Dedication
To my mom and my grandma—for your love, your patience, and everything else that you’ve given to me over the years.
To Gayle and Karen—for being my book buddies and such good friends.
And to my teenage self, who devoured every single epic fantasy book that she could get her hands on—for finally writing your very own epic fantasy books.
Epigraph
Bellonans are very good at playing the long game.
—Traditional Bellonan motto
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Epigraph
Map 1
Map 2
Map 3
Part One: Let the Games Begin Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Part Two: Games People Play Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Part Three: The Long Game Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by Jennifer Estep
Copyright
About the Publisher
Map 1
Map 2
Map 3
Part One
Let the Games Begin
Chapter One
The day the Regalia Games truly began for me started out like any other.
With me dancing, dancing, dancing as fast as I could.
“Move! Move!” a stern voice barked out. “You’re falling behind the music!”
I grimaced, but I quickened my pace, my bare feet slapping against the wooden floor, my arms sweeping up, down, and back again, my fingers flexing, twisting, and pointing. Loud, lively music trilled through the air, and I did my best to match my movements to the rapid beat.
“Arms up!” that stern voice barked again. “Fingers wide! Toes pointed! Now, hop! Hop! Hop! Hop!”
All the bloody hopping made me feel like a bunny stumbling around a field, but I did as commanded. The music cranked up, singing out even louder and faster, and I continued to flail my arms and legs, desperately trying to keep up with the relentless rhythm.
I had been dancing on and off for more than an hour, and exhaustion slowed my feet and dragged down my arms. I turned my head to ask my torturer if we could finally stop the session, but she barked out another command.
“Don’t look at me! Look at yourself! See your mistakes!”
If she saw my sour expression, she didn’t care, so I focused on my own reflection again.
I was dancing in front of the floor-to-ceiling mirrors that lined one wall of the dance hall. My shoulder-length black hair was pulled back into a low ponytail, and my normally pale cheeks were now tomato-red from my prolonged exertion. I was wearing my usual royal-blue tunic, along with black leggings, although I’d removed my black boots and socks. This dance was traditionally performed barefoot, and the parquet floor felt as cool and smooth as glass under my hot, sweaty toes.
Even though I was supposed to be watching my form, I couldn’t help but glance around at everything else in the mirror. The large, cavernous hall was made of gleaming golden wood. White crown molding shot through with silver leaf ringed the ceiling, which boasted three round crystal chandeliers that resembled glittering oversize snowballs. The fluorestones embedded in the chandeliers blazed with white light, all the better to show off my many mistakes—and all the ogres around the room.
Fierce, snarling ogre faces were carved into the wooden walls and much of the crown molding, while silver ogre figurines dangled from the bottoms of the chandeliers like wind chimes, although there was no breeze to make them merrily tinkle-tinkle together. Still more snarling ogre faces were painted in deep forest-greens and bright scarlets on the floor squares, as though the entire room were one enormous game board. I was dancing on top of several faces, and I kept expecting the creatures’ gleaming white teeth to erupt out of the wood and bite my heels every time my feet hit the floor.
I was dancing alone, although several musicians were sitting in the corner, playing, playing, playing their flutes and violins as fast as possible. My torturer was lounging in a plush green velvet chair a few feet away.
Out of the corner of my eye I spotted a flash of silver zooming toward me. I grimaced again, knowing what was coming next, but I didn’t move out of the way.
Thump.
The blunt end of a silver cane stabbed into my right thigh. The poke wasn’t quite hard enough to bruise, but it was definitely forceful enough to get my full attention. I staggered to the side, but I didn’t stop dancing. That would only make her poke me again, even harder.
“Don’t let your mind wander! Or your gaze!” she snapped. “You must focus on the dance and the dance alone!”
I opened my mouth to snipe that it was hard to focus when she kept stabbing me with her bloody cane, but she cut me off.
“And don’t even think about talking back to me.”
“Yes . . . my lady . . . Your wish . . . is my command . . . And your happiness . . . is my utmost concern . . . and only true joy . . .” I wheezed, then lifted my hand and snapped off a mocking salute to her.
Over in the corner, one of the musicians guffawed, the sound even louder than the quick melody.
My torturer turned her stern gaze in that direction. The musician started, surprised by her sudden, unexpected attention, and his bow slipped off his violin strings, causing a sharp, earsplitting screech.
“Enough!” she snapped. “That’s enough! Stop playing!”
The music abruptly cut off, and silence dropped over the dance hall, the sudden quiet seeming even more deafening than the boisterous notes. I stopped dancing, dropped my head, and put my hands on my hips, trying to get my breath back.
The woman sitting in the velvet chair stabbed her cane against the floor and climbed to her feet. She was dressed in a dark green tunic, along with black leggings and low black heels that made her almost six feet tall. Her wavy coppery hair brushed the tops of her shoulders, and her golden amber gaze was sharp and critical. Wrinkles grooved into her bronze skin, but her sixty-something-year-old body was strong and muscled, and she didn’t really need her cane. Other than to poke me, of course.
The woman eyed me a moment, then focused on the musicians again. The ogre face on her neck kept staring at me, though, almost as if it could sense my unkind thoughts about its mistress.
All morphs had some sort of tattoo-like mark on their bodies that indicated what creature they could shift into. My torturer’s mark was a snarling ogre face with the same coppery hair and amber eyes that the woman herself had. The ogre’s eyes narrowed, and its lips drew back, revealing its many pointed teeth. The creature wasn’t happy with me either.
Despite the disapproving glower, I winked at the ogre. I was rather incorrigible that way. Morph marks often mirrored the expressions and emotions of their human counterparts, and the ogre rolled its eyes, just like its mistress had more than once during my training session.
Lady Xenia, my torturer-slash-dance-ins
tructor, stabbed her cane at the musicians. “Leave us! Now!”
She didn’t have to tell them twice. The musicians clutched their instruments, grabbed their sheet music off the metal stands, and scurried out of the dance hall. The violinist who’d laughed at my cheeky salute gave me a sympathetic look, and I winked at him too. He grinned back, then fled with the others.
Xenia turned and stabbed her cane at me. The ogre head on top of the silver stick matched the morph mark on her neck. “You shouldn’t encourage the musicians. They’re here to work, not laugh at your pitiful attempts at humor.”
I sidestepped her cane, limped over to a bench, picked up a towel, and wiped the sweat off my face and neck. “Since when is dancing so much bloody work? Dancing should be fun.”
She shook her head. “No. The Tanzen Falter is not fun. Not for you, Evie. Not if you want to gain that alliance with Queen Zariza.”
“She’s your cousin. Can’t you convince her to align with me some other way? We both know that Unger joining forces with Bellona and Andvari is in the best interests of all three kingdoms.”
“Zariza might be my cousin, but she is still the queen of Unger, and she answers to no one, not even me,” Xenia said in a matter-of-fact tone. “Just like you are the queen of Bellona and answer to no one.”
I snorted. “Tell that to Fullman, Diante, and the other nobles. Because they are all quite convinced I answer to them and them alone.”
Xenia shrugged, neither agreeing nor disagreeing. “Regardless, Zariza will challenge you to dance during the Regalia, and you must be ready. Beating her at the Tanzen Falter will show your strength. Plus, it’s the only way she’s going to align with you.”
I shook my head. “I will never understand why you Ungers turn everything into a dance competition.”
“Because we are a civilized people. Unlike you Bellonans with your gladiator traditions. To you barbarians, everything always ends in a bloodbath in an arena.” She sniffed her disapproval.
I wanted to point out that many Ungerian dances ended with the loser being executed, but I held my tongue. About that, at least. “Well, you do realize you’re not supposed to poke the queen of Bellona with your cane, right?”
Xenia sniffed again. “This is my dance hall, and I will poke whomever I like, whether it’s you, Zariza, or some other queen who dares to step through those doors.”
“Then I’m glad that I’m not a queen,” a voice drawled, “and that I don’t have to learn how to dance.”
A woman ambled into the room. She was around my age, twenty-seven or so, and tall and muscled, with braided blond hair, golden amber eyes, and lovely bronze skin. She was wearing a dark green tunic, along with black leggings and boots. A dark green cloak was draped over her shoulders, but the long, flowing fabric did little to hide the enormous spiked silver mace dangling from her black leather belt. As if the weapon wasn’t intimidating enough, a morph mark was also visible on the woman’s neck—a fearsome ogre face, also with braided blond hair and amber eyes.
Paloma, my best friend and a former gladiator, studied Xenia and me. “If you two are finished with your twirling lessons, perhaps we can get on with the more important business of the evening.”
Xenia sniffed for a third time. “No business is more important than dancing. You should pay more attention to it. After all, it’s part of your heritage.”
Paloma frowned. “What do you mean?”
She gestured at the morph mark on Paloma’s neck. “You’re an ogre, which means you have some Ungerian blood in your family. Didn’t your parents ever tell you that? Or teach you any Ungerian dances?”
Paloma shifted on her feet, clearly uncomfortable. “No. My father was from Flores, and I don’t remember my mother ever saying that she was from Unger.”
Paloma’s mother had disappeared when she was a child, and Paloma had no idea what had happened to her. Perhaps even worse, her father had kicked her out when she was sixteen because he thought her morph mark made her a monster. So Paloma’s inner ogre and apparently Ungerian heritage was something of a sore spot.
Xenia stepped closer, peering at the ogre face on Paloma’s neck. “I’ve never paid much attention to it before, but your mark is quite striking. It reminds me of . . .” Her voice trailed off.
“What?” Paloma asked in a low, guarded voice.
Xenia shook her head. “Nothing. Just an old silly hope.”
She smiled, but her expression was more gritted teeth than easy happiness. Even more telling, the scent of her ashy heartbreak swirled through the air, burning my nose with its sharp intensity. My mutt magic let me smell people’s emotions, everything from soft, rosy love to hot, peppery anger to Xenia’s sudden grief. She must be thinking about her child, the one she had lost through her own supposed foolishness.
I wondered if Xenia saw something of her lost child in Paloma. I had often thought my two friends were a lot alike, especially when it came to their morph marks with their bright amber eyes and distinctive locks of hair. I’d never voiced that thought to either of them, though, and now didn’t seem like the time.
I cleared my throat, breaking the awkward silence. “Paloma’s right. We need to get on with things. Are the others in position?”
“Yes. Serilda, Cho, and Lucas are in the plaza,” Paloma replied. “They’ll be ready to move if something goes wrong and this mysterious person isn’t really a Blair.”
This time, the scent of my own ashy heartbreak filled my nose. Earlier this year, my cousin Crown Princess Vasilia had killed her mother, Queen Cordelia, and the rest of the Blair royal family—my family. The Seven Spire massacre had been part of an elaborate Mortan plot to put Vasilia on the Bellonan throne and plunge our kingdom into war with Andvari. Through a series of unexpected events, I had survived the massacre, become a gladiator, killed Vasilia, and taken the throne.
Now I was widely considered to be the last Blair, something that saddened me more than I’d ever thought possible. Most of my cousins might have been as vicious as coral vipers, but they hadn’t deserved to be slaughtered just because the Mortan king wanted to wipe out the Blairs with their Summer and Winter bloodlines and powerful magics.
But a few weeks ago, Xenia had started hearing whispers about someone using magic in Svalin. Someone with gray-blue eyes, tearstone eyes, Blair eyes, just like mine.
The news, the rumors, the mere hope had stunned me.
After the massacre, Serilda and Cho had searched for months for another survivor, another Blair, with no luck. Once I was on the throne, I had ordered Auster, the captain of the palace guards, to expand the search into the countryside, in hopes that some of my cousins had managed to avoid Vasilia’s turncoat guards, fled from their homes, and were in hiding. We hadn’t heard the softest whisper that anyone else, any other Blair, had survived the slaughter.
But Xenia had.
In addition to running her dance hall and finishing school, Xenia was also a spy, one of the best in all the kingdoms. Over the past few weeks, she and her sources had heard more and more rumors that a Blair was hiding somewhere in Svalin, the capital city of Bellona.
Tonight I was finally going to see if the rumors were true.
And if they were, if this woman really was a Blair, then I hoped we could work together to protect Bellona, not only from the Mortan king, but from everyone who wished to hurt us and our people. I’d only been queen for about six months, but I was already tired of shouldering the heavy burden alone. I needed help. I needed another Blair, someone I could depend on, and especially someone I could leave my throne to if the worst happened and the Mortans finally managed to kill me.
Something that was a distinct possibility with the Regalia coming up.
My heart lifted, and the scent of my own warm, sweet honey hope filled my nose at the thought of finding another Blair, but I forced the emotion down, down, down. All the other rumors had turned out to be just that, and this one would probably be more of the same.
I wiped the last bit of
sweat off my face, then tossed my towel onto the bench, grabbed my black leather belt, and buckled it around my waist. A sword and a matching dagger hung from the belt, both a dull silver color with the same crest embedded in their hilts—seven midnight-blue shards fitted together to form a crown.
The weapons looked heavy, but they were actually quite light, since they were made of tearstone. Not only could tearstone absorb, store, and reflect magic like other jewels, but it also had the unique property of offering protection from magic, deflecting it like a shield would knock aside an arrow in a gladiator bout. The dark blue shards in the hilts would divert quite a bit of magier power, as would the weapons’ silvery razor-sharp blades.
The sword and the dagger had saved me from being assassinated more than once, and I never went anywhere without them. I also had a matching shield, but it drew far too much attention, so I had left it in my chambers at the palace.
Once the weapons belt was fastened around my waist, I focused on the two identical bracelets—gauntlets—that gleamed on my wrists. Both were made of silver that had been shaped into sharp thorns, all of which wrapped around and protected the design in the center—another midnight-blue crown of shards.
My personal crest as Everleigh Saffira Winter Blair, the queen of Bellona.
A crown-of-shards crest was also stitched in silver thread on my blue tunic, right over my heart, and I had several actual crowns that boasted the same design, although I hadn’t worn any of them this evening, since I was trying to be incognito. Plus, I always worried about a crown falling off my head, especially when I was doing something as vigorous as Xenia’s dance training.
I had rolled up my sleeves to better track my arm movements during the lesson, and I slid them down, hiding the bracelets. I also grabbed a midnight-blue cloak and settled it around my shoulders, making sure the fabric covered the crown-of-shards crest on my tunic.
Crush the King Page 1