Page 84 of The Faceless Queen

Their stags took off, their lances aimed against each other. I held my breath, watching Brennan carefully, terrified I’d weakened him, or that someone would notice he was riding differently, or would notice a sudden shift in his energy or strength. But as they progressed down the lists, both Brennan’s and Jaron’s backs seemed to straighten and stiffen at once—their movements in sync. Their lances lowered as the moonstags raced toward the other. They raised their shields, and then … they missed. Neither striking the other. I exhaled a sharp breath as the master of games announced that neither competitor had scored a point. The crowd booed.

But I was relieved. Brennan hadn’t defeated Jaron, but Jaron hadn’t managed to get a hit on Brennan either. He was holding his own.

They reset, and again, they charged, both of them yelling, urging their moonstags on faster and faster. They lowered their lances, aiming for each other’s shields. My heart thundered. I could barely look. And suddenly they crossed paths, their bodies battle-ready, and a crashing sound exploded over the field as both moonstags finished their race.

It was Jaron who got the first hit, his lance punching Brennan’s shield. But Brennan still remained upright, looking barely winded.

“The hell is he doing?” the king muttered.

I bit my lip. Fuck. He had been affected by me. I knew he was holding his own, but he wasn’t displaying any of the prowess he showed in his earlier matches. And his father had noticed, which meant others were likely to see it, too.

They reset and charged into the third pass. I held my breath again, my nerves spiraling. They both leaned forward, their commands to their stags exploding across the field. They got closer and closer, about to cross paths, and then there was a crash. A hit made. Brennan had won the point and struck Jaron’s shield. But he’d done more than that—he’d thrown off Jaron’s balance.

Brennan had proven his strength with such force that even Jaron’s moonstag stumbled, before racing down the remainder of the list.

I gasped. The crowd cheered.

Jaron and Brennan returned to their posts, their squires attending their stags. There were several moments for them to recenter, both stretching their necks side to side and adjusting their grips on their lances. And they were ready to go again, their hands tight on their reins, their backs straight, armor gleaming in the torchlights. One black, one silver.

The master of the games called out, but before he could finish Jaron charged. Brennan kicked his stag off only a second later, their shouts fighting for dominance over the other as their stags raced forward.

But there was something different this time, a strange feeling in the air. It was more than the emotions an Azete would feel.

The crowd felt it, too. They had stopped their chanting and cheering and instead were shouting out in panic. Shouting out a warning to Brennan.

Jaron was riding too fast, too wildly. But worse—his lance was too low. He was going to miss Brennan’s shield. He was going to strike his moonstag

“No,” I whispered, wishing I could connect to his mind. It wasn’t the first time something like this had happened over the course of the day, though only the unskilled knights fell to the folly. Brennan was not unskilled, not even close, but he wasn’t reacting. Not fast enough.

Their mounts approached. Brennan was seconds away from being hit. Suddenly he threw himself to the side, practically falling off his stag. He’d angled himself just right—his shield taking the brunt of Jaron’s strike. The stag was saved, and so was Brennan. But he had no way to get himself back up. Instead, he threw out his lance, landing a hit on Jaron. I watched with shock, as the impact forced Jaron to tumble to the ground, Barron racing back to the stable without him.

Brennan rolled to his feet, dropping his lance as Jaron mirrored his position.

Their two squires ran down the list, carrying their swords in their hands.

They took hold of their blades, and within seconds, theirs swords clashed, the steel singing, as their squires dodged back toward safety.

Sweat weighed down Brennan’s brown curls, and his face was reddening. But with every strike, he was making a hit and driving Jaron back.

I held my breath as Brennan advanced. He was going to make the final blow—the one to unsword Jaron. The one that would win him the match.

But then Jaron ducked, rolling onto the ground. He kicked his foot around Brennan’s leg and toppled him. Brennan’s sword flew out, landing in the dirt.

Jaron climbed over him seconds later, his sword over Brennan’s neck.

“Damnit, Brennan,” the King muttered, venom in his voice, disappointed in his son. Embarrassed. Could he not see how well he was fighting? How hard was he trying? Or that Jaron had clearly abandoned the rules of engagement, forsaking the niceties knights adhered to in the matches. Even the crowd was booing him.

Brennan stilled. He had seconds to get out of the hold or lose the joust. Lose the ability to name me the Lady of Beauty for the night. My hands started to wring out the folds of my dress, my nerves rising. Brennan had fought hard all day long, and Jaron was exactly the scoundrel I knew him to be.

But was he losing now because of me? If we hadn’t kissed—would that have been enough to get him back up? To win the match?

Murmurs sounded off behind me, and there was a growing air of disappointment in Brennan. He was a better fighter than this. I had cost him the tourney.

I stared at my lap, disappointment and guilt washing over me.

But then there was a shout from the audience, and cheers.

I looked up just in time to see Brennan punch Jaron in the face, hard enough to force Jaron off of him and onto his back. Brennan flung himself across the dirt floor, grasping at the hilt of his sword, and rushed back to Jaron. He stomped one boot down on his chest, and a flick of his sword knocked Jaron’s sword from his hand. Brennan shoved the tip of his blade against his cousin’s neck.