He quickly downed the rest of the first pitcher and tossed it to the ground before eyeing the woman. “So?”
The color in her face deepened. “You’re the best fighter our country has.”
Toran wrinkled his nose and started in on the second pitcher. “You think?”
Nose Hair turned back, his face as dumbfounded as a duke dropped in a pig’s pen. In fact, most people heading for the door stopped, their interest hooked once more.
Nose Hair pushed his friend aside and jabbed a hearty finger into Toran’s chest. “I’m not paying your tab for a week.”
“But I won!”
“You’re the Crown,” Nose Hair said—like Toran had no idea the significance of his own title. “It wasn’t a fair fight. You cheated!”
Perhaps it was cheating if he knew he’d win. He preferred to think of it as educating himself on the odds. And the odds were always on his side. The day they weren’t was the day he ceased to be the Crown part of the Crown Prince.
Since its origin, Orlonea had a tradition of putting rulers on the throne who’d earned their crown—by defeating it.
When the Crown Prince or Princess turned five, they were assigned a Crown of the same age. The royal heir and the Crown then trained side by side—in history, continental affairs, decorum, leadership, and, of course, combat. The education was the easy part. The hard part came later, when both Prince and Crown were grown. Before Kohen could wear the King’s crown, he first had to beat his Crown in the tradition known as the Crown Duel. Should the Prince win his right to rule, his Crown was then expected to stand as his closest advisor. And if Kohen didn’t win…well, then the world would get to see what Toran looked like in a crown.
The chance of Kohen losing and Toran becoming King was small. A Crown had only beaten an heir once over the course of Orlonea’s long history.
It won’t happen again, he told himself. He wouldn’t become King. He didn’t let himself think otherwise.
And yet Toran knew the Prince wasn’t close to beating him in a fight. It was why Kohen had made wild bets in this very pub—to get out his frustration over losing to Toran yet again. To win, for once in his life.
But Kohen hadn’t been to this pub in a long time. Not since Toran had started coming on his own. They’d switched places, and perhaps the Prince was closer to victory than he knew.
Toran washed down the thought with a long gulp of ale.
Nose Hair’s companion sidestepped Toran and snatched the final pitcher from Quint’s hands. All around, people grumbled about a rigged fight.
“But I’m smashed!” Toran shouted.
No one listened. No one cared. And he remembered how much better he felt when he didn’t care, either.
“Now will you come home and accept the King’s mission?”
Toran turned, squinting up at Quint. “You did this to make me go back?”
“Of course.”
“I have no home. I’m an orphan, remember?” He laughed, though there was nothing funny about what he’d said. “Besides, joke’s on you ’cause I’m not leaving ’til I puke.”
Quint frowned, the creases between his brows hard and deep. “She’d slap you right now.”
Again, Quint was right. He blinked up at his friend. “Yeah?” he sneered. “Well, I want to slap you right now.”
Quint’s expression didn’t change. “Read this,” he said, and shoved Loriana’s journal in Toran’s face. The open page still smelled of ink.
Toran leaned back but couldn’t stop his eyes from devouring the familiar handwriting. He read the first few sentences at the top of the page and stopped.
It was as if all the alcohol drained out of him. His head cleared and his emotions rushed in to fill the empty space. The yellow engagement ring hanging around his neck felt cold against his bare chest.
The only thing Orlonea prizes more than our resources is the Witch. I will find the Witch and bind her with siren’s hair from home. Only then will I have something worth bargaining.
His fiancée hadn’t traveled to Gadore merely to negotiate trade relations between their two countries. Loriana had come to hunt the Witch.
5
