Crush the King (Crown of Shards #3)(39)
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 high 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.