Page 77 of An Archer's Redemption

A tear fell from Weaver’s eye as he watched me step back. “Thank you, Your Majesty. Thank you.” He bowed, then backed out of the chamber.

“This might be the longest day ever, but that part never gets old,” I whispered to Ethan, who stood one step below the throne to my right.

He grinned. “You royals are all alike. Your father once said exactly the same.”

“Really?”

Ethan nodded, his eyes twinkling with mischief. “All alike, I say.”

“Oh, hush. Just because you—”

“High Priest Danym Wilfred, Ambassador of the Order to the Crown, Bearer of the Keys to the Faith, and Voice of the One.”

Ethan blinked several times. “Voice of the One? He sounds full of himself. This should be good.”

“Ethan,” I whispered. “He said DanymWilfred. Is thatmyDanym? I mean, the Sheriff’s son?”

The one who betrayed me?

Before he could respond, the doors swung open, and Danym strode into the room, his dirty-blond hair now draped against the shoulders of his silky brown robe. His annoyingly bemused grin looked as though he’d played some devilish prank that was now being revealed.

I stood before my throne, fists balled at my sides, my chest heaving with barely contained rage. I was sure I’d seen him in the back of the hall at my coronation, but he’d vanished so quickly I wondered if my mind had wandered into moonlit woods.

Now, staring at the man I once craved more than breath, fire flowed in my veins. His eyes remained deep green with flecks of gold, yet all I saw were swirling pools of darkness. This man—this devious, hateful, wretched man—hadn’t just cast me aside. He’d handed me over to those who sought to slaughter me.

And for what?

Surely, he gained no power in the bargain. My mother loathed Danym, and Irina . . . I could scarcely see that evil witch keeping him around past his usefulness. I could not fathom what led him to don that vile robe.

As much as I wanted to have Danym’s wrists clamped in irons and his body hung from the highest tower of the Palace, the weight on my brow ruled my every desire. He was a representative of a faction, a cult, of some odd collection of misfits who claimed to no longer seek power or vengeance.

Was it duty or curiosity that compelled me to listen to him?

I was unsure.

I relaxed my fingers, then balled them again.

My guards noticed the change in their charge’s posture and stepped forward to assume not-so-ceremonial positions on either side of the dais.

Danym stoppedexactlyon the first mark, bowedexactlythe minimum depth required to not be rude, then marched to the second mark.

His petulant gaze never left my eyes.

He did not bow or kneel again.

“It is customary to take a knee before the throne, Ambassador,” Ethan said, his tone darker than I’d heard since he returned from war.

“Forgive me, Your Majesty. The Faithappreciatesthe Crown for its, how should I say, worldly duties, but we do not recognize the monarch as sovereign over spiritual matters. I will show respect to you and your office, but the Order compels me not to kneel in submission or subservience.”

Ethan’s brow rose.

“Danym?” was all I could get out.

“Hello, Jess.”

“You may not kneel, but youwilladdress her as Your Majesty,Priest,” Ethan snapped. The guards took another step forward, pikes at the ready.

Danym peered out the side of his eyes at Ethan as if viewing an irritating bug on his shoulder. “And you may address me asHoly Voice.”

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