Chapter 22
Ifind a space in front of Tristan on a cold marble bench. Not too close, though. In public, I can’t seem too familiar with him.
I catch his eye, and he holds my gaze longer than he should. When I turn around, he gives my shoulder a short, light squeeze for reassurance.
Cador’s horse walks slowly across the arena before the contenders, the hooves echoing off the stones. Cador’s eyes rake over the fighters. “Igraine’s team, you will now move to the east side of the arena. Mabon’s, to the west.”
The fighters start to move, stalking to the arena’s edges.
“To start, you won’t have weapons,” Cador calls out. “Our dragon, Goch, will soar overhead, and he will drop the weapons from the skies. You may not run for them until you hear the carnyx sound. Then, sprint to choose your sword. But you should be warned: there won’t be enough for everyone.”
I’m not even in this fight, and my heart is thudding like a war drum. The fighters settle in on each side, staring at each other across a pit that will run with blood by the end of the day.
Slowly, a dark, sweeping shadow swoops over the arena, making my blood go cold. When I glance up, I see Goch flying above us, gripping a wooden crate in his teeth. A cold breeze whips at us.
The dragon arcs in a circle a few times, casting the arena in darkness.
He lets out a low, ominous roar that makes the stones quake around me, the sound rumbling through my gut.
With one final arc, he releases the crate from his mouth, and the wood smashes into pieces on the stones.
The contenders look tense, hunched over and ready to sprint, fingers twitching.
Igraine leans over, her eyes gleaming as she looks at the weapons.
At last, the carnyx sounds—a deep howl that echoes off the stone, ringing in my skull like a bell.
They race, sprinting into the center. Igraine grabs a sword—Mabon, too. Only Rhiannon misses the chance to seize one.
With everyone else armed, she backs away, lifting her face to the skies like she’s praying.
By the looks of it, Igraine plans to pick her off first.
Mabon is dueling with two of the men on Igraine’s team. His swings are powerful and deadly. One of his opponents tries to dart forward and stab him, and Mabon easily parries it, then smashes the man’s nose with the pommel of his sword. A snarling grin is etched on his face.
While the wind whips at her golden hair, Igraine stalks toward Rhiannon, her whiskey-gold eyes narrowing on her prey. For such a lithe, willowy woman, she looks terrifying, her body coiled tightly like a lioness about to strike.
The pious redhead still smiles up at the sky, waiting for her salvation. The morning sun washes her face in honey. She holds her hands out, palms up, like she’s receiving a blessing.
As Igraine prowls closer, her fingers flex on the sword.
Rhiannon’s eyes open, and her smile falters. She takes a step back, then another. Finally, her face pales, and her jaw drops.
My fingers gripping the marble seats, I fight the urge to leap in to help Rhiannon.
My heart races as Igraine lunges. With one clean, devastating strike, she cleaves the woman’s head in two. Blood splashes against the stone.
Igraine pivots without a second look to stalk her next victim.
I close my eyes, fighting rising nausea. What is the point of all this?
I want to scream my outrage at the fucking mirrors.
But I suppose I know what it is, beyond the spectacle and the primal celebration of brutality. Igraine helped me understand. Fewer aristocrats means fewer to share the plundered lands.
When I open my eyes again, I see Igraine’s blade carve through a man’s hardened leather armor like it’s butter. She splits his chest and stomach open, and I’m starting to suspect her magic power might involve otherworldly strength.
Claret runs down the serpent embossed on her cuirass, bright as poppies. The scent of blood fills the air, turning my stomach. Smoothly, Igraine pivots to find her next kill.
On the other side of the arena, Mabon swings his sword in an arc, spraying blood. His opponent’s head topples to the ground, his body collapsing just a second later.
Mabon turns around, surveying the killing ground.
Muttering spreads through the crowd, and I realize what attracted their attention.
Rhiannon is moving. It seems impossible—her skull is split, her face cleaved in two. And yet, as I gawk, she lurches to her knees, then to her feet. Perhaps I have misjudged her. Her prayers must have been answered, because this is a miracle.
She lunges forward in strange, jerky movements and leaps into the air, landing on one of Igraine’s teammates. With a wild snarl, she bites his throat, tearing it. The man gurgles, collapsing. Igraine picks up his sword and whirls around.
Then, from the corner of my eye, I notice more movement.
The beheaded body. That, too, rises to its feet.
“Oh, my gods,” someone moans from behind me.
The headless body takes a stumbling step forward, then another, blood streaking from the open wound on its neck. Next to the headless swordsman, his decapitated head jabbers. The head’s mouth snaps open and shut, as if trying to bite an unseen foe.
Another dead body rises and lunges at one of the few living contestants, skewering him.
The dead are rising to fight again.
I can feel a magic thrum all over the arena. It’s a dark, cold magic, and it’s all wrong. I can feel the rot crawling through the air around us.
Necromancy.
Looking around the arena, I realize that Mabon isn’t moving. His eyes have turned dark as coal, black holes that sweep over the carnage around him. Power radiates from him, warping the space around him.
Gods, he cannot be king.
Igraine is after another woman, this one clad in hardened leather like mine. As she stalks closer, the woman lifts her sword awkwardly. It’s clear to me she’s never trained a day in her life.
In the next moment, she falls to her knees.
“I surrender!” she shouts.
Igraine doesn’t hear her. Or perhaps she pretends not to.
One step forward—one swing—and half the woman’s head is gone. Blood streams over the stones, pooling in rivulets in the cracks.
But already, the dead woman’s body is jerking and moving as it rises again. She’s no longer inexperienced. Now, she’s a skilled fighter.
Mabon is in control.
Igraine jumps back and looks around her. All but her and Mabon are dead. But most of the contestants are still moving, circling her. Just to her left, an amputated arm is crawling toward her.
I shudder and look at the mirrors. Surely the nobles are horrified by what they are witnessing.
But all I see are fascinated smiles.
I should have known better. Nobles are drawn to power. And Mabon’s is fucking immense.
“Surrender!” Mabon calls out. “My dearest friend, Countess Igraine.”
She glowers at him. He could easily kill her now, but he’s hesitating.
He stands safely beyond his army of the dead and spreads his arms wide. “Come now, Igraine, we can finish this. Surrender.”
The dead just watch her, their eyes vacant.
And then Igraine lunges forward. She rolls on the ground and lops the feet off Rhiannon’s corpse.
The body collapses to the dirt, its arms grasping at Igraine, but she’s long gone.
By the time the dead manage to react, Igraine has leapt to her feet and crossed the distance to Mabon. She moves with an impossible speed.
She strikes, and he parries. Their swords clash with sharp rings, fast and powerful. Mabon’s lip curls back from his teeth, and he snarls. But he’s giving ground, forced into retreat by Igraine’s relentless assault.
The dead are coming to his assistance, but their movements are slow, clumsy. Distracted, Mabon can’t control his minions properly.
He thrusts at her, and she parries, then chops him from above. He blocks her swing, and his sword actually dents under her powerful strike.
One of the dead reaches her from behind, and she whirls, slicing off his sword-wielding arm. With another swing, she takes off one of his legs. She’s truly breathtaking.
She darts sideways, keeping the rest of the dead as far from her as possible.
Mabon tries to use the distraction and strike at her, but as fast as he is, Igraine is faster. This time, she blocks his swing and cuts his arm. The point of her sword rises to his neck.
With a broken cry, he lets go of his sword and raises his hands into the air. Red-faced, he screams, “I surrender!”
All around Igraine, the dead topple to the ground. The victorious woman looks at Mabon, her face blank. Slowly, after a minute, she turns to smile sweetly at the mirrors.
“Shall I let him live?” she asks the nobles. “I quite like him, you know. He is a jolly good friend.”
Lord Cador guides his mount to the center of the bloodstained arena.
“We await now the verdict of the noble houses!”
After a few moments, a wren circles over his head. The bird swoops down, dropping two pieces of curled parchment into his hands.
Standing on the gore-spattered stones, he unrolls the first. “Mercy for Duke Mabon! The noble houses wish you to live.”
Still on his knees, Mabon lets out a choked sound. I think he’s trying to suppress a sob. He blinks furiously, gasping for breath. He takes a step back from Igraine’s sword, lifts his eyes to the skies, and lets out a half-strangled moan.
Servants hurry to drag the bodies and the discarded weapons away, leaving crimson streaks in their wake. I try not to look at Rhiannon’s abused body as it slides over the flagstones.
When I look at the others on the stone seats around me, I find a sea of ashen faces.
I imagine many of them are wondering if this is worth it, even for the crown.
Only Igraine appears delighted, radiating joy. As she crosses out of the arena, she smiles and waves to the nobles in the mirrors like a queen waving to her subjects. Blood spatters her hair and face.
Lord Cador turns his horse to the stands and unrolls the next piece of parchment. “The noble houses have chosen again. The two lead fighters are High Lord Rion du Lac and Sir Dagonet of the island of Ys.”
Rion stalks to the center of the arena. He isn’t even wearing armor. He’s wearing a black tunic, his hair pulled back for the fight. I suppose he’s arrogant enough to think he doesn’t need armor.
The two enormous, muscular men—Dagonet and Rion—stand on either side of Lord Cador.
Dagonet wears leather, and his dragon banner is sewn into the front. He looks almost bored, with his arms crossed over his chest. His expression suggests he’s just waiting for this all to be over so he can move on to something more interesting.
Cador levels his gaze on us. “We will not drop a crate this time. Rather, we will place weapons in the center, and you will run for them when you hear the carnyx. But this time, there will be fewer weapons.”
I breathe in sharply. I wonder if they’re going to keep making it harder with each round.
From his horse, Cador looks down at the two men. “Now, it’s time for the lead fighters to choose their opponents. If Rion calls your name, you join Dagonet’s side. If Dagonet chooses you, join Rion. Sir Dagonet, you may begin.”
Dagonet’s gaze slides over those of us on the stone benches. He stops scanning when he reaches a man who sits with a cane. “You,” he barks.
With his dark curls and lace collar, the man doesn’t look like a fighter.
He’s holding a stack of books under one arm, the other hand gripping his cane—though I think it’s more for style than necessity.
With his red cheeks and delicate curls, he looks like he could be a poetry student.
He’s quite clearly more suited to a library than an arena.
“Lord Aneirin of Brocéliande!” Cador calls out. “From Castle Catreath.”
Aneirin looks startled, as if he thought he might somehow escape the carnage today. But under his blue cloak, he wears a breastplate of armor. A unicorn sigil adorns the front.
Reluctantly, he hands the books to a woman sitting next to him. “Right. Right. Please take good care of these. Please. They’re rare.”
Taking his cane with him, he crosses to stand by Rion’s side.
The Ruthless Knight doesn’t even bother to glance at his new ally. His ice-cold gaze scans the crowd of seated contestants, looking for anyone he thinks would make an easy kill.
And when that glacial gaze lands on me, I already know. Of course it would be me. He’s already decided I’m a weak link here. He thinks I’m mortal and mechanical, and that I don’t belong here at all.
Tick-tock.
“Baroness Alis of Listenoise.” His voice echoes off the stones, and my blood roars in my ears.
Within the next fifteen minutes, Rion du Lac will be trying to kill me.