Chapter 11
Chapter
Eleven
T he blade cuts through the air toward Lora’s neck. Her name rips through Ayc’s throat. “ Lora! ”
Bronwen throws up her hand, and a wall of power blasts from her palm. It slams into Lora, and she flies backward off the stage. Hason’s sword passes through empty air. And then blood sprays from his neck as Peregrin’s knife embeds within. Someone in the crowd shrieks. Someone else bellows in fury. The screech of metal, as numerous weapons are drawn, is a third, ominous scream within the crowd.
A fae with a badge bearing a wave on their chest, surely one of Hason’s Five, flings themselves at Bronwen, a cutlass raised. Bronwen swats the sword away with the blade of her staff and then slams the blunt end into their face.
“Bronwen, look out!” Ayc calls out as another Sal Maris Five charges at Bronwen from the side. But the fae crumples before reaching her, a knife in the side of their neck.
Peregrin rushes forward to yank their knife free, as Bronwen impales her opponent with the other side of her staff. Around them, skirmishes break out. People from the opposing teams launch themselves at each other. The bystanders scramble toward the castle for cover, knowing it is against the rules to assist any team now that the Trials have begun. The bloodbath of the Trials first day isn’t waiting for the bridge. It’s happening now, right here.
“We have to get out of here,” Peregrin snaps. “Ayc, get back with Xylie and Tavish.”
From the corner of his eye, Ayc sees a blur of scarlet as Mienna, the Audori victor, leaps from the back of the stage—toward where Lora has fallen. Ayc spares one glance to where Xylie and Tavish stand in the shadows of the tunnel. No one has noticed the two, and Peregrin and Bronwen have positioned themselves between them and the crowd, even as they engage in yet another battle. Xylie and Tavish are fine.
But Lora…
It’s not a decision nor even a thought. Ayc flings himself forward—not toward Xylie and Tavish, but toward where Lora has fallen. Peregrin curses him, but Ayc slows only long enough to pull his new sword from its scabbard. Running with the blade feels awkward, and his muscles protest. He drives his legs harder, until muscle memory kicks. Finally, he sees the benefit to all those years Peregrin made him run the shoreline—where Yris did not often go—with a sword in his hand. Ayc smooths out his gait and shackles his pain behind his mental wall.
Behind the stage, Ayc finds Lora with her twin blades crossed above her head, blocking Mienna’s single short sword. A bright yellow flame hovers over Mienna’s other hand. She heaves the fireball toward Lora, who spins away. The fire narrowly avoids Lora’s hair and lands instead in one of the carefully trimmed hedges behind her. It ignites in a burst of light.
“We have had enough of your family’s rule,” Mienna seethes and hurls a rapid barrage of fireballs.
Lora dodges and ducks, a graceful blur of motion. Behind Lora, more hedges and a few of the precious Bromalis blooms in the tall pots explode and wither instantly. The flames come too swiftly for Lora to form a counterattack. Mienna marches forward, drawing back her blade.
An idea leaps into Ayc’s mind, and he knows it is a foolish one. He does it, anyway.
Pulse hammering in his neck, he hoists his sword and charges forward. “Hey, fire-wielding bitch!”
He swings his sword at Mienna’s back. She pivots toward him and knocks his strike away. He leaps back and lifts his blade to shield himself as she drives her sword toward his heart. Metal clashes with enough force to rattle his teeth. He pushes his weight against their entangled weapons; she bares her teeth but doesn’t budge. He doesn’t stand a chance against her, but he just needs her focus completely on him for a second. A second is all Lora needs.
One swift stroke of Lora’s short sword cleaves Mienna’s head from her neck. Blood showers Ayc’s face. Hot, broiling nausea races up his throat, and he swallows hard against it. He has not witnessed death since he was twelve-years-old. It is not any easier to stomach.
When Mienna’s body crumples, Lora glares at him, her own face painted in red. Her dark hair cascades behind, free except for the place she’s pinned it on either side of her head. She looks as fierce as the flames blazing in the hedges behind her. Wiser men would have cowered at her sight; Ayc revels in it.
Vicious, beautiful villain.
He shakes his head to clear it of his own foolishness.
“I had it!” she snarls.
Ayc clucks his tongue. “That’s a really peculiar way of saying ‘Thank you’. ”
“Just go!” She points her sword toward the tunnel.
Ayc sprints in that direction; Lora follows close behind. The air whizzes as an arrow slices by his head, close enough that he feels the heat. An archer stands within a dozen feet, already notching another arrow. Ayc quickens his pace. Only ten yards separate him from the tunnel, but the archer is already releasing the arrow. It soars straight for Ayc’s face.
It freezes in the air, hovering only inches from his nose. Bronwen appears at Ayc’s side, seizes the arrow, and heaves it back the way it came. The magical force propelling the arrow matches the speed of any bow and slams into the Audori symbol on the archer’s chest with enough power to send him spinning.
“Where’s Peregrin?” Ayc demands. He dares to glance back toward the courtyard but can only make out a mass of bodies ensnared in combat.
“Waiting on the other side of the tunnel,” Bronwen says. “Hurry!”
“Loraphne!” barks a voice.
Three fae have broken from the crowd and charge toward them. Ayc doesn’t try to identify whose team they belong to before he launches himself into the tunnel; Bronwen and Lora’s feet pound on the stone behind him. Only when Ayc joins Tavish, Peregrin, and Xylie on the other side of tunnel does he look back. The three pursuers chase just behind Lora. Peregrin adjusts his grip on a knife, Tavish clutches Saga’s leash tighter, and Xylie raises a bottle of bright green liquid.
As soon as Lora and Bronwen are clear of the tunnel, Lora yells, “Now, Xylie!”
Xylie hurls the bottle, then seizes Ayc’s hand and yanks him with her behind the wood pile in front of a nearby home, where Peregrin has already steered Tavish and Saga. The bottle sails over Lora’s head, collides with the tunnel’s wall, and shatters. The courtyard wall explodes in green fire. Lora and Bronwen dive to the ground as stones fly above their heads. The earth trembles, and the wall buckles. When the dust and flames settle, the courtyard’s exit no longer exists; the three pursuers are gone with it. Whatever Xylie lined the tunnel with last night certainly worked exactly as they all planned.
Ayc climbs to his feet, pulling Xylie up with him. His gaze snaps to Lora—and Bronwen—but they’re already jumping to the feet and headed toward them, unharmed, brushing dust from their armor. Sounds of battle—metal clashing, people screaming—carries over the ruin, but it’s no longer their concern. There are other ways to get to the barracks, but they’re difficult to reach. Xylie has bought them all precious time. Ayc’s heart rate slows, but the nausea lingers like the stickiness of blood on his face.
He hopes Wren is fine, that she and Sterling and their group ran as soon as the trumpets flared. He has no way of knowing.
“Let’s go,” Lora orders.
They rush down the path they previously decided upon, Saga leading the way. He trots like a pup on a luxurious stroll, his tongue drooping from the side of his mouth, through the silent barracks and to the cliff side. They weave down the narrow path to find the last member of their party, Tempest, waiting for them in the sand.
She flaps her wings and clacks her beak in displeasure.
“We’re fine, Tempest,” Peregrin says, limping toward her side. “Just got slightly delayed.”
She clacks again, unconvinced.
“We don’t have time to argue,” Peregrin responds, to whatever the gryphon said in their mind. “Are you still willing to carry them?”
Tempest demonstrates her assent by stretching her front legs forward like a cat. She holds the position in a bow, the way Ayc has seen when she has allowed Peregrin to mount. There's another pathway off this beach, but it’s miles down and a steep, treacherous climb. Tempest, however, agreed to fly them out and land them all in a place a mile from Wyntra. Still, she can only carry two at a time.
Peregrin nods to Lora. “You first.”
"No," Lora says. "I’ll go last .”
“Lora,” Bronwen begins, “you’re the future Sovereign.”
Lora lifts her chin again, like she already wears a crown. “Tavish and Xylie first. Then you and Ayc. Peregrin and I go last.”
Peregrin and Bronwen both open their mouths, but Lora snaps, “You either trust me to lead or you don’t. Xylie and Tavish, hurry!”
Xylie clammers on first. Even though Saga is half Tavish’s size, Tavish manages to gather the dog in his arms and climb behind Xylie. The dog rests squished between Xylie and Tavish, already whining in concern.
“Hold on tight,” Peregrin says as Tempest straightens.
Xylie clings to Tempest’s neck feathers, and Tavish buries his face in Saga’s fur. Tempest rocks back on her hind legs and then launches herself into the air. Xylie screams, and Tavish lets out a shriek that he tries to pass off as a laugh.
As they become a distant dot in the sky, Ayc studies Lora as she turns a slow circle, watching out for any approaching threat. She has left herself on this beach, vulnerable to whoever might pursue her, choosing to send the others out instead. It’s a choice Ayc knows Yris wouldn’t have made.
“Why are you staring at me?” Lora demands.
Ayc flicks his gaze back toward the sky. “I wasn’t.”
Tempest returns a few minutes later without Tavish and Xylie. Ayc hopes that means they’re safely waiting at the landing spot and not splattered on the rocks. Tempest repeats her low bow.
“You go first,” Bronwen says to Ayc, her cheeks slightly flushed.
Ayc can’t help the grin as he jogs to Tempest’s side. He’s wanted to ride this gryphon since the first time he saw her. He mounts and slides his hands into her feathers. Tempest looks back at him, and Ayc swears the gryphon winks a silver eye. After climbing aboard, Bronwen steadies herself on his waist, her staff now strapped to her back.
Ayc can’t help the cheeky grin he tosses her over his shoulder. “You can feel free to hold on as tightly as you need.”
Bronwen grins good-naturedly, but Lora calls over the wind. “Do not flirt with her!”
Ayc begins to roll his eyes, but a sting flares beneath his skin. That was an order. “I’m only being a gentle?—”
His word turns into a holler of surprise as Tempest launches herself into the sky. He grabs fistfuls of feathers and tightens his legs on her side. The earth falls away, Lora and Peregrin shrinking into toy figures in the sand. The wind howls, and Tempest’s wings beat against the air like thunderclaps. On Ayc’s left, the ocean stretches to the horizon, and on his right, the buildings and stone castle of Wyntra fade away swiftly, giving into rippling grass, browned from winter. Miles in the distance, Ayc can make out the tilled fields, orchards, and clusters of houses from distant Bromalis’ villages.
Ayc laughs at the exhilaration. He could do this every day and never tire of it, but Bronwen flings her arms around him, holding as tight as she can with his pack between them. He almost cracks another joke and remembers himself.
As though sensing his thoughts, Bronwen says, “Don’t worry about the flirting.” She has to yell so Ayc can hear her over the wind. “I, unlike Lora, know you’re only teasing. And besides, for the record, you’re not my type.”
“Oh?” Ayc calls back with a smile. He likes Bronwen; she’s gorgeous and strong, but she’s also Lora’s best friend, so he never entertained the idea of anything more than friendship. Besides that, there’s Wren, who has occupied most of his recent thoughts. “And what is your type?”
Tempest dips to one side, twisting into an extreme angle Ayc is almost certain isn't actually necessary and just the beast showing off. Bronwen clutches at Ayc’s waist, and only when Tempest levels off does she respond.
“I like most anyone, except for two exceptions, and you happen to be one of them. One is Lux Aester men.”
Ayc doesn’t know whether to wince or chuckle, so he does a bit of both. “Fair. I like men, but Lux Aester ones are also, definitely, not my type either. What’s the other?”
She pauses for a moment. “People who look at my best friend the way you look at Lora.”
Ayc laughs. It’s the most absurd thing he’s ever heard. “Like what? Like I might like to kill her?”
Bronwen laughs too, loud enough he can hear it over the wind. “No, like you haven’t decided whether you’re going to kill her or kill for her.”
When Tempest lands for the final time, Lora dismounts gracefully from Tempest’s back, but Peregrin remains sitting. They stand in an open field, facing east where the Bromalis lands stretch out in rippling grasslands.
“We should keep moving,” Lora says, marching past them to lead the way. “I made arrangements to stay at an inn about three miles from here.”
“Do you still think that’s safe?” Peregrin asks. “Given what just happened?”
They say it without emotion, though Lora and Ayc still wear Mienna’s blood on their faces. Ayc scrubs at it with his sleeve. The nausea gnaws at this stomach.
Lora doesn’t pause. “I know and trust the innkeeper. And I paid him well enough to ensure we are the only ones there for the night. We need time to plan.”
“Plan?” Tavish repeats. “How can we plan? Yris didn’t even tell you the quests.”
“But she did.” Lora stops, extends her arm, the one now wearing the chronicler, and rolls back her sleeve. On the underside of her arm, words are scrawled like tattoos. She holds it up to allow everyone else to see, then crouches at Saga’s eye level to show Tavish when he touches the leash .
Unearth a priceless treasure.
Forge a new path.
Reveal a long-concealed lie.
Face your worst fear.
Make a great sacrifice.
Undo an unforgivable wrong.
Upturn the hands of fate.
All Five of them blink at the seven quests in silence, and Ayc wonders if they are thinking the exact thing he is: It’s the most cryptic bullshit he’s ever read.
“Great!” Ayc says, clapping his hands. “Super easy. We should knock that out by midnight and all be home tomorrow morning in time for cinnamon rolls.”
Four hands lift upward and flip him off.