Crush the King (Crown of Shards #3)
Jennifer Estep
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
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.