Chapter 23
As I leave the bench and move toward Dagonet, I breathe in, slow and deep. No matter what happens, I must keep my focus, and I can’t panic.
Each team will choose fighters in turn—four to a side. When the horn sounds, we’ll run for the weapons. Cador already announced that there will be fewer swords this time, so my first task is simply to focus on getting one in my hand.
My pulse hammers as I walk, trying to block out the scarlet streaks that gleam against the limestone. My gaze trails over the shattered pieces of the crate strewn over the rocks. At least they dragged the bodies away.
As I take my spot next to Sir Dagonet, I turn to look up at him. His black hair gleams like onyx in the morning light, and an iron scar runs down one side of his cheek.
“Countess Elizabeth!” He barks the name of his next opponent.
Fuck.
My throat goes dry as Elizabeth rises from her stone seat to take her spot next to Rion.
One of us will be on the losing side today, but I can’t let myself get distracted by that.
Auberon’s voice still echoes in my skull: Sever your emotional ties. Compassion for an enemy is a weakness. He taught us to freeze our own hearts, to trade empathy for calculation. Cold logic is survival.
The king taught us not to fear death. In his own way, he made us ready for it.
Sometimes, we almost welcomed it. That’s why he chose us from the most ragged enclaves of Brocéliande.
He dragged us out of the slums because he knew a simple truth: those with nothing left to lose are the most terrifying of all.
We’d kill and die for the chance to become knights, because what else was there?
I exhale and watch Rion pick his next victim: a tall, powerfully built viscount named Bedivere, his forearms thickly corded with muscle. No idea why Rion chose him, considering he looks like one of the stronger fighters. Maybe he’s going for the testament to bravery angle.
As Bedivere crosses closer, he eyes me with open disdain. Even my own teammates don’t seem to be impressed with me.
I close my eyes and picture myself rushing for the weapons; I imagine my hand closing on a sword hilt. My goals are simple: stay calm, move quickly, survive long enough to find the grail.
Dagonet calls out the last one for their side—this one a man named Mark.
Immediately, I can see why Sir Dagonet chose him.
Mark appears to be completely hammered, and he staggers toward Rion with a bottle of mead in his hand.
He’s literally still drinking it as he stumbles into the arena.
Perhaps his nerves got the better of him this morning.
Rion’s last choice is a seasoned, grizzled, red-haired knight named Sir Morholt, who looks like he could snap a smaller man in half.
Apparently, Rion isn’t afraid of anything.
My thoughts churn wildly as I try to remember all my training. I close my eyes, breathing slowly, and Cador starts pulling over fighters to speak to the mirrors.
Rion is first, and he prowls to the mirrors with an easy half smile.
“High Lord Rion du Lac,” Cador calls out. “Can you tell our noble houses why you would make a worthy king?”
Rion gives a slow, unbothered shrug. “My sword will speak for me today, and my blade will write my enemies’ epitaphs.”
He doesn’t wait for another question—he simply stalks away with unhurried grace.
Cador pulls the contenders aside, one by one. Mark slurs his way through his answers, and I have no idea what he’s saying.
I glance at the bookish man called Aneirin and find him gripping the top of his cane so tightly, his knuckles have gone white. He seems like he’s going to be sick. When I look at Elizabeth, she’s giving me an apologetic smile that seems more like a grimace.
Beside Rion, they all look easy to kill.
Dagonet turns to me, a faint smile curling his lips. “Don’t worry, little one. No one here will touch us.”
My eyebrows rise. “What makes you so certain of that?”
“I was imprisoned for years,” he says gruffly. “And do you know why?”
“Did you kill someone?”
“I killed many. I was born on Ys with a forbidden magic—the Song of the Morrigan.”
My breath catches. “You have the Song?” I whisper.
He nods. “I do.”
With the Song, a man can break minds and bodies as easily as breathing. It’s a godlike speed and strength, a whirlwind of violence. The other side doesn’t stand a chance.
I breathe out a long sigh of relief. “Thank the gods.”
Faintly, I can almost hear the Song emanating from him, a haunting melody that hums along his skin. I crave it, like I want to rip him open and steal the missing part of myself.
I scan the iron scars on his skin. I know the marks of royal interrogations—I bear some of them on my waist and thighs, places that are hidden.
And on more than one occasion, I’ve inflicted them.
Not the worst thing I’ve ever done, but close. The absolute worst thing I’ve ever done? Well, I believe that’s why I no longer have the Song.
Sadness pools in my mind, and I shove it away so I can ready myself. I need to stay in the moment.
Right now, Elizabeth is mid-interview.
“I can share a light with the world, I think.” She smiles at the mirrors. “Some people want to put it out, but I think it’s my time to shine. I crave adventure.”
I point to her and lean closer to Dagonet. “Can you let her live? Let the crowd decide. Please. She’s no threat.”
He grunts noncommittally.
I regret even asking.
Empty your mind, Auberon says in my head.
I shouldn’t be thinking about anything other than survival right now.
I realize Elizabeth has finished now, and Cador’s gaze lands on me.
From his horse, he declares, “Baroness Alis. As a lady from the Waste Land, our ruling families have not yet had the honor of getting to know you.” He beckons me toward the mirrors. “Will you tell them, Alis, what would make you a good monarch?”
Slowly, I walk closer. I don’t like being the center of attention, and everything feels wrong as I walk. I feel awkward, like I don’t know what to do with my hands.
As I reach the mirrors, I stare into them. There I see the nobility, glittering and still like a king’s tomb. To them, these are windows to a brutal game, one they can watch from the safety of a distant palace.
As I search their faces, I read hostility and disdain. No one is impressed by a baroness from the Waste Land. As far as the Brocéliande nobility are concerned, I might as well have crawled from a sewage pit.
Gods, I’d rather just get to the killing than this. My hands are shaking, and I fold them together to make them still. My mouth is dry, and I realize with a growing horror that I’m staying silent for an awkwardly long time, and that Cador asked me a question he’s waiting for me to answer.
“Alis?” Cador prompts. “Are you all right?”
Tristan said to entertain them. What do people care about, besides wealth and power? They’re not just bored, I think. They’re lonely. They’re in isolated palaces, probably married to people they hate because it got them the most land.
I close my eyes for a moment, and a haunting, horrifying phrase floats through my mind: What would Vicky do?
Her words drift through my brain.
If you hadn’t noticed, everything around is fucking terrible these days. People want an escape. They want fantasy. They want—
I clear my throat. “Romance!” A single word, inelegantly blurted before I can stop it.
Cador looks startled, like I’ve just cursed him.
I clear my throat and try again, more softly.
I force myself to smile, like I imagine Vicky would.
“I’m hoping to find love here. After all, a kingdom is strongest when led by a sacred union between two people, isn’t it?
That’s what I learned from the Rhiannon Garden as I spent time there.
I found inspiration among the roses. In the Golden Age, the kings and queens found fated mates and formed a sovereignty bond that brought life to the land.
Through a monarch’s love, the land thrived.
I believe Brocéliande will thrive when ruled by a queen and a king, together.
And of course, Lord Cador, I am hoping to find love for myself. ”
With a smile, I lie through my fucking teeth. Silence follows for two, three breaths.
Then I hear cheers coming from the other side of the mirrors.
Thank the gods.
I smile, my mood already brightening. Maybe Vicky is a fucking genius. People really do just want to be entertained.
I glance at Tristan, and he nods, looking impressed. Whether it’s from the speech I just gave or the allies on my side, he looks more relaxed now.
Exhaling slowly, I return to my place in the center of the arena and line up with the others on my side.
Dagonet gives me a curt nod, which I take as a sign that he was impressed.
Cador calls Aneirin forth to speak before the mirrors. He’s telling them that his father and uncle were addicted to gambling, and they bankrupted his family. I can’t imagine this is a winning strategy with the nobles.
As each person has their moment to speak, I feel as if time is moving too rapidly, like I’m hurtling toward something inexorable and disastrous.
But I remind myself again and again that Dagonet has the Song.
What is there to fear?
When the interviews have finished, Cador rides in again.
A servant gives him two swords, and he ambles back into the center of the killing pit, a sword in each hand.
He drops them among the pieces of shattered wood from the crate.
“You will compete for these two weapons in this round,” Cador declares. “May the gods grant you strength.”
Only two? You’ve got to be kidding me.
As Cador’s horse walks in a circle around the swords, Cador’s voice booms over the arena: “Take your places now. Rion’s team to the east, and Dagonet’s to the west.”
I look down at the stones as I move into position. The blood is pounding in my head, but I’m here for Vero. If I survive today, I have a chance of curing her at last.
I stand against the western side of the arena.
“Wait until the carnyx sounds!” Cador shouts.
My throat tightens as I look at Elizabeth opposite me, all the way across the gore-streaked swords and the broken crate. The silence yawns between us. I can tell she’s even more nervous than I am. Aneirin, the book lover, clutches his cane to his chest like it’s a treasured baby.
Then, my gaze slides to Rion, and I find his glacial eyes locked on me. Power coils around him, but his body is motionless as the arena’s cold marble. He stands with an eerie, predatory stillness.
Each one of my muscles goes tense, and I can hear my own heartbeat, my blood roaring.
Steady, Syn. I remind myself to mark the angle of every opponent’s attack. Each of them will telegraph a pattern. Time it right, and I can break the pattern.
My heart slams against my ribs, no matter how strongly I will it to be quiet. Get a hold of yourself, Auberon snarls.
At last, the carnyx sounds, and its knell reverberates through my bones.