Chapter 21
The route to the arena goes past the ashy dragon pit where a nameless man burned to death last night. Now, the only thing left of him is a charred skull half sunk in the cinders.
We walk onward toward the arena until we reach a stone tunnel. When we cross under its cool arches, we fall into silence. We’re all unarmed for now. I have no idea if we’ll get weapons today or just bash each other’s heads in with our fists.
Elizabeth rubs her eyes. “How much sleep did we get? Three hours?”
“Not sure I even slept that much,” I mutter.
A red-haired woman turns around to smile. She’s dainty and pale, dressed in leather armor like mine. “Don’t worry. Everything will be fine if we have faith in the gods. I’m named after Rhiannon, the love goddess. She protects me.”
I smile at her sympathetically. I’m afraid she won’t last a minute in the ring.
As we walk, my gaze trails over the stone walls. Etchings are carved in the stone. In one of them, the crude figures seem to be tearing a crowned king to pieces.
Nice. If omens exist, that feels like a good one to me.
As we step into the arena, the sunlight dazzles me. There aren’t many people here in person, only a few of the servants and squires sitting on curving stone benches. Tristan sits behind a row of veiled priestesses.
But the real crowd is observing through mirrors adorning the arena walls. Through those looking glasses, the nobles will watch our every move today and decide our fates.
The morning light burns brightly off their surfaces, then shimmers, showing me all the nobility watching us in their jewel-studded silks. I can hear them, too, murmuring faintly. Talking about us.
Lord Cador emerges from another entrance, riding a horse and dressed in armor. His burgundy hair hangs loose over silver chain mail.
Niniane sits on a raised stone dais, dressed in a blue gown and a crown of oak blossoms, as remote and resplendent as the moon.
Behind her are three Cloaked Ones, their faces shadowed by dark cowls.
I’m not even clear if they have faces because I’ve never seen them.
Jeweled cinctures hang around their waists, each set with stones shaped like eggs.
Such strange creatures. They’re relics of the old days, guardians of rites most Fey have forgotten.
I’ve never heard them speak, and I don’t know if they can.
A carnyx sounds, the horn echoing across the stone and sending a chill down my spine.
Lord Cador pulls his horse to a halt. “Subjects of Brocéliande, sons and daughters of our noble families. Today, by the will of the gods, we bring you the first trial of the Veiled Court. Those who die today will die nobly as warriors of the great houses. Today, on the holiday of Tanos, we will feed the earth with blood sacrifice and renew life with an offering to the gods. When the trial ends, the survivors will celebrate with a festival. But we will also choose a handful of the weakest to send home.”
My fingers start to shake a little, and I curl them into fists. I can’t go home yet—not without the grail.
“In the great and ancient tradition of the Veiled Court,” Cador continues, “the noble houses will choose two lead warriors for each round, and those fighters will in turn select three opponents to face.”
Elizabeth leans in to whisper, “Choose their opponents? Why not their allies?”
I swallow hard. Auberon read from the exact same playbook.
“They’ll say it’s a testament to bravery, to see who chooses the strongest opponents,” I whisper back, “but the real reason is to purge the weak fastest. Everyone always chooses the people they can kill the most easily.”
“Fuck,” she mutters under her breath.
Cador nudges his horse closer. “When another fighter defeats you, they can either kill you or give you a chance to surrender. When all fighters on a team have surrendered or died, the round is over. Now, if you surrender, the noble houses can demand your execution or choose mercy.”
I breathe slowly, trying to maintain a sense of calm. I glance up at Elizabeth; her expression is tense.
Cador looks overhead. A dark wren circles above him, casting its shadows in a swooping arc over the stone. The bird carries something in his little talons. He dips down and drops the little piece of paper. It flutters into Cador’s hand, and he unrolls it.
“The noble houses have chosen their first two fighters! The two lead fighters are Countess Igraine and Duke Mabon, both of Tintagol!”
Igraine smiles and stalks to the center of the arena. She’s wearing chain mail with a breastplate emblazoned with her golden water serpent sigil.
Mabon actually looks uncharacteristically sober today. He stands tall as he faces her, his sigil—a fiery salamander—gleaming on his breastplate.
Still astride his horse, Cador calls Igraine forward. When she sidles up next to his stallion, he turns to face the mirrors.
“Lady Igraine. Tell our noble houses why you would make a good queen.” Cador’s voice booms across the arena.
She straightens, her hair shining like spun gold in the sunlight.
“Once, I ruled as High Lady of the Court of Tintagol.” Her accent drips with money.
“My husband, High Lord Gorlois, was a strong ruler until a duke from another land took over our island. As they laid siege to our castle and rammed our gates, their leader tricked me into his bed. The filthy swine glamoured himself to look like Gorlois. Little did I know my husband was already dead, shot through the eye with an arrow outside the castle gates.”
Through the mirrors, I can see the noble houses leaning closer, eating up the story.
“The invaders murdered my husband, the high lord,” she continues.
“They installed their own duke. And their army included filthy, bestial demi-Fey. But even that wasn’t enough.
Our new ruler tried to force me to marry him.
When I objected, he threw me into a dungeon.
I lost my husband, my title, and everything I cared about.
I starved in a prison cell, but I grew strong, nursing my hatred for the demi-Fey into magic.
No one will protect you like I will. I don’t want to simply fend the enemy off at the gates.
I want to destroy the so-called mortal civilization that threatens us. ”
She raises her fist into the air, and the noble houses clap on the other side of the looking glasses.
My eyebrows flick up. I didn’t know this history.
Cador nods at her, and the smile on his face looks proud. “You are, as you said, from Tintagol, far from Brocéliande and our capital city. Since our noble houses have not yet made your acquaintance, what would you like them to know about you?”
She lifts her chin. “I’d like them to know that I have the utmost respect for their expertise. As queen, I would make the head of each noble house part of my council of advisors. I’d also confer vast new lands and titles onto those who pledge loyalty to me.”
And here we go. That land will come straight from the peasants. The Melian Forest, the communal farmlands—all this will be split up among the nobility. The commoners will be back to renting from them and handing over half their crops.
I’m sure it’s exactly what the nobility wants to hear. And what would happen to Vero? Turfed out of her cottage, forced to pay rent for the land she lived on for free.
I glance at Mabon to see how he’s reacting. And what I read on his face is a look of utter and complete adoration. He’s in love with Igraine.
This should be interesting.
Igraine saunters back to her place in the arena, her expression glowing. She’s pleased with herself, and I’m sure the noble houses are lapping it up.
Mabon is up next, and he stalks toward the mirrors with an uncharacteristic steadiness. Cador asks him about his past.
“Well, I’ve lived in Tintagol in recent years, but I’m from Brocéliande originally, of course.
I know many of these faces on the other side of the mirrors.
Studied with them, of course. Learned to ride with them.
Hello, Lord Enion! Do you remember the parties we threw?
Bit of gambling. Bit of fun. The commoners would fight each other, you see, to the death.
And we’d place bets…well, much like we will fight today.
And I do hope you all will be betting on me this morning…
” He casts a quick glance back at Igraine.
“Though I fear defeating such a beautiful woman would be like carving out my own heart.”
It’s one of the first things he’s said that seems genuine.
“Thank you, Duke Mabon.” Cador turns back to us. “Lady Igraine, choose your first opponent.”
Igraine stalks over to the waiting contenders and walks slowly past us, her heels clacking on the stone. Casting her gaze up and down our bodies, she’s examining us like we’re livestock.
When she reaches me, she pauses. Her amber gaze sweeps down my body, and she cocks her head.
Truthfully, I’d rather take my chances with her than with Rion.
“Go on, then,” I whisper. “I know you want to pick me.”
Her eyes flick up to mine, the pale gold piercing me. “No, I don’t think so. Not if you want me to.”
Mabon passes me over, too, choosing Rhiannon, the little red-haired woman with her faith in the gods.
Even now, her faith seems to be holding strong, and her faint smile is serene.
But I don’t think she has any idea what’s in store for her today, or how much blood will flow across these stones before the day is done.
And just as I suspected, each of them chooses the frailest-looking fighters to kill.
They’re culling the weak.