Chapter 26
My pulse leaps as I await the verdict.
I think of what my life could be like if I get through these trials: a cottage with Vero, a warm hearth and fresh bread, books by a fireplace. And in this fantasy, Tristan would live with us, too.
I glance across the arena at him. He’s gone pale, his shoulders tense. Igraine is sitting near him, glaring at me like she wants to end my life herself.
The mirrors shimmer, and the hooded cugol raise their arms, looking at the skies.
The frigid stones bite into my knees. Overhead, clouds roil through the skies again.
The Hooded Ones start to chant, a low and sonorous knell that sends a chill rippling down my spine.
Now, all the heat of a few minutes ago has turned to a cold sweat, and my teeth chatter.
I glance up at Rion like he’s going to help me. Apart from the breeze toying with his hair, he is still as the stones beneath me. As we wait, his gaze slides down to me—cold, impassive. He’s as remote and unreadable as a marble carving of a god.
At last, the wren circles overhead, and she drops a fluttering piece of paper into Cador’s hands. When he unrolls it, he smiles. “The noble houses have chosen mercy!”
I close my eyes, whispering a silent thanks to the gods. Then I rise from my kneeling position. From the mirrors, the crowd roars their approval.
My head pounds like someone is hammering my skull from the inside.
Rion crosses into the center of the arena, accepting the cheers from the crowd. I follow behind him.
I’ll keep the truth silent and swallow down my secrets. And before the crowd, I’ll play the part.
I bow to the mirrors. “My deepest gratitude, noble houses, for your mercy,” I coo, charming as I can be. “In the desolate Waste Land, I lived alone, broken and deprived of love. And you, most eminent houses of Brocéliande, have given me the chance to fill my life with warmth.”
I let my eyes fill with tears. In reality, they’re from exhaustion, but I hope they will look like gratitude.
“What a show,” Rion murmurs.
I cross back to my seat and try to block out the smell of blood.
One hundred seventy people left. It’s a miracle that I’m one of them.
My head throbs hard, and when I touch my cheek, a smear of blood streaks across my fingers.
I want to get away from the smell of death, but the day is only just beginning. I steal a quick glance at Mark’s corpse and the gaping hole where his eye used to be.
His jaw hangs open, crooked, his good eye staring lifelessly at the sky. Already, his skin has taken on a grayish hue.
I stare at him. The nobility has forced us out here today to slaughter each other, all for their entertainment and profit.
I realize now that I don’t simply want the grail. I want to destroy the entire thing. I want to win it—me, a peasant on the throne, someone who would give power to those who deserve it. I want to take the crown from the aristocrats and fucking smash it into pieces.
Because what if someone like Mabon wins? Or Rion?
And even if I can’t win the trials, I will make it my mission to kill the next king.
I’m not letting another Auberon on the throne, or someone even worse.
I pull my gaze away from Mark and make my way back to the spectators.
When I resume my seat in front of Tristan, he touches the back of my neck. Warmth slides down my spine at the point of contact.
I hug myself and let my mind drift from the trials, back to the little cottage in the woods, where I once found Vero clinging to life after the River-Ague, asleep beneath the blankets of my childhood bed.
* * *
By the end of the trial, there are 114 of us left.
The combat trials didn’t take very long. Twenty-two rounds today, most of them over within five or ten minutes. It’s still only the late afternoon.
Sixty-five people died—bodies split open and dragged over the stones, then sent home to their families in pieces. The smell of blood still lingers in my thoughts, and no amount of mead will cleanse it from my mind.
In the center of the arena, Niniane opens her arms, palms up. “Now, blood has been spilled, a sacrifice to the gods. And we celebrate the end of the first trial with the festival of Tanos. Join us at the stone circle at sunset to celebrate.”
Celebrate. Sure. Totally normal behavior after a bloodbath.
We walk in somber silence toward the stone tunnel that will take us out of here, and Tristan disappears with the other servants.
Elizabeth sidles up next to me and wraps her arm around my shoulder. “We made it, Alis. But that was fucking dreadful, wasn’t it? Horrific. I’ve never seen so much death at once, have you?”
“Absolutely not,” I lie. “Never.”
“Do you know what the Fey used to do in the old days after a battle? It was a sort of ritualistic swim in the sea. Like, cleaning off the blood. We can swim from the Lyria Tower, you know. Something purifying before the festival of Tanos.”
My head throbs. Rion is right—I’m hardly Fey at all these days.
I sigh. “Do you think the sea will get rid of my headache?”
“It was called the Rite of the Mor.” From behind us, a male voice echoes off the stones.
I turn to see Aneirin trying to catch up to us, clutching his books.
“A ritual cleansing in the sea after a battle. Or a sacred well. Couldn’t get enough of a sacred well in the old days. The ancients loved a well.”
“Congratulations on surviving,” I say.
He nods at me, and one of his dark curls falls on his forehead. “You as well. I think the noble houses adore you. Can’t say they’ll feel the same about me. I said all the wrong things. I ended up babbling about being in debt, which I don’t imagine impressed anyone.”
“You look completely unharmed from that trial,” I say, with a touch of jealousy tinging my voice.
“Yes, well. The best fighter on your side was killed immediately.” He pulls his books in tighter.
“But fighting isn’t really my thing, you know.
I have shadow magic, yes. But I’d rather play music or shag a beautiful woman.
Or read about the maligned heroes—Merlin, Mordred, Prince Talan, and the like.
I also like to get high off snorting dried bisen-root and running around the forest with the wind in my hair, but I don’t suppose that’s an option here. ”
My eyebrows rise. “It would certainly be entertaining.”
“Not sure that I want the crown at all,” he says. “Not sure what I’m doing here, really. I like the parties, yes, but not all the fuss. I imagine being king is a lot of work. Lots of boring meetings. I’d rather stage a play or a masquerade.”
I’m already starting to like him, even if we were supposed to kill each other moments ago.
“The three of us will go for a swim, then, shall we?” says Elizabeth. “Picnic, mead, a bit of sun. We can—”
But as we step out of the tunnel, I find Igraine waiting for me. Before I can react, she moves lightning fast. Gripping me by the throat, she slams me hard against the stone wall, choking me. Agony splinters through the back of my skull, and my lungs burn as she crushes my throat.
“Stay away from Rion du Lac,” she snarls. “He and I are destined to end this together. We always have been.”
From behind, Aneirin strikes her with shadow magic, and it coils around her neck. As he pulls his shadow magic away, she gasps for breath, doubling over.
Slowly, her golden gaze lifts to mine. “He’s mine,” she hisses.
* * *
Dripping with seawater, I sit on a stone overlook with Aneirin and Elizabeth. The sparkling sea spreads out beneath the sun, and my belly is now full of bread, cheese, and fruit.
My head is already feeling better from the bracing swim. The saltwater stung my cheek when I first dipped into the sea, but I can feel it healing.
Elizabeth hands a strawberry tart to Aneirin, then one to me. “All right. Confess, Alis. What gave you the idea to kiss Rion du Lac? Were you simply hoping he’d spare your life if you turned him on, or did you have another play in mind?”
I want to tell them it’s all bollocks and that I hate him. But do I trust them enough with the truth? If someone runs to the noble houses to tell them I lied, it won’t go well for me here.
“It just came naturally,” I say. “He’s very handsome.”
“Now we’re done with the first trial.” Elizabeth sighs. “But there will be more.”
“Any idea what they might be?” I ask.
Aneirin shakes his head, his mouth full of strawberry tart. “No one knows.”
“I want the trials to end,” Elizabeth says. “But I don’t miss my home at all. It’s falling apart, and all the servants were loyal to my husband. What’s your castle like, Aneirin?”
“It’s an absolute ruin, but I like it that way.
King Auberon took it from the Grand Clerics long ago, back when he was angry that they refused to worship him as a god.
So, he started killing them and giving their castles and temples away.
The king gave Castle Catreath to my uncle.
When he arrived at his new home, he found the arms of the clerics nailed to the doors. ”
Sure sounds like Auberon. “Oh, that’s… decorative,” I say.
“My uncle used the clerics’ skulls to make goblets, which I always thought seemed like bad luck.
And apparently, it was. My uncle died, along with my father, during the invasion of France.
My mother died from the River-Ague, thanks to Auberon, you know.
We’re not demi-Fey, obviously, but when you poison a river, it’s hard to control who dies.
But I don’t miss any of them, if you’re wondering.
They left me with a castle and crushing debt.
It’s a quiet place, but the ghosts keep me company. ”
I lift my glass of mead, watching as the sun sparks brightly in the amber. “To the ghosts, then.”
The scent of blood still clings to me, despite the sea and sun. I can still see the lifeless bodies in the arena and Mark’s gaping eye socket.
I add, “And to the desperate hope that we don’t join the ghosts soon on the other side.”