Chapter 11
T wo minutes in, and I’m already in way over my head. My attempts to herd Parsley into a better position does nothing except slow him down, so we hit the back of the pile just as the flanks of other ursinian tighten up against us. The bears snap and nip at each other, and I have to jerk my foot back when one of them champs their powerful jaws too close to my ankle. There’s no way back, so I try to urge Parsley forward towards the center. I use my magic to yank a bear out the way by the metal clasps on its reins. It momentarily gives us more space, but only to reveal a whirl of fur and limbs ahead of us, so thick I can barely make sense of the action. Ten seconds later, a player gets thrown against the arena wall, tossed clear of the circle and his ursinian.
His bones make an audible crunching noise as they collide with the rock.
I have no idea where the ball is until I see Pyromey lift her arm, her viper eyes glinting in triumph and a trickle of blood running from what looks like a bite mark on her shoulder. The edge of the ball is visible where it rattles inside her cradle, and she pivots the device above the scrum. Her ursinian roars, trying to leap free of the tussle. At the same time the bears around them jump back a few steps from a small blast that sends little shards of stone skittering across the plateau. Magic—someone on our team, I think. One of the stones flies up straight towards me and I only just have time to turn my face. It catches me in the cheek and I gasp, expecting the pain to be sharp. It hurts, though not as much as I imagined. Still, I feel a warm wetness trickle down my cheek and wipe the sensation away, smearing my leathers with blood.
When I look up, I see that Pyromey is already over on the other side of the circle, an army of riders bearing down on her. But they’re too late—she’s already tossing the ball between our opponent’s pillars.
The horn blows but is soon overtaken by howls of annoyance from the other team and hoots of glee from ours. I’m pleased by our fresh advantage, but annoyed with myself. I’m going to need to be more use than this if I’m going to help us win—even if it means putting myself in more danger too.
The game starts to reset, and the healers take the moment to come down and drag away the fae crushed against the rocks. Another player sits slumped back on their ursinian, his shoulder at a disturbing angle—dislocated. I watch as he dismounts and argues with the healers for a moment, then he steps away, striding towards the rock face. To my horror, he rams his own arm against the hard surface, shoving his shoulder back into place. The fae massages his arm with a grim look of satisfaction, then turns around and climbs straight back up onto his steed, returning to the circle.
It’s safe to say the Unseelie don’t mess around.
“Well done,” I say to Pyromey as she rides past, back to our starting side. She throws me a dangerous smile.
“Just you wait. A goal that early means they’ll be pissed .”
She’s right. Somehow the other side look even more ferocious than before the game started, glaring across the arena as if they’re trying to gut us with their eyes.
The horn blows, and I’m firm with Parsley this time. As the race for the ball begins, I hurry him up the east side of the rushing bodies. I might not be strong or fast enough to get to the ball first, but I can get ahead of whoever does. The ball doesn’t get stuck in the center under a pile of beasts like the last round, but instead is quickly scooped up by a player with bright yellow eyes who’s on our side. The saber-toothed fae on the opposing team charges for him on his ursinian, and I drive Parsley forward to block his attack, planning to defend my teammate. Wistal gets there first, though, an unstoppable wall of muscle as he knocks over the opponent’s ursinian, his huge bull’s horns colliding brutally with the rider’s soft flesh.
The yellow-eyed player in possession makes good progress across the circle, and I urge Parsley to chase after him, keen to stop any other potential intercepts. I’m not alone—the other players are streaming after him like a shoal of fish.
But it’s not physical attacks we should be worried about. A flash of light stops the yellow-eyed player in his tracks as he releases a bloodcurdling scream. For a moment, I don’t know what’s happened, then I see his clothes go up in a blaze of unnaturally violet flames. He drops the ball and throws himself from his steed, rolling on the ground to put the flames out. I look around for the source of the magic, but there’s just a sea of determined Unseelie faces acting as if this is entirely normal. It seems they’re quite happy putting their powers into play when things start going badly for their team.
The players rush for the dropped ball, and I start to do the same. But Jasand finds himself in front, just as the stag player comes charging in the opposite direction. Head lowered, teeth bared, its sharp-tipped antlers catch Jasand squarely in his flank, impaling him and tossing him back down onto the ground. A terrible whine of canine pain pierces the air, but the stag continues to drive its head into the wolf’s side, flicking blood in scarlet trails across the ground. The rest of the players run on, the ball their sole focus, but I figure that if we’re going to win this, we need good players like Jasand still in the action.
I give Parsley a poke with my heels, and he canters over to the stag with a growl of warning.
“Oi!” I shout, for want of something better to say. The stag lifts its head, its small, red eyes glinting at us, and Parsley lowers his head for the charge. Their two sets of antlers clash with a horrible rattle of bone on bone. I lean back, trying to keep my face far away from the sharp horns, but this pushes my legs further forward, and I get an idea. I lift my heel, holding on for dear life as Parsley and the stag, antlers locked, jerk their heads from side to side, sending their whole bodies lurching. I wait for the moment the stag twists its head to one side, exposing its angry little eye, then I bring my heel down onto it, kicking as hard as I can.
It wrenches its head back, squalling and nearly pulling Parsley over with it, but the clever ursinian manages to disentangle its antlers to avoid us getting dragged along.
I see with satisfaction that my kick was more forceful than I’d anticipated, and it’s managed to break the stag’s skin, blood now streaming down its brow, blinding one eye. As it shakes its head, trying to clear its vision, Jasand, who’s had some time to recover, struggles to his feet. His wolfish eyes blink at me in thanks before he lopes away.
The players are scattered across the circle now—the ball arcing back and forth, temporarily stymied by attempts to tackle whoever’s in possession or to intercept a throw before it lands. I look around for other ways to be useful.
Then a searing pain rips through my thigh. Parsley roars, and my world is black for a moment.
When my eyes clear, I see Climent riding past me, his ursinian’s antlers dripping with blood— my blood, I realize, head registering the throb in my thigh. I’m still in my saddle, thankfully, but realize he must’ve caught me with his ursinian on the way past. Now he’s turning his steed around, and I can see his eyes narrowed, focused intently on me. This wasn’t an accident or attempt to score points—I was nowhere near the ball. But any player on the field is fair game for attacks—and he’s making the most of it.
I swallow, the ground beneath me shaking under the thunderous footfalls of the players, and try to force my brain into action. Climent’s bear is much bigger than Parsley, and I reckon his antlers won’t be enough to protect me. I have seconds before those gouging spurs of bone are buried in my flesh once more, and all I have to defend myself is my wits and my magic.
Climent digs his heels deeper into the side of his steed, urging it to go faster. The movement is enough to draw my eyes to the glinting metal of his stirrups.
I plunge my awareness inwards, scrabbling for my power and throwing it out towards his feet. Climent’s eyes widen as the stirrups lift away from his ursinian’s flanks, pulling his heels with it. Then with grim determination, I wrench the metal in a full circle, twisting it round on itself.
Climent screams as his feet rotate, the stirrups snapping his ankles so violently I see bone exit skin. No longer being steered, his ursinian veers off course, just as another cheer of collective joy and groan of anguish spills across the arena. I turn to see that the other team has scored.
The horn blows twice, and the players begin to dismount. But when I go to do the same, I’m immediately stopped by a flare of white-hot pain. I look down to see the flesh of my thigh torn open. I’d somehow forgotten about it, but now that I notice the shiny pink mess of my mangled skin and muscle, I feel quite sick. I groan, the sound helping a little.
“Here.” Huge hands lift me from my saddle and set me gently down, and I look up at Vaccia gratefully. My heart rate—which hasn’t stopped thudding against my ribs since I entered the arena—starts to slow.
“Is that it?” I ask as the team trudges towards the edge of the circle. “Is it a draw?”
Pyromey scowls. “It’s half time,” she says, massaging a bruise on her jaw. The Unseelie who went up in flames is only now being dragged off. Even the healers can’t fix him right here. I try not to focus too much on red-raw, oozing wounds that reach right up to his neck.
“We’re going to need to do better than that if we’re going to wipe that smirk off Turis’s face,” grunts Wistal as he swaggers towards us, back on two legs again.
“Or get any one of us on the king’s council,” says Pyromey, looking meaningfully at me. “Nice trick with Climent Falconside, by the way. We could do with more of that in the next half.”
I glance over to where Climent is with the healers. He had to give in and go to them or risk permanent damage to his feet, I guess, which means he’s out of the game. Turis and the orange-haired female are with him, and they seem deep in agitated discussion. Climent looks like he could spit acid, he’s so angry.
“I’d watch your back from now on if I were you,” says Jasand, following the direction of my gaze as he gingerly limps up to us, his side bloody with his wounds from where the stag got him. “Climent is his number two. If they weren’t out to get you before, they will be now. Thanks for playing defense, by the way.” He nods to my thigh. “You can’t get that healed yet, but they will give you bandages for it.”
I feel sick again. If I thought the first half was a fight to survive, now I have the opposing team actively looking for revenge, and a gaping wound to slow me down.
“The game’s over after the second half hour, right?” I ask. Thirty whole minutes. I don’t know if I can do this.
“Unless one team scores four times in a row,” grunts Wistal. “Then it’s an automatic end to the game, no matter how the existing points stand.”
I blink, wondering why they didn’t mention this earlier. Or maybe Pyromey did on the way over to the ursinian paddock and I’d just been too distracted to absorb it. Still, it’s a ray of hope. Maybe we can end this thing fast, before Turis has a chance to take his revenge on me for Climent.
“Right…I’m going to go grab some bandages,” I say. I do, but instead of applying them there in the arena, I duck into the passageway up to the changing rooms, sending a pulse down the bond as I climb the steps.
Ruskin gets the hint, meeting me there in the empty kit room. The moment I’m through the door, his hands are on me, examining my cheek and hovering over my thigh, his eyes burning with rage at the sight of the damage.
My skin heats under his touch but I gently scold him.
“Step back. I need to tie these bandages. Then I’ll be all right.”
“I saw you take that hit,” he protests. “I’m surprised you’re even conscious right now.”
“But I am,” I say, not getting into the fact that I don’t really understand it myself.
“Here, let me,” he says, taking the bandages out of my hands as I ease myself down on a bench with a groan.
“My mom was a healer, remember? I can tie those better than you.”
“Then tell me what to do,” he says, kneeling before me. Despite the pain, the sight of it is rather enjoyable.
“All right,” I relent, explaining how to wrap the fabric. He follows my instructions perfectly, barely even looking at what he’s doing as he speaks.
“Why didn’t you give the signal?” he demands. “I was waiting to channel my power.”
“Climent. He was the one who attacked me, but he also accused me of cheating last time you channeled your power to me, when we took the trial to be able to enter the Unseelie Court. I couldn’t risk him suspecting that I’m doing something similar again. It would undermine the whole point of me playing today.”
“Is that why he went for you? It’s obvious he has an agenda. He singled you out.”
I shrug. “I don’t think that’s just it, no. I don’t think he trusted us even before the trial. He’s friends with Lord Turis—he was against your parents’ marriage, so I suspect both of them are biased against the Seelie and those who associate with them.”
“But now he’s off the playing field, I can help you, correct?”
My heart sinks at the realization I can’t say yes. “I’d love your help, really,” I say, as he glowers at me, probably able to tell from my tone that he’s not going to like what I have to say. “But Turis is on the field too. I bet Climent’s put the same idea in his head about me cheating.”
“They’re going to keep targeting you, Eleanor. You know Unseelie don’t back down.” His expression is stern, but beneath it I see fear. It feeds my own, as I remember the crush of bodies and the bite of bone in my flesh. I wince as Ruskin ties the last knot on my bandage.
But this isn’t just a situation I can tap out of. Walking away might mean saying goodbye to our chances of Lisinder changing his mind about Evanthe. Which would mean terrible things for Seelie. This isn’t just life or death for me on the playing field. It could almost be a kingdom at stake.
I cling to the one bit of good news I have.
“I can end the game early if we score four times in a row,” I explain, trying to summon up some resolve. “So I need ideas.” I also need his reassurance right now. Just his touch has gone a long way to providing that, but now he looks thoughtful.
“Maidar has been telling me more about the nature of your power. It can do far more than just levitate a blade or manipulate some stirrups. Why aren’t you using the full extent of it? It’s the only advantage you have over these fae.”
“But they have magic too,” I point out, even though that much is obvious.
He shakes his head. “Even High Fae power has a tendency towards simplicity. They can start a fire, or grow a flower, or grant a wish already formulated in a human heart, but Maidar has told me the kind of magic you do far surpasses that. The average fae works with the world as it is—you reshape it. Turning one thing permanently into another, or giving it a function totally separate from its original purpose. These are complicated spells that require a level of detail and manipulation most fae could never dream of. There’s a reason the power of a High Monarch is considered so special—usually those kinds of conjurations are only possible for them. When it comes to magic, you’re overestimating the other players and selling yourself short. Use it. You’ve already seen the others do so in the game.”
I stare at him, letting this information sink in. I’ve never really considered this before, perhaps because I’ve gotten used to being around his power, which certainly surpasses mine. Did the old Ruskin know this about my abilities? That I was more capable than most High Fae? He must have, but he never spelled it out to me so explicitly. Perhaps he thought I’d be overwhelmed, being told I’m more powerful than even the High Fae. Or maybe he thought I’d already figured it out for myself—which maybe I would have, if I hadn’t been focusing so much on getting my magic to do what I needed of it that I forgot to ever really compare it to other faes’. I might not be as strong as Ruskin or Evanthe, but next to the average High Fae, I suppose these days I can give them a run for their money. He's right that I should use that skill now.
“All right,” I say, taking a deep breath and considering the rest of the battle ahead of me. “Thank you.”
Ruskin captures my mouth in a kiss, and I’m glad that I’m seated, considering the force of it. His hands are on me again, encircling my waist to pull me closer. I settle into the feel of his tongue running over mine, sighing into it, savoring the sweet taste of him, overtaking the bitter fear of the impending game and chasing away the pain in my leg, even if just for a moment. The bond pulses between us, a living thing rejuvenated by the way our bodies press against each other. It’s like the power of the kiss soothes my aching flesh, coating it in a balm of warm pleasure. It draws me back to myself, reminding me of who I am, centering me so that I feel in command of my body and my mind. With his touch, I feel like I can take on anything—which is good, since I’ll need to, soon.
“Ruskin,” I murmur against his eager lips. “I have to go.”
He growls unhappily, but pulls back a little, shortening his kisses into a series of quick, soft pecks. “Don’t get killed,” he orders, in between pressing his mouth to mine.
“Okay,” I reply, as if it’s as simple as that. It takes a lot of willpower to draw away and stand back up, but I do, and that’s a good sign. I’ll need that willpower to go back and face down Turis and his friends.
Pyromey squints at me but says nothing as I hurry back to our starting positions in the arena. The atmosphere is different now. I can feel the burning heat of several angry pairs of eyes on me as I rejoin my team. Other players have been sent off, but Climent was closest to Turis, and now his other allies—the orange-haired female and the stag Unseelie—look as enraged as he does. I guess they can’t stand the idea that a human took their friend out. Where at the beginning of the game the players were simply holding back their pent-up energy, now they’re not just hungry for action, but something darker: retribution.
No sooner have I hauled myself onto Parsley’s back than the horn blows. Turis is directly opposite me, an unpleasant smile on his face as we meet each other’s gaze. I notice he’s swapped his stirrups for leather straps—in fact, all the opposing players have. I guess this is their solution to stop me repeating my trick from earlier.
But it’s going to take more than that to stop me. I tap my heels to urge Parsley forward, putting myself in the middle of the action, while trying to keep an eye out for attacks from the periphery.
Vaccia barrels past me on a bear about a foot taller than Parsley, her cradle lifted. The mountain-lion creature from the other team is right behind her. Vaccia’s ursinian bellows and stalls as the lion leaps up to dig its claws into the bear’s hind quarters.
“Vaccia! To me!” I shout.
The ball flies towards me, and I lift my cradle, judging the distance as well as I can, but the ball is arcing too slowly and I’m too short. I awkwardly shove myself up onto my feet in my stirrups, giving me a few extra inches of height, and gasp in surprise as the weight of the ball hits my cradle, rattling into it.
I shove myself back down into my saddle. My leg protests with a spasm of pain, but I don’t let it stop me pulling on Parsley’s reins, guiding him into a charge towards the pillars.
Four goals. That’s what we need. Then this game is ours.
The thought spears straight through the shock of actually catching the ball. All eyes are suddenly on me, and a barrage of even more pain is no doubt headed my way if I don’t get the ball over that line. The saber-tooth fae rides up on my right, and the way he twists his hand clues me in that he’s about to cast magic. Like before, I use my own power—this time, to grab the metal fastenings on his reins, pulling his ursinian away from me. His spell goes wide, a shower of sparks catching my ankle and making me yelp. Parsley roars as the orange-haired female brings her bear up on my right, clashing his antlers with her steed’s.
Despite the attacks, I’m four yards from the pillars now, then two.
I lob the ball forward, and it arcs towards the line. I’m about to punch the air in victory when a cradle goes up, scooping the ball out of the air. My heart sinks as Turis smiles thinly at me once more, easily tossing the ball he just caught to a teammate. Once it’s back in their possession, it hurtles down the other side of the circle. Moments later, the opposing team scores and the horn blows, just as Parsley roars again. I jerk around to see Turis’s bear has sank its teeth into Parsley’s hind leg.
“Hey!” Pyromey screams, riding down towards us. “The horn has blown!”
Turis tugs lazily on his ursinian’s reins, and it releases Parsley. Rage floods through me at the sight of the bloody teeth marks in his hide.
“Big mistake,” I snap at Turis, offering Parsley a soothing pat on the head.
“I don’t make mistakes,” he says, so quietly and calmly it’s unnerving. “Especially not where feckless humans are concerned. Do you know how very easy it would be for you to die on this playing field?”
Pyromey reaches us before I can answer, taking hold of Parsley’s reins and tugging us back towards our end of the arena. She throws Turis a dirty look as she goes.
“What did he say to you?” she asks, as we gather beside our teammates.
“Nothing worth repeating.” I shrug. She gives me a funny look.
“What?” I ask.
“I just haven’t really seen it in action before—lying, I mean. It’s an odd trick, isn’t it?”
I don’t know what to say to that, and she doesn’t seem to need an answer as we gather again on our starting lines for the reset.
“Their defensive line is too strong,” she snaps to the others.
Vaccia shakes her head. “After your early goal, they’re on a mission. We’re not going to get anywhere near the east side,” she says, and I realize she’s talking about the half of the circle ringed by mountain stone. “We might have to accept another month with Turis on the council.”
“No,” I blurt out before I can stop myself. The stakes are too high. Maybe not for Vaccia, but for Seelie…
“There are a lot of people relying on us winning this game,” I explain when the team stares at me. “I thought the Unseelie never backed down?”
“She’s right,” says Pyromey. “I’m done having Turis whisper his poison about blood superiority into the king’s ear. We are going to win this. We just need a bolder attack strategy.”
She tightens the tie holding her hair back, a dangerous look glinting in her eyes.
“I’m going up the west side,” she says.
I feel everyone in earshot look over to the unprotected drop on the other side of the circle, focusing on the way the outer line suddenly gives way to thin air.
“Don’t push your luck,” Vaccia warns.
“Two more goals from them and this game is done,” Pyromey spits. “Fuck that. As soon as that horn goes, I’m breaking Turis’s streak—and his power over this court with it.”
An idea comes to me, and I bite my lip, remembering what Ruskin said. In terms of power, I have more magic than a lot of these people, even if I’m not faster or physically stronger.
“Do it,” I say. Several heads swivel towards me. “Attack up the west side. I’ll cover you.”
Wistal gives a snort that even in his bull’s form is clearly meant to express disbelief.
But Pyromey blinks at me with interest. “All right.”
“Pyromey,” Vaccia says, looking worried. “If you make one wrong move?—”
“That’s for Lady Thorn to worry about,” says Pyromey.
Vaccia throws me a doubtful look.
“Trust me,” I say, my pulse already quickening with what I’m about to promise. “Give me a few minutes to prepare, then make the play.”
The horn blows to restart the game.