Crush the King

by Estep, Jennifer

  Captain Auster was standing a few feet away with the Bellonan guards, his hand on his sword, suspiciously eyeing anyone who came near me. Paloma was doing the same thing, her fingers resting against her mace handle. Xenia was sipping a mimosa and speaking with some of the Ungers, but she was still clutching her cane. Cho was chatting up a servant, trying to convince the other man to hand over his entire tray of pastries, but he too kept glancing around. Sullivan was speaking with Rhea, but he also kept looking out over the arena.

  The Mortans might not be here, but the other royals were, so I shifted my focus back to them, and the cliques that were already forming. Heinrich and I were standing together and were already publicly, openly aligned, as were Eon and Ruri. The Vacunan king and Ryusaman queen were old allies, given their kingdoms’ relatively close proximity and isolation from the rest of the continent, and they usually sided with each other rather than with anyone else. They kept a close watch on Morta and the other kingdoms, but their impressive navies kept their enemies at bay.

  Cisco was standing off by himself, still perusing the grapes on his plate, while Zariza kept sipping her brandy, seemingly bored by this whole affair.

  I hoped that Eon, Ruri, Cisco, and Zariza would align with me and Heinrich, with Bellona and Andvari, against the Mortans, but there was no way to tell. The other kings and queens had courts full of nobles and merchants to appease, just like I did, and it would be hard for them to justify aligning with me, especially if the Mortan king offered them some lucrative new trade agreements. In the end, each king and queen would do what was best for their own people. I just hoped they realized that the Mortans were a threat to us all.

  I also kept an eye on Driscol as he flitted from one royal or noble to the next, shaking hands and exchanging greetings. Even among all the perfumes and colognes on the terrace, I could still smell his sour, sweaty eagerness. He didn’t approach me, though, and I didn’t seek him out. I wasn’t making any deals with him, and his precious Mint could sink into the bloody sea for all I cared.

  Driscol finished his rounds, drained the rest of his kiwi mimosa, and handed the empty glass off to a servant. I expected him to plunge back into the pack of royals to schmooze some more, but instead he walked over to Seraphine, who was chatting with some Floresian nobles. Driscol whispered something in his sister’s ear, then glanced up.

  At first I thought he was checking the weather, but only a few white, puffy clouds dotted the cerulean sky. No rain or snow would ruin the festivities, although the air was a bit chilly, but that was typical for this time of year.

  Still, Driscol kept staring upward as though he were expecting a lightning bolt to drop from the sky or something else equally momentous to happen. What did he know that the rest of us didn’t—

  A loud, sharp, violent screech tore through the air, and several shadows fell over the terrace, blotting out the sun.

  My head snapped up, and everyone on the terrace and in the surrounding boxes and bleachers stopped what they were doing and peered upward as well. I shielded my eyes with my hand so that I could better see.

  A legion of strixes soared into view above the arena.

  My eyes widened, and my breath caught in my throat at the beautiful, terrible sight. Every single one of the strixes was fully grown, with bodies that were bigger than Floresian horses. Their dark purple feathers gleamed, while the onyx tips on the ends whistled through the air like arrows searching for a target.

  One, two, three . . . I couldn’t tell exactly how many strixes were hovering overhead, and I stopped counting after the first dozen. But every single one of them was carrying a rider wearing midnight-purple armor and clutching a silver spear.

  The Mortans were finally here.

  Chapter Nine

  The strixes continued to hover above the arena, their purple wings pumping hard and fast to keep them aloft in their loose, arrow-shaped formation. The people gathered in the surrounding boxes and bleachers gasped and yelled, and many in the crowd pointed up at the strixes and their armor-clad, spear-wielding riders. Despite my surprise and wariness, even I had to admit that the creatures’ aerial prowess made for an impressive sight.

  Sullivan stepped up beside me, his fingers flexing, and the scent of his magic filled my nose. He was ready to blast the strixes and their riders with his lightning if they made any threatening move toward me. Paloma sidled up on my other side, along with Captain Auster. They both had their hands on their weapons, and they too were ready to defend me. Behind them, the Bellonan guards snapped to attention as well.

  Everyone else on the terrace was still staring up at the strixes and their riders, but I looked over at Driscol. The corners of his lips twitched up into a smug, satisfied smile. He had known exactly what the Mortans were planning, and he had probably helped them set it up. That’s why they had arrived so late. The Mortans had wanted all the other royals and nobles—along with everyone else in the arena—to see just how strong they were.

  I glanced around, clocking the other royals’ reactions. Eon and Ruri were both frowning, apparently not caring much for the Mortans’ theatrics. Good. That gave me a bit of hope they might align with me.

  Cisco’s lips were puckered in thought, and the stench of cherry lust wafted off him. The Floresian king was obviously wishing he had his own strixes on which to make such a grand entrance. Bellona and Flores had never been particularly friendly, and Cisco would probably be amenable to whatever the Mortans proposed, as long as it benefited him, despite the fact that they had killed his cousin Lord Durante.

  Zariza kept sipping her brandy, seemingly more interested in it than the creatures and riders, and the ogre on her neck also wore a bored expression. She was hard to read, and I couldn’t tell what she was thinking.

  In contrast, Heinrich and Dominic were open books. They both had their arms crossed over their chests and were glaring up at the creatures and riders. The Andvarians had as little love for the Mortans as I did, given how many of their countrymen had died during the Seven Spire massacre and the recent assassination attempt on Dominic at Glitnir.

  “I’d like to blast those bastards out of the sky for everything they’ve done to you, highness,” Sullivan growled. “For everything they’ve done to us, to our families.”

  His hand twitched, and a bit of blue lightning sparked on his fingertips. The same power flashed in his eyes, and hot, peppery anger blasted off him in waves.

  I touched his arm. “I feel the same way, but we both know we can’t do that. We can’t start a war. Not here, not now, with so many innocent people around. We need to beat the Mortans at their own game, remember? That’s our plan, and we need to stick to it.”

  He stared at me, a muscle ticking in his jaw, even as more peppery anger surged off him. After a few seconds, he curled his hand into a fist, snuffing out his magic. I squeezed his arm, and we both turned our attention back to the sky.

  Given the number of strixes, I couldn’t tell where the Mortan king was—or if Maeven was here. I hoped she was. I might be plotting to kill her brother, but I also wanted to continue my long game with her.

  The rider at the very front of the formation lifted his fist and then dropped it in a sharp motion. One after another, the creatures and their warriors plummeted to the ground, landing on the hard-packed dirt of the arena floor. The crowds in the boxes and bleachers yelled, cheered, clapped, screamed, and whistled, impressed by the aerial acrobatics, and several people on the royal terrace politely applauded, although most were far too refined, snobby, and self-important to deign to show any true, raucous emotion.

  Still, everyone loved a good show.

  The strixes landed in the same arrow formation they’d shown in the air, with the riders still atop their respective creatures. The first rider raised his fist again and let out a loud, earsplitting whistle, and the other riders steered the strixes into two rows. The Mortans were really going all-out with their show.

  One of the strixes hopped forward and stopped in the open
space between the two rows, and that rider looked around, as if checking to make sure that everyone was in their proper place. Once he was satisfied, the rider dismounted, and a servant rushed forward to help the man take off his golden helmet, along with his dark purple riding coat.

  My breath caught in my throat. That had to be the Mortan king.

  Behind him, a few other people also dismounted from their strixes and removed their own helmets, along with their riding coats. One of them was a woman with golden hair.

  Maeven.

  “She actually showed up,” I whispered. “She’s actually here.”

  Sullivan, Paloma, and Auster crowded in closer to me. I glanced across the terrace. Cho and Xenia had also spotted the king and Maeven. They both looked as tense as I felt, but Cho nodded at me. He and the others would be ready to move should the Mortans try to kill me.

  The Mortan king took his sweet bloody time handing his helmet to a servant, stripping off his riding gear, and slipping into a new jacket. Only when he was properly attired did he deign to stride across the arena floor.

  The crowd, of course, loved his long, drawn-out entrance, and they cheered wildly as he waved at first one section, then another. People also started tossing flowers and other trinkets from the bleachers down onto the arena floor.

  Chains of white daisies, bundles of purple gladiolas, and crowns of blue laurels sailed through the air and landed on the hard-packed dirt, along with pennants and small stuffed strixes. Auster had told me that it was a Regalia tradition to shower gifts upon the gladiators after their bouts as a way for the audience to show its appreciation. Apparently, the people thought the Mortan king was also worthy of such high regard, although he didn’t bother to pick up any of the items.

  I looked past the king and scanned the section of bleachers closest to him. A bright flash of metal caught my eye. A figure wearing a black cloak with the hood pulled up over their head was lurking in the center of a pack of people near one of the gates set into the arena wall. The figure raised a black-gloved hand, and that bit of metal flashed again.

  An instant later, an arrow zipped out of the crowd, zooming straight toward the Mortan king.

  * * *

  For one bright, shining, wonderful moment, I thought the Mortan king was going to die right there on the arena floor.

  He must have somehow sensed the arrow, because he whirled in that direction. Large purple hailstones exploded out of his fingertips and punch-punch-punched into the arrow, reducing it to splinters a second before it would have slammed into his throat.

  People gasped, and a stunned silence dropped over the arena. No one seemed to know for certain what had just happened, although all the guards on the royal terrace snapped to attention, ready to defend their own kings and queens in case any more arrows came zipping out of the crowd.

  The Mortan king casually flexed his hand, causing more hailstones to streak out of his fingers and up into the sky. Then he whipped up his other hand and sent a bolt of cold purple lightning shooting out at the hailstones, shattering them in midair. Bits of purple ice rained down all around him, although he summoned up a breeze to make sure that none of the pellets actually touched him.

  The Mortan king did that same hailstone-lightning sequence over and over again, adding in howling gusts of wind so that the ice showered different parts of the arena. I’d known that he was a weather magier, but I hadn’t realized just how much raw power he had.

  The crowd roared, apparently thinking it was all just part of the show, and more flowers, pennants, and stuffed animals sailed through the air. No more arrows came shooting out of the crowd, though, and several Mortan guards flanked their king, forming a protective ring around him.

  My heart dropped. Serilda had failed.

  As per our plan, she had slipped away from our group and taken up a position in the crowd in hopes of getting a shot at the Mortan king when he arrived. I didn’t see her black cloak anymore, although a dozen Mortan guards had moved away from their strixes and were hurrying through the nearest gate. Worry twisted my stomach, but there was nothing I could do to help Serilda now.

  The Mortan king shot another bolt of cold lightning up into the sky, then lowered his hand and strode forward. Anger spiked through me, along with more than a little bitterness. My assassination attempt hadn’t so much as ruffled his hair.

  The smell of orange interest filled the air, and I was suddenly aware of just how many people on the terrace were staring at me. Royals, nobles, advisors, servants, guards. The spectators might think the king vanquishing that arrow had been an act, but everyone here knew about Bellona’s troubles with Morta. No doubt they were wondering if I was the one who’d just tried to kill the king—and how I would react to the fact that my mortal enemy was still alive.

  I was wondering that myself.

  This wasn’t the first time I had been confronted by someone I despised, but I still had to work very hard to keep my face blank and my hands from clenching into fists. Now was not the time to show any emotion, even though being so close to my enemy after spending the past year battling him from afar made my blood boil. Paloma always claimed that I was a gladiator at heart, and I had never felt like more of one than at this moment. I itched to draw my sword, charge down to the arena floor, and bury my blade in that bastard’s rotten heart, just like a true gladiator would. But I couldn’t do that.

  Queens didn’t have the luxury of blind bloodlust.

  The king and the rest of the Mortan contingent finally made it over to this side of the arena and started climbing the bleacher steps. The other royals on the terrace held their positions, while all the guards remained vigilant. Sullivan was still standing by my side, and Auster and Paloma moved even closer to us. They too were ready to act should the Mortans decide to retaliate against me.

  Driscol abandoned all pretense of neutrality and scuttled over to the terrace entrance, eager to greet the late-arriving royal, and making it clear whose pocket he was in. Seraphine glided along behind him, still looking vaguely bored.

  Driscol’s actions made me even more curious about the geldjagers that he’d sent to Svalin. Once again, I wondered if he’d dispatched them of his own volition or on the Mortan king’s orders. And exactly who had the geldjagers been planning to turn me over to? Driscol? The Mortan king? Someone else?

  The Mortans reached the terrace, and the king strode forward without waiting for his guards or the rest of his entourage. Then again, from what I’d just seen, the king didn’t need anyone to protect him.

  Driscol stepped forward and held his arms out wide. “Welcome! Welcome! It is once again my honor to host you and your countrymen at the Regalia.”

  The Mortan king brushed by Driscol, ignored Seraphine, and swept across the terrace with long, confident strides, as though he owned it, the arena, and everyone inside it, including the other royals. He stopped and turned in a slow circle, scanning the area. The king eyed Eon and Ruri, along with Cisco, although he didn’t bother to greet any of them. He studied Zariza a moment, then did the same to Heinrich. And finally, the king did something most surprising—he walked over to me.

  Sullivan, Auster, and Paloma all tensed, but I broke free of their protective formation and strode forward. I had to show everyone that I wasn’t afraid of him, starting this very second, or I would lose the Regalia before it even started. Being strong was even more important now that my assassination plot had failed.

  The two of us met in the middle of the terrace, and I finally came face-to-face with my despicable, dangerous enemy—Maximus Mercer Morland Morricone, the king of Morta.

  Maximus studied me from head to toe, and I did the same to him.

  He was a tall, muscled, handsome man in his late forties, with tan skin and a thick mane of golden hair that was still perfectly styled, despite his recent ride on the strix. He had the amethyst eyes that I’d come to associate with the Morricone royal family, although his were particularly dark, more black than purple. He also had the same h
igh cheekbones, pointed nose, and heart-shaped lips as Maeven. I had always thought Maeven’s was a cold beauty, but the king’s features were so sharp and angular that it seemed like you would cut your hand if you so much as brushed your fingertips across his skin.

  I dropped my gaze to his clothes. Every royal here was dressed in some sort of finery, myself included, but Maximus’s midnight-purple tunic, black leggings, and boots were easily the most impressive of all the garments. Thick seams of gold thread scrolled up his sleeves before spreading out across the front of his tunic and morphing into the Morricone royal crest—a large, fancy cursive M surrounded by a ring of strix feathers.

  A gold signet ring bearing the same crest gleamed on his finger, but that was his only jewelry. He wasn’t carrying any visible weapons. Not a sword, not a dagger, not even a knife sticking up out of one of his boots.

  Then again, he didn’t need a weapon, since he absolutely reeked of magic.

  The hot, caustic stench of magic clung to Maximus’s skin like an invisible sheen of smoke, along with a harsh note of coppery blood, and I had to twitch my nose to keep from sneezing. Even then, the stench kept burning and burning in my nostrils, and I could actually taste the coppery tang of his power on my tongue, as though I had a mouthful of blood. The aroma made me sick to my stomach, but I focused on it, analyzing everything about the odor, about him. As far as I could tell, there was nothing else to his scent—just blood and magic.

  Maeven was extremely strong in her lightning magic, but her brother was an even more powerful weather magier. No wonder she was so afraid of him. Power and cruelty made for a very dangerous combination, and Maximus seemed to have an abundance of both.

  Still, the more I breathed in the stench of his magic, the more I could feel my own power rising up in response. My cold, hard immunity wanted to lash out and crush every last drop of hot, stinking, coppery magic crackling through his body. Perhaps I would get the chance to do that before the Games were over.