Page 68 of The King's Queen

“Are you okay?” Then he laughs nervously. “Dumb question. Of course, you aren’t okay.”

I sigh heavily. “Is it selfish to weigh their lives against each other in relation to my own? Because, on one hand, I would be guilty about Lucius’ death forever, but Blaine’s would break me. On the other hand, I can’t imagine marrying either of them.”

“Oh? Is there someone else in mind then?”

“We are walking into someone’s death sentence, and you want to flirt right now?”

Rowan rubs at the back of his neck. “Sorry, thought it would help lighten the mood.”

“The only things that could do that would be someleecheand the postponement of this duel.” I scoff. Rowan shrugs as if making a mental note of this and pats my hand. Torin approaches us, his face disturbingly pale and grim. He wears a fine-pressed coat, probably his only good coat, and thick trousers tucked into his riding boots. He looks dressed for a celebration with the countenance of a funeral guest, though I suppose that’s all a duel really is. One massive celebration of a poor soul’s death.

I can’t imagine Finneas participating in these barbaric rituals, then not regretting it. Moreover, I cannot imagine the fear and anguish Aiko must have felt. She at least had the luxury of hatred towards one of the duelers. She stood to suffer heartache or love. I am doomed to feel loss either way, though one, I fear, may kill me.

“Are you alright, Torin?” I lay a soft hand upon his forearm. “Do you need to sit a moment?”

The knight shakes his head. “The duel is about to start. You must see to your seats,” he adds, “and say your prayers to whatever god you worship.” Rowan stiffens at my side but says nothing as Torin walks back the way he came from, anxiously wringing his hands.

“Where is your seat? I’ll walk you.” Rowan looks at his feet guiltily, and I realize. “You’re not staying are you?”

“I can’t. I’ve got to go clean up some loose ends.” This is the only explanation he offers. The rejection burns my face as I purse my lips to avoid saying anything else. By loose ends, he probably means Mavis. It is always Mavis.

“I see.” I whisper tightly.

“Vera, wait.” He lowers his voice as he speaks in my ear. “I am going to check that Lucius hasn’t tampered with the duel. About a month ago, he offered me a proposition. He asked me to spy on Blaine and report back to him. He thought you still had feelings for him, so I’ve been feeding him false information and receiving favors as payment. That’s how you’ve had freer rein to leave the palace. I wouldn’t put it past him to tamper with the weaponry or bribe a guard to let him take a cheap shot.”

Pure silence filters through the castle halls, instilling a chill that has nothing to do with the harsh winter. This cold permeates my bones, my heart. I can feel my eyes crystallize and my breath fogs before me.

He played me. Lucius played me from the first moment I met him. My ego had persuaded my heart to open, plied by his honeyed words and flattering compliments. He is exactly how I feared he would be. Selfish and only concerned with owning me through whatever means.

“How dare he,” I seethe. Anger. Good, anger is good. Anger hides foolish things like horror and heartbreak. Lucius told me who he was from day one. I have been the fool who saw something different. “And how could you?”

Rowan flinches as I had stabbed him. “I didn’t tell him anything that was real, Ver.”

“How could you not tell me!” I hiss underneath my breath. “You knew for a month, don’t tell me there wasn’t time.”

“There wasn’t the right time,” Rowan corrects. “Look at you now. You’re angry and probably thinking of doing something rash. I couldn’t make a move until he did.”

“Get out of my sight.”

Rowan stalls, as if waiting for some hidden message in my words. A plea to stay, a cry for help. My heart grows colder, and I spin on my heel towards the sound of cheering.

“He will live, Verosa,” Rowan says softly as I stalk away. “Make sure he lives.”

Chapter27

Verosa

Ifind Tanja seated on a small wooden chair behind the three thrones on a dais overlooking our arena. Usually, these stands would be filled with spectators waiting to watch the latest joust, or even a play, but today they mutter softly, waiting for blood.

I find my way to my seat, the second of the gold-plated thrones, seated to my father’s left. The throne to his right remains empty in reverence to Irene. The lost queen who met a bitter and unfortunate end.

To her people, Irene was a saint. A pious woman who prayed each day and magnanimously gave to the poor as if they were her own family. She was a prize given to the king to honor an alliance between Krycolis and the Tesslari empire, the very alliance I must make concrete through my marriage. They said it was the evil will of the dark god that she passed, and holy unfitting for a woman like her to be torn apart by wolves. None of them know the truth. Not the truth behind who Irene really was, or her death. But I do. I saw the body. She was not mauled to death on an excursion to give to the poor.

My mother was murdered.

My father only nods to acknowledge my existence and takes another sip from his champagne flute. I accept mine from the server with a small thanks, but I don’t take a sip. My stomach churns, and I fight the urge to double over.

The trumpets blare. The rabble grows quiet, then explodes as the two opponents step into the arena. The dust rises to swirl about their heels, their chosen armor clunking together as they walk to opposite sides.

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