Page 14 of The King’s Man #5
W e find him in his mask, hidden among gathered spectators. It’s evening; warm light bathes an arena where a young woman dances, showing off her talents to the crown prince of Lumin and his family.
The young woman finishes her silk-tossing dance with a flourish; people gossip and cheer around the masked prins as he waits another three dances for Casimiria’s turn.
She enters the ring in riding clothes, with a fierce stride.
To the side, the other young ladies are hiding snickers behind their fans, and two matronly aklas are frowning.
The royals shift in their seats, on the cusp of being affronted, but they accept her deep bow.
And the crown prince, recognising her, smirks and folds his arms.
She angles herself to the king and queen. “Your majesty, your highness. Forgive me. I must admit my failure.”
The king glances to his queen and they share a look of surprise and curiosity .
Casimiria bows lower. “I’ve little skill in dance. I’m unworthy of standing before you. Please allow me to relinquish the stage to these more accomplished women, who are far more deserving of attention from your son.”
Quin stares at his young mother, amusement playing over his face; beside him, under his monstrous mask, Prins Yngvarr’s lips are also ticking.
“She’s putting on quite the act,” I murmur. “I see where you got it from.”
Rich laughter has me jerking my gaze to the crown prince, who rises from his chair with an intense look of wanting that promises whatever her plan, he intends to foil it. “There are many types of dance,” he says. “I’ve heard you’re quite impressive with a sword.”
He throws one to her and her instincts have her catching it as it hurtles past. She twirls elegantly as she pulls it from its sheath.
When she realises his trickery, she glares in Anastasius’s direction, but the glare barely has time to land before the crown prince is in the arena with a sword of his own, coming straight for her.
She deflects his strike, and lively music suddenly erupts from the confused musicians as the crown prince and the general’s daughter compete in a dazzling clash of blades.
Prins Yngvarr forces his way to the edge of the arena and watches the martial dance with balled fists.
Quin sighs. “It looks impressive. The prins sees them fighting in harmony, as a well-matched pair. It was not so straightforward. ”
“Your mother told you?”
“She said at first it was instinct, from years of training with her father, the give and take of steps, the sliding and clashing of metal... and when she got hold of herself, she tried to get wounded by him—just enough to appear ultimately unskilled in this dance, too. But he thwarted all her attempts, checked himself, used magic to quietly spin her out of the way, making their dance look all the more beautiful. She finally decided to inflict self harm and—there, that moment. She swings too hard, her blade...”
It looks for a moment like Casimiria must have cut her arm.
Yngvarr straightens sharply, along with the king and queen, but Anastasius throws his blade, making hers shoot out of her grip, and clamps his hand down on her arm, whisking her into a dance of close combat.
She twists and turns and he is in control of it all, until finally he lets go, and there’s no evidence of blood on her sleeve.
“He used a vitalian spell to heal her, to keep her performance exceptional.”
To keep her from being eliminated as she wished.
Music comes to an abrupt stop and Casimiria finishes with one final spin, prompted by the crown prince. She stares angrily into his eyes and his eyebrow quirks, daring her to be so bold as to try such a thing again.
She turns stiffly and finishes with a respectful bow to the king and queen. Prins Yngvarr sidles through spectators and follows her stomping footsteps over the estate and once more into the black forest.
“Did she mention this, too?” I ask, unable to stop myself as we trail after him. Quin’s expression tightens. He glances briefly my way before returning his focus to the prins. “No,” he says after a pause, voice low. “But perhaps some memories, maybe even the best ones, are harder to share.”
They make you feel more. Wish more. Hurt more.
Casimiria keeps glancing over her shoulder at Prins Yngvarr as she ploughs her way to the cabin. There, in the glade, she finally stops.
He pads over damp grass until he’s right behind her, eyes trained on her sleeve, where he spies the slice. He reaches towards it and drops his hand again. “Did it hurt? The cut?”
She sighs irritably. “It hurt more that he used a spell to fix it.”
“He wants you to stay in the selection.”
She twists around with a laugh of disgust. “He only did it to spite me. For yesterday.”
“You really don’t want to be chosen?”
She scoffs. “I’d rather choose who I . . .”
“Why participate in the first place?”
“My father was compelled to send me here, as were all ministers their eligible daughters. This marriage is business after all. You’re a hostage, you should understand it well.”
He grimaces behind his mask.
After a shared frustrated pause, Casimiria takes Prins Yngvarr by the arm and uses magical winds to lift them onto the cabin roof. “The stars will be coming out soon. ”
Quin flies me up too and I perch myself on one of the corners. He pauses, staring at the space where I’d hurriedly ripped myself out of his arms, and quietly glides across to the opposite corner. The distance between us may be mere yards, but it feels vast. I hate it and need it.
I swivel inwards towards the pair. They’re speaking but I don’t hear the words.
As if in King Yngvarr’s memory, he recalls shared conversation but no longer its content—it doesn’t matter, what matters is they’re here together, talking with ease, taking in the darkened sky and the stars beginning to glint through it.
“Wait for it.” Casimiria’s words reach my ears, and Quin and I—and Prins Yngvarr—follow her pointed finger to the east. “The luminarium runs a night service.”
Suddenly the sky blooms with swirls of light rising into the sky, twirling and twisting in a beautiful display of magic.
There’s a sharp flutter in my stomach and my mind fills with a memory.
Quin and I perched on a rooftop, sharing his cloak to keep warm, the lights of lovers dancing around the city while I slap the violet oak flutette against his chest, my nervous breath stuck in my throat.
My breath sticks similarly now, and I glance over at Quin whose silver hair is fluttering with a breeze, his expression pensive as he stares towards the sky.
As if he senses me, he starts to look my way. I dart my eyes back to the prins and Casimiria, and untangle the silver ribbon I’ve absently wound around my finger.
Quin’s gaze is a hot shiver over my profile; I drop my freed fingers to my side, the side hidden from his view, and squeeze my cloak.
Prins Yngvarr’s voice drops in the space between him and Casimiria. “You said you’d rather choose... What type of person would they be?”
She turns towards him with a laugh, the roof groaning under her. She plucks the mask from his face and sets it against her own. “Someone who’ll love me even if I look like this. Someone who recognises my soul—”
Quin shifts on his corner of the roof, the creak of wood beneath his weight making me glance at him. His silver hair catches the luminarium’s faint glow.
There’s something in his look... like wistfulness or regret. Both stir an ache in my chest, and I force my gaze back to the pair. Then it happens. One moment they’re staring at one another, the next there’s a deafening snap, and the roof caves in, and they drop sharply out of sight.
Quin and I scurry to peer down into the cabin, where Casimiria and the prins have been caught by the bed, him sprawled atop her.
There’s a moment of silence and then Casimiria laughs and laughs beneath the mask.
The prins scurries away, yanking back the palm that has landed on her breast. He apologises profusely, putting quick distance between them.
“I’ll... I’ll do right by you. I’ll take responsibility. ”
Casimiria pulls herself off the bed and shakes her clothes free of dust and debris. “Shush. It was an accident. No one saw us. No one has to know.”
Prins Yngvarr bows deeply and flees the cabin in a rush, and Casimiria calls once more after him before the memory, and the surroundings, once more begin to fade. “You forgot your mask.”
Yngvarr’s third rune door takes us inside the house, to the room that would later be the dining area but is here a lavishly decorated hall. The king sits playing chess with one of his ministers.
Quin tells me quietly this is his maternal grandfather. Casimiria’s father, the then god of war.
His two grandfathers, side by side. I can pick out features in each of them that resemble Quin. But of the two, it’s the handsome and hardened War God that Quin most obviously takes after.
We follow Prins Yngvarr, who is being escorted in by a redcloak. The prins immediately bows and the king rises from his game and straightens him with a gentle smile. “Enough with the formalities.”
Yngvarr inclines his head. “Your majesty.”
The God of War rises and bows. “I’ll take my leave.”
The king offers Yngvarr his seat at the game. They trade a few quiet moves, sharing conversation that is once more muted, forgotten, until the king is one step from having his black vitalian take out the white prince.
“Our kingdoms have always been on edge. Only with the exchange of my daughter and yourself has there been some stability at the border. But according to our agreement, you’ll both return at the end of the summer.”
Prins Yngvarr is listening intently, his gaze on the vitalian that is poised to take his prince.