Chapter 18 Sam #2
Rook attacks first. That part is no surprise. He moves fluidly as his hands shape the spell, all sinewy grace and deadly intent. My shoulders relax a little. This is the Rook I know. This is the Rook who takes care of business in the arena, no matter what’s happening outside of it.
Rook’s spell—a crackling, silvery wave of arcane energy—arcs out toward Tamsin, who looks uncertain of how to handle it.
She crafts a sloppy counter and barely escapes Rook’s onslaught as his spell roars over her head.
She dives into a roll at the last minute to duck the spell as her counter redirects the remnants of arcane power.
A cut bleeds sluggishly over Tamsin’s left eye as she staggers to her feet.
My heart plummets into my belly. The referee calls for a pause to the action as he and one of the arena doctors crowd around her to make sure she can still see.
I know it’s probably worse than it looks—injuries that cut in that spot right over the eye bleed dramatically but rarely incur lasting or serious damage—but my heart skitters inside me all the same.
This is what I wanted. I’ve been working toward the destruction of Blackwood’s daughter for years.
This is it: the moment where Rook—the wild, brilliant monster boy I’ve honed into a weapon of righteous vengeance—smells blood.
Where he breaks his prey for good—and her father with her.
Everything is going according to plan. I should be happy.
I should be.
Tamsin shakes off the arena doctor with a smile and a thumbs-up. The crowd cheers her for her grit as she steps back onto the amphitheater stage, now sporting some Vaseline over the cut—which will no doubt start bleeding into her eye again as soon as the action restarts.
Nothing to be done about it, though. Tamsin refuses to back down, and the doctor has declared her safe to continue. So continue she will.
Rook, encouraged by his earlier success, launches his next few spells in rapid succession.
He throws everything from long range: gorgeous arcs of arcane power that cover the distance between his body and his opponent’s.
It’s a good strategy for him, one I worked on with him for pretty much the entirety of our relationship.
Rook is devastating from every position, but he does his most devastating work from a distance—not simply because of his long-range magic but because of the psychological toll it takes on his opponent.
There’s something about pouring all your energy into trying to fend off a guy you can’t even physically touch that saps your willpower.
I’ve experienced it even in simple sparring sessions with Rook in the training arenas back home.
Rook’s greatest gift as a duelist is that he makes you want to quit. And as soon as you want to quit—as soon as you’re ready to give up on yourself—that’s when he knows he’s won.
Tamsin’s not quitting, though. She watches Rook with steady, narrowed eyes.
Her footwork is deft. She moves just enough to keep herself out of harm’s way, but she doesn’t allow him to bait her into any obvious blunders.
That’s more than can be said for most of Rook’s opponents, even the better ones.
“Blackwood the Younger is doing some fine defensive work despite that early blow from Rook,” observes the man on the commentary track, “but we all know defense alone doesn’t win duels.” He chuckles then adds, a bit incredulously, “Especially against the likes of Lysander Rook! Look at him go!”
“Young Tamsin’s going to have a tough time keeping up this pace as she allows Rook to really settle into his preferred range,” agrees the co-commentator. “She’ll have to launch an attack of her own at some point—the question is, what’s she waiting for?”
I’m wondering the same thing.
Rook, emboldened by Tamsin’s caution, takes control of the center of the arena. Another tactic he and I have perfected over the years. He employs quick, light spells to keep her at bay, slowly forcing her to the edges of the stage. He’s establishing his territory, forcing her to fight on his terms.
Tamsin doesn’t look particularly worried anymore, though. The uncertainty has long since vanished from her expression. She is, in fact, suspiciously tranquil, all things considered. Almost as if—
I stop myself short at the thought.
Almost as if she’s the one luring Rook into a trap.
“You clever bitch,” I whisper.
As if she’s somehow heard me, Tamsin chooses that moment to unleash her magic. I can’t quite make out the shape of the spell at first. It’s not especially showy—the spell includes no immediately visible flare or sparks, no dramatic sound effects to accompany the attack.
Then I see what she’s done. I have to stare at the screen a minute or two longer to confirm it, but it’s plain as day to me once I see it: the faint gathering of silvery arcane power at the corners of the stage opposite Rook. Oxygen flees my lungs.
Tamsin hasn’t been countering Rook’s relentless barrage of spells at all—at least, not in the traditional sense. Instead, she’s been siphoning off arcane energy from each casting. She’s done it so subtly that I didn’t see what was really happening.
None of us did.
“The Blackwood girl’s clearly got something up her sleeve,” the first commentator announces excitedly. “Just take a look at that stance, folks. With that last spell Tamsin cast, she looks like she’s getting in position to—oh, my goodness!”
The spell Tamsin’s unleashed materializes in full.
A glittering net of arcane power settles over the arena.
For a moment, the crowd’s shouting simmers down to hushed murmurs.
The thing Tamsin has created is, simply put, beautiful.
The spell looks like pure starlight—starlight woven with precise, violent accuracy.
Rook looks up at that gorgeous, deadly canopy. I see it reflected in the blue of his eyes, extraordinary even through the distance of a television screen. Those eyes widen for a moment before he narrows them and casts his counter-spell.
It’s too hasty. A basic counter isn’t enough for what Tamsin’s cooked up in that net, woven not only from her own power but from Rook’s as well. It’s a brilliant move. Rook’s extraordinary, devastating amount of natural power, turned against him.
The net descends upon Rook. His hasty little counter-spell barely keeps the worst of it off him. He’s knocked backward to the very edge of the amphitheater stage. He shies away from Tamsin’s spell, hands thrown over his head in a desperate bid to protect himself from further damage.
The net, however, doesn’t simply vanish, the way so many spells do once they’ve found their mark. This spell, apparently, is still seeking its target.
And that target is Rook. Still Rook. The net twists and attacks him over and over again. Each time, he dodges, weaves, counters. But he’s getting tired. I’ve never seen him sweat like this, open-mouthed, as perspiration beads every inch of his face.
“Tamsin Blackwood is giving Rook the first real run for his money I believe we’ve ever seen, ladies and gentlemen,” crows one of the commentators. “I can hardly believe it!”
“Regardless of who wins this duel, this young lady has made history,” chimes in his co-commentator. “We have officially passed the halfway mark of the duel, which is longer than any opponent has ever survived against Lysander Rook.”
“Tamsin Blackwood is absolutely living up to her father’s legacy—hell, despite some early trouble in this duel, she’s probably going to take that win she’s been favored for after all!”
“Well, I’d say it’s still too early to make that call, but she’s certainly putting up quite the unprecedented fight against absolutely insane odds—”
“Look, I’ll admit that Rook looked like he had the upper hand as usual in the opening minutes of the duel, but look at her now! No one can argue that Tamsin Blackwood has been dominating her opponent ever since she set up that brilliant netting spell.”
“True, I have to wonder if she played so defensively on purpose, to lure in the power she needed from Rook.”
“Almost certainly, I’d say. Just look at that girl go!”
“If she keeps this up, I’m not sure what Lysander Rook is going to—”
I stab the mute button on the remote, almost violently. I’ve lost my appetite for the commentary track. I watch as my former champion struggles in silence against the girl I’ve dreamed for years of tearing limb from limb.
That same girl is absolutely pummeling Rook. His normally sharp, balletic movements grow slower and sloppier. She’s wearing him down, and he has no recourse. No escape from the onslaught. She’s doing to him precisely what he’s done to so many other magicians over the years.
What he was supposed to do to her.
One particularly nasty blow from the net knocks Rook to his knees. He tries to build back up to his feet, but the net returns, dragging him downward. An ocean current, dragging him out into the deep.
Tamsin appears, ambling toward him, her hands dancing in the air as she puppeteers her beautiful, deadly net of starlight. I’ve never seen her look so predatory before.
I’ve never seen Rook look more like prey.
His eyes are wild. He’s a hunted man on the brink of defeat, and he knows it. I lean forward on the couch, elbows digging into the tops of my knees. “Yield,” I whisper. “Come on, Rook.” My voice breaks. “Just yield. It’s okay.”
And it truly is okay. I’m a little surprised at how okay I’ve decided it is. I will destroy Blackwood, one way or another. I’ll find a way. I always do. I’ll think of something. I know I will.
But first, I need my champion—my former champion—to yield. I need him to admit his loss willingly before Tamsin does something that forces it.
Something that truly can’t be taken back or undone.