Chapter 18
Iturn and step out of the Aether Tower.
I really should go to bed now, but there’s one last clue to search for among the violets and thorny roses.
I step over the cool stones on my way to the Rhiannon Garden.
An amber stone bridge arches overhead, joining the towers with a broad walkway.
I pass beneath its looming gargoyles. On the other side lies the verdant flower garden.
A cobbled path wends through gnarled trees, their trunks twined with ivy and hawthorn blossoms. Pale pink petals are scattered over the mossy earth.
I start searching for more carvings.
Roses bloom wildly here, even though April is a bit early for them. Violets, too. I keep looking, surveying the wild beauty of this place where apple branches sweep over me and moths flutter around my head. In the distance, Belenior burns, a flame against a dark sky.
I scan every rock and tree trunk for clues, stopping when I get to an altar tucked away in a corner. Honeysuckle clings to the pale stone. I move closer, studying its markings. Faintly, I can make out an engraving of what I think is a cauldron.
Beneath that, I read these words:
The grail is found—
Where bridges kill and swords collide—
Two houses torn by fratricide—
Cross the sword, face the fires
A test of might—a funeral pyre
My blood roars. This is what I’ve been looking for all along. Unfortunately, I’m no closer to getting the grail. That will only come at the end of a trial—one that involves murder and fire.
I don’t think it will be the combat trial. That one is in the arena, with no bridges. It must come later in the trials, which means I must survive the first trial if I want to cure Vero.
No wonder Cador said only those with the most powerful magic will grasp the powerful relics.
Fuck. I need to get the Song back. If I possessed the power of my youth, I’d win every trial.
Is it possible to get it back? As I walk through the garden, I try to recall how it sounded.
For just a moment, when the baroness attacked me, I felt my magic humming. Maybe it still lives somewhere deep inside me.
Before I cross under the bridge, I reach down to pick up a twig. If I have any magic left, a makeshift wand could help me channel it.
Gripping the end of the stick, I find my footing.
As I extend my sword arm, I try to clear my thoughts of all the chatter, listening only to the breeze and the distant crash of waves.
I call up the footwork I learned years ago—front foot, measured spacing.
I change stance and strike in an X, my hips turning, blade tracing a clean line.
I move into slashes and thrusts, precise and memorized. I keep going this way, trying to hear the Morrigan’s song the way I used to.
Dimly, I hear a few notes, but it’s like the music is playing underwater. I can’t really hear the melody at all. Maybe a rhythm? I try to match it with precise steps and strikes—one, two, thrust; one, two, step—an exact tempo. My stick whips through the air.
I hear Auberon’s furious voice—Guard yourself! Step in! Perfect your timing!
But the melody is muddled, drowned under the sea. And inside, I just feel hollowed out.
I keep trying to hit the right rhythm, but it gets harder. Even the beats are slurred now, and I feel wrong and empty.
A strange note of panic starts to flow through my mind, and all I can see is Auberon’s furious face as he stands over me, asking me what I’ve done.
I stumble. Panic is death.
A soft, hazy rain mists the air.
I close my eyes, thinking of calming images. I’m not going to summon my magic if I’m in a complete state of fear.
I think of the little cottage where I grew up.
The swing beneath the willow tree. The river that rushed by behind my house, the way the light streamed onto it.
There was so much green outside, winding around the oak trunks, so much magic in the forest. And then, something I rarely remember anymore—my mother’s face, smiling as I made a joke.
It always thrilled me when I could make her laugh, because it seemed like such a hard thing, but what a golden reward. I hear her singing now as she gardens.
Faintly—very faintly—a distant melody returns, thin, rusty threads of something almost familiar. I begin to sway to it, willing it to swell louder, but the clarity of the tune is still out of reach.
And as I grasp for it, a thudding sound interrupts me. Heavy footfalls shake the nearby wall, and dust spills down from the stones. The loud, booming noise rumbles through my gut, making my heart race.
A low growl rolls out from the bridge. Slowly, I turn and find myself looking up into the red-scaled, reptilian face of Goch.
He’s perching on the nearby bridge not ten feet away, fiery eyes locked on me. Snorting, he leans closer, then cocks his head like he’s studying a curious insect. Fire burns in his eyes, and his red scales catch the moonlight, gleaming like fresh blood.
My breath goes still. I freeze, staring at him, hardly daring to breathe.
He thrusts his head closer, and it feels like the world is tilting beneath my feet. He smells of iron and sulfur. When he exhales, his breath heats the air, and I breathe in death. His maw starts to part, and I’m now staring at his sharp, blood-stained jaws.
What is the blood from?
I stumble back, still clutching the stupid fucking twig, as if it could do anything.
My gaze darts around, searching for an exit, a better weapon.
My little misericord dagger is the best I’ve got, and I reach down to draw it from the holster on my thigh.
“Leave the baroness alone, Goch,” a deep voice calls out from behind me.
I turn to see the Ruthless Knight himself in the shadows, resting against the trunk of an apple tree, arms folded. He’s not wearing a shirt now, just the fur-lined cloak and trousers.
Goch growls again, breath rolling out in a searing burst of heat.
Rion prowls closer, looking utterly at ease with the creature. “Goch. I believe you’re frightening the lady,” he drawls.
The dragon opens his mouth.
A pulse of dark magic bursts from Rion, slamming into the dragon like a shock wave.
Goch whimpers, nostrils flaring. Yelping, he rears back, nearly falling off the bridge.
In the next moment, he’s airborne, retreating to the starry skies.
He unleashes a gout of fire into the dark night sky and soars away from us.
I take a deep breath and slowly turn to Rion. Those unnerving pale gold tattoos glow across his face, and his silvery eyes burn bright from the shadows. His long, silver hair falls like liquid starlight over his black cloak.
As I look at him, a shiver of warning skims down my spine. He’s more dangerous than a dragon’s fang.
My gaze brushes down to his chest, where bright gold slashes across his muscles.
The gilded tattoo there is almost like a primitive drawing of a tree that stretches over his chiseled abs.
Strings of necklaces hang around his neck, one tipped with the sharp point of a stag’s antler, and it draws my eyes in a slow pull to the V carved into his hips.
If he were anyone else, this sight alone might have me forgetting about the dragon.
“Thanks for that.” I force the words out.
Amusement glints in his pale eyes. “I was hoping you’d return to that swaying dance you were doing before Goch arrived.”
“Why, exactly, are you watching me?” I ask.
“I saw you whipping past my window earlier, crouched down in the cart. I scented you outside my door as well. Eventually, curiosity got the better of me.” His gaze flicks to the stick on the ground. “Then I saw you playing with a twig, and I was not disappointed.”
“I was practicing my swordsmanship.”
He lifts an eyebrow. “Your swordsmanship, even with that stick, was precise. You’ve obviously been trained by someone who demanded complete perfection.”
“Thanks, I guess,” I say.
He takes a step closer, and his magic thrums over my skin. Power rolls off him, languid and intoxicating, making my nerves tingle with anticipation.
“It wasn’t a compliment. I preferred the dancing. At least it looked like you enjoyed yourself, if only for a moment. When it comes to swordsmanship, your teacher left you with all the natural instinct of a mortal’s pocket watch.”
I frown up at him. “What does that even mean?”
“Tick-tock. Hitting all the right steps at all the right times. Predictable. Unfeeling.” His mouth curves faintly. “Boring.”
“Boring.” I narrow my eyes. “You seem pretty interested in me. I even got you out of bed.”
“I didn’t say you are boring. I said your swordsmanship is.”
“And what am I supposed to feel with a weapon in my hands?” I ask. “A deranged thrill at maiming people? We’ve all heard the stories about the high lord who tortures people to death as entertainment for his depraved party guests.”
He leans in, his breath brushing my throat. His seductive scent wraps around me—musk and cedar and the irresistible allure of pure sin.
“Do you know what else is interesting? The sweet smell of your mortal blood.” Slowly, his gaze drops to my mouth. “I’m not sure I’ve ever tasted one.”
Fuck. My heart slams so hard I swear he can hear it, and I wonder if I’ll be ashes in Goch’s pit before the sun rises.
“I don’t know what you mean,” I whisper.
“I can always tell when someone lies. The racing pulse. The flushing cheeks. Maybe you’re mostly Fey, but you think like a mortal. And you probably fight like one.” His pale eyes narrow, icy as winter as they drag over me, assessing me. “Which means you’ll die very quickly here.”
My blood roars. “And here I am, plucked from the Waste Land to compete against you. The gods think I’m worthy, even if I don’t have my own personal harem and torture dungeon.”
“Mortal, your life will end at the tip of a blade.” His eyes gleam, feline and cruel. “And no one will care enough to notice.”
I’m willing to learn from people I hate. I certainly spent ten years doing it. “And what do you suggest I should do to stay alive?”
“I suggest,” he whispers, “that you remember what it is to be Fey.”
Something tightens low in my stomach. “Meaning?”
He peers down at me. I’m only at his chest level. Between us, there’s just a few inches of electrified air.
He circles me, slowly. “You’re suffocating under your own restraints.
Once, we ruled Britain with primal magic in our blood.
We hunted and claimed what we desired. We took each other hard on the forest moss, and we fucked each other against rowan trunks.
We thrived on instinct. But when mortals spread across the kingdom, they flooded us with their words, and then their iron weapons and machines. You think like a machine.”
My pulse speeds faster, blood heating. “I’m very much not a machine.”
Rion goes still. His silver eyes bore into me, rooting me in place.
“Even mortals know what you’ve lost. Your own stories tried to warn you—the serpent and the garden and the fruit tree.
The god who brought fire. A taste of knowledge that separated you from nature, words that warned of your own mortality.
That was your fall from grace. Self-awareness breeds dread, and you’re drowning in it. ”
“I see. So, that’s your thing? You don’t have any knowledge? Just hunting and murdering and fucking like beasts? I’m not sure I’d brag about that, Ruthless Knight.”
His magic drips over my skin like warm honey. I hate this arrogant prick, but I feel a gravitational pull to him. Whether I like it or not, I crave his power, and I want to take it for myself.
“We were born to feel. To take what we wanted.” His voice drops, sultry and low as a lover’s caress. “To drag our fingers through the soil as we fuck and taste each other. To let desire silence our thoughts. We hunt for what we want—no fear, no dread, no shame on our tongues.”
My blood pounds hard in my chest. “And your forest-fucking fantasies are supposed to help me get better at fighting?”
“You think so loudly it’s a wonder you don’t wake Merlin from his oak tomb. It’s been a long time since pleasure made your thoughts go silent. That’s what makes you mortal. You cannot commune with the eternal.”
My chest is tight, breath shallow. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Deep down,” he murmurs, “you know exactly what I mean.”