Chapter 11
As I cross into the courtyard, my thoughts are a maelstrom. I can tell all eyes are on me now, watching the Waste Land baroness.
Torches burn in sconces on the wall, casting dancing shadows over a spiral pattern of pale stones in the stone courtyard. I move deeper into the square and settle into place near the menagerie. Part of me wonders if I should try to escape right now.
But the other, louder part of me will not leave here without the grail.
Inside the enclosure, a white lion pads in silence.
A unicorn tosses its head, nostrils flaring, iridescent eyes narrowing.
Behind them, the animals shift through the shadows—a black hound with flame-like eyes, a white boar with golden tusks and hooves, and a ghostly, radiant stag standing tall above them all.
Rion is standing to my right, and his powerful magic skims over my skin. In the darkness, golden light radiates from his tattoos.
But he’s not the real threat right now.
My gaze darts to the dragon looming over the courtyard, and unease twists through my chest. The creature is enormous, easily the size of a two-story house, even coiled in sleep.
Around the courtyard walls, the magic mirrors ripple. The Council of Nobles is ready and primed to watch the unworthy burn tonight.
In everyday life, I’m perfectly worthy. I do my roommates’ dishes.
I take care of Vero. I help people when they’ve dropped things in the street.
I give food to the homeless man named Billy who lives under the bridge by my flat.
But in the world of Fey royalists? I’m a traitorous peasant, and they’d burn me to death in seconds if they knew the truth.
Elizabeth sidles up next to me and hands me the bottle of mead.
“Thanks.” I take a long sip, hoping to dull my nerves. My gaze flicks up, scanning the shadows and parapets for signs of Tristan.
I’d really love a second opinion at this point. Should I run for the shadows and find a way out?
From the menagerie, a phoenix rises in a blaze of fire, wings scattering sparks before it bursts apart, raining cinders and ash across the night. Sulfurous smoke curls into my nostrils.
When I look back at the dragon, I see that he has opened a single golden eye—and it’s locked on me.
If only I could return from the flames like a phoenix.
I hand the mead back to Elizabeth.
I glance at Rion. He sips lazily from his glass of mead, his rings catching the lantern light. And why would he worry? He’s of noble blood, and he’d make the perfect king. A Fey king takes what he wants—a crown, a throne, a woman up against a wall.
Rion glances down at me, his steely-silver gaze sweeping the length of my body. His lips curve in a wry smile. “Do you really think you can survive here?”
From the other side, the drunken Duke Mabon leans forward, his black hair hanging down over a velvety cloak. His eyes are unfocused. “When she first came in, I swear to the gods, she smelled of mortals. Revolting.”
Rion’s half smile fades, his pale eyes raking over my face like he’s uncovering my innermost thoughts.
“I think you’re keeping secrets—but no one lies to me for long.
” His voice cools, sharpening. “There is something painfully human about you. So delicate.” He tilts his head and looks thoughtful.
“I think I could break you as easily as I breathe.”
The wind toys with my black hair. “But you can’t break what’s already broken. We’re here to fight for the crown, and I’ve got something that none of you do, Rion du Lac.”
Silver light sharpens in his gaze. “And what’s that?”
“Nothing left to lose.” I smile up at him.
“That’s what the Waste Land is, you know?
Nothing. So, who do you imagine will be the most ruthless one here?
A high lord grown soft on mead and banquets?
Or the creature who crawled from the kingdom of bones like the dead rising from the grave to breathe again? ”
I’m not leaving here without the grail. This is a world where power is granted by bloodlines and brutality, where they’d happily let someone like Vero die. To them, peasants are vermin and pests.
I want to heal Vero more than anything—but I also want to take something precious from them.
A dark, slow smile curls the corners of Rion’s mouth, and his cruel eyes pin me. “The most ruthless one here, are you? This should be very interesting.”
Then his expression grows bored, like I’m an old trinket that no longer amuses him. He turns away, murmuring something to Igraine.
As a cool breeze slips over us, High Priestess Niniane sweeps into the stone courtyard, holding her palms to the sky.
“My glorious Fey nobles. The gods have called you all here today because we must choose a new monarch—a High King or Queen to rule over all the Fey kingdoms from Brocéliande. We must take back our great city Corbinelle from the peasant rabble and reclaim Castle Perillos. The commoners roam its hallowed halls like packs of wild pigs.”
She turns to face the mirrors on the walls behind Goch and draws her wand.
Cold magic slides across my skin as she speaks quietly.
Her words carry in the air, though I only catch fragments.
It’s ancient Fey, a language almost no one speaks anymore.
I understand parts of it: something about the Horned God, a wild hunt to choose a king, a binding to the land.
As her voice fades, the rippling water in the mirrors grows still, and their surfaces gleam with a faint silver sheen.
They’re watching us now, the Council of Nobles. Fortunately, none of them would recognize me from the Undercroft. Spies are meant to be invisible.
Tristan says Avalon Tower prefers diplomacy and the delicate art of improvisation. Auberon’s spy craft was nothing like Avalon Tower’s. The king taught us the brutal arts: kidnapping, torture, and assassination. We killed anyone who saw our faces, so none of these aristocrats ever saw mine.
Those of us in the Undercroft came from nothing: from Corbinelle’s slums, from ramshackle huts buried deep in the forest. Tristan’s mother was a prostitute.
My father was a hunter who barely kept food on the table.
That was how Auberon motivated us—through promises of titles, land, and riches we could obtain only through making him happy. He rarely made good on those promises.
The animals, unlike the nobles, make me nervous. They might smell the poverty on me.
As if hearing my thoughts, the dragon raises its head, staring straight at me. Fear skitters up my spine. Fuck. Can dragons be telepathic?
Elizabeth hands the bottle back to me. “We’ll be assigned to towers tonight. We’ll find out who we really are, they say.”
High Priestess Niniane turns back to us. Her expression is delighted, almost girlish. “As Lord Cador calls your name, please come to the center. You will be blessed by one of the beasts to wear his form as your sigil.”
“Lady Lunette,” Cador calls out, “come and discover your true heraldic sigil.”
A woman with mahogany skin in a pearlescent gown strides into the center of the circle, wearing a flower crown of white lilies. She moves with elegant grace, stopping by the metal stake and standing still on the scorched stone. From a parapet, ravens swoop down, gracefully arcing above her.
Overhead, the ravens caw and call out, “She knows life and death. The beginning and the end. A heart broken. Music silenced.”
From the menagerie, an ivory butterfly flutters out, landing on Lunette’s shoulder. She beams.
“The Gloaming Tower,” the ravens squawk.
Lunette grins as she steps back into the crowd.
From the edge of the courtyard, Cador’s voice booms, “Countess Elizabeth de Benoic, step into the center and claim your heraldic sigil.”
Slowly, Elizabeth walks into the center of the spiral.
I hold my breath, watching as the ravens swoop above her in a circle.
I realize too late that she’s still gripping the bottle of mead—which is probably not ideal for this particular occasion.
By now, we’ve both drunk so much of it that clear thinking is out of reach.
The dragon lifts its head, peering down at her with burning eyes. Above her head, the ravens chatter about isolation, about carving poetry into the stone walls. They speak of a murdered count, smothered by a pillow in his sleep, never to speak again. Then they fall silent.
An elegant white owl swoops out of the menagerie, then rests on Elizabeth’s shoulder.
“Gloaming Tower,” the ravens cry.
Elizabeth’s smile looks a little uncertain.
As the birds fly from her, she hurries back to me, eyes wide. “I made it!” She thrusts the bottle of mead into my hand.
“Rion du Lac! Your sigil summons you,” Cador shouts.
He stalks into the center, still holding his glass of mead. His silver hair hangs long over his black, fur-lined cloak, and his leather trousers hang low on his hips. As he stands by the stake, he takes a sip.
If he’s worried about Goch, he doesn’t show it.
The ravens arc above him, their cries loud enough to wake the gods. “Myrddin Wyllt…a king who keeps death at his court…a crown of bones…a true king screams from the oak. Balor, the one-eyed, rises from a forest forged with blood…madness runs in his veins…”
The ravens’ chatter isn’t doing much to improve my impression of him. Goch growls, low and deep, and the sound rumbles through my gut. Rion languidly swirls the mead in his glass.
At last, the gate to the menagerie swings open with a groan. The phantom stag trots out and stands proudly by Rion, and the creature glows like the stars in the night sky. The stag’s antlers are a pale blue. His body drips with water, and his eyes are the color of a pristine lake.
“Lyria Tower,” the ravens cry.
Cador calls, “Sir Dagonet,” and the formerly imprisoned warrior stalks before the stake. Already, I’m making the calculation that I should avoid him in combat trials. His thickly corded muscles are covered in iron scars, and he’s obviously no stranger to violence.
When a little dragon lands on his shoulder, he nods once, then returns to his spot.
One by one, each noble passes the test unscathed. Igraine is graced by a water serpent. Even the drunk finds himself paired with a salamander.
When little blonde Lady Blythe is called up, she walks gingerly into the spiral of stones. She’s pink-cheeked and youthful, and a flower crown sits slightly crooked on her golden hair.
She smiles at us, but I can see her hands shaking. “I’m ready to discover my sigil!”
The ravens circle above her, screaming into the night.
“Weak…faithless…capricious…confusion in battle…unready…cannot protect us…”
Her smile falters, and Goch raises his head, rearing back. His great maw opens, and the dragon’s teeth gleam.
My legs feel weak. “Blythe, run!” I say through gritted teeth.
As Goch stands to his full height, my blood roars.
Blythe turns bone white, and she’s trembling harder now. But it’s too late. She takes one step, two—
Goch unleashes a blast of fire, searing the air.
Heat singes my skin. I close my eyes and stumble back, the air too hot to bear.
I’m coughing, trying to find cool air to suck into my lungs.
Smoke billows around us. Blythe didn’t even have time to scream.
When I open my eyes, I see a living torch burning down to bone.
The smell of scorched flesh fills the courtyard, and cinders spark in the darkness.
The blaze roars, then dwindles until nothing is left of the pretty golden-haired Fey but a dark pile of ash.
Coughs break the silence as the wind carries pieces of ash into the sky, whipping it around us.
“What a shame,” Niniane says with a sigh. “But it can’t be helped. Not worthy.”
I grab the mead from Elizabeth and take a long sip, my hand shaking.
And as I press the bottle to my lips, Cador calls out, “Baroness Alis de Listenoise.”
The world tilts beneath my feet as the dragon’s eye finds me again.
Am I about to die?