTER NINETEEN

The Hermit bowed before the king, giving me one last warning look before returning to his seat.

The first joust was the two knights with the lowest rankings after the melee sat atop their stags, their lances at the ready and charged.

“Are you bored?” King Tirian leaned over his throne. He hadn’t spoken to me all day. Not something I would have thought to complain about. The silence, particularly from him, was welcome. But something about it felt pointed, as if it was a punishment for me. As if I’d somehow displeased him.

Or he wanted me to believe I had.

“I’m waiting for Brennan to return,” I said. “He’s the only knight who has captured my interest.”

He smirked. “Had to have his armor cleaned after last night. Should have had it cleaned again.”

I squinted, watching Brennan speak with his squire as the first two knights charged. His armor looked perfect to me—shining and strong.

“I see no marks upon it,” I said without thinking.

The king harrumphed. “Not armor I would have worn.”

“What did you wear to the tourneys then, Your Majesty?”

His brows narrowed. “I was the crown prince. What do you think?”

“You wore the black armor,” I said.

“Well, you’re not completely stupid.” He scratched his chin.

I spotted Jaron, his armor of black steel. The witch armor Tirian had called it. The armor passed down to the royal heir. Looking at it again, I felt that strange feeling. It was not as strong as the day before—yet my unease, that feeling, that sense of familiarity, was not going away. Where was that coming from? Why was the armor striking me this way?

“May I ask why Jaron is in possession of it now?” A part of me loved that the king himself had been denied a piece of his own tradition. But I hated that Jaron was the one who’d benefited. Another fucking reason he could lie to me and claim he was the prince.

And right as if he knew we were discussing him—he lifted his lance. Like the other knights, there was a small flag hanging from it with his house sigil. But Jaron’s wasn’t blue and red. It didn’t depict the moonstag with flames. In the late day’s sun, I could see the golden thread of House Lafir. But his flag was red and gray, not blue. A chimera in flames was painted across the center, not the moonstag.