Chapter 23
The Sword Test is held at its “secret ground” on one of the top flat surfaces. Secret only because the purple clouds obscure the view from any flying wanderers. In reality, it’s a big ass stone colosseum on top of the mountain. Nothing secret about it.
I feel like a freaking spectacle, standing in a giant circle of salt that blocks magic from reaching the observers, seated on the surrounding benches. The purple clouds are almost within reach.
A little too dramatic for my taste.
My males sit with Bogda and Wisla, and I am spiteful enough to say the heifers’ enormous efforts to entertain them don’t work. My boys’ expressions are sour and gloomy, which is probably the effect of the restricted booth, preventing them from interfering in the ceremony.
At least in that I can agree with Baba Yaga, it is better to keep them contained while I get my ass handed to me.
You cannot go in expecting to lose! The anger in Aidon’s voice is muffled by the magic separating us.
So quiet that it can pass for background noise.
The smirk appears involuntarily. I need to buy that spell.
“You’re in a good mood. Great. You’ll need it.” Margorate doesn’t even glance up from the cauldron. The stench rising from the mixture killed my sense of smell long ago.
Some kind of acidic monstrosity.
“So your strategy is to bore me to death before it even begins?” I tilt my head, eyeing her, but she rolls her eyes and pulls a beautifully carved ceremonial knife from the pocket of her unfashionable fur.
I stare as she drags the tip over her hand, slow and steady, as if savoring the sting. When the first bead of blood breaks free and trails along her palm, she tilts her chin toward the stands, eyes sharp with intent.
“Civilians of the Old World… Today, another Queen from beyond our borders comes to pay respect to our traditions. She will stand against herself, proving her mastery over our blood doppelganger. “ Her voice echoes in the arena, amplified by the blood magic.
The cheers erupt, but the noise is drowned by deep, steady drumbeats that shake the air and thrum through my chest, rattling my bones; a primal rhythm that makes the air itself seem to pulse.
Who would have guessed they possessed such a sense of rhythm?
“Hand, Seleste Berigander.” Margorate grabs it, and I sneer, barely containing the question of whether she washed that bloody knife, because even I know not to antagonise her further while she is the one slicing me.
So I bite my tongue and swallow the question with my gigantic will.
Also, I pat myself on the back, mentally, saying Good girl.
A sting of knife parting my skin interrupts my inner monologue. “Ouch!” I hiss, focusing on the dark blood dripping into the cauldron.
“No tears, Queenling?” She mocks, but I don’t spare her any attention, while the contents of the cauldron boil and now balance on the cusp of leaking from the giant pot.
“Try not to waste the drop of my blood, that shit is expensive,” I comment, settling on a nonchalant demeanour.
“I reckon not that much, given you share it so easily.” She gazes at the wrist as though the gloves could not hide the blood bond from her eyes.
Clever wench; we both know she’s won that argument.
There’s no time for my ego to sulk. Margorate tosses some black powder into the cauldron, and my nose wrinkles immediately.
The stench intensifies, making me turn away and struggle not to gag.
Does she plan to poison me with that before the trial even begins?
I barely manage to stop the breakfast Riven forced into me from escaping. I have to swallow it back down, the burning sensation scalding my throat and, to my utter despair, Margorate grins at my struggle.
She inhales through her nostrils, as if studying its very essence. Her bushy brow furrows, and in a low tone she asks, “What have you done?”
When I don’t reply, she gives the smallest shake of her head and returns her gaze to her cauldron. Before I can ask what she means, the drums grow louder, and the whole crowd begins chanting. Does my heart race in anticipation, or are the contents of the cauldron actually poisonous?
“Biga bogo samo dumo aroma!” the crowd chants in a language I don’t know, and Margorate joins in. Her throaty voice sounds exceptionally good.
They must be mumbling because my education is superior, and I know every language on the continent.
Soon, the whole circle is shouting, repeating the words over and over and a black mist slowly appears in the centre of the salt circle.
I strain my eyes to identify the shape, but suddenly the chant is broken by a loud bang… and another me materialises.
The crowd breaks into cheers while I take the doppelganger in.
She looks so… royal. Deserving. Her... my hair is longer and looks absolutely stunning. Our face paint is spot on. And that emerald green tunic? Worth a fortune.
Sheer Queen of Fashion.
I can’t help but smile. Quite an impressive impersonation of me, I must say. Need to ask if it’s a future thing or their interpretation.
Both versions are acceptable.
I take a few steps towards her. The dust brushes the uncovered spots on my feet, and I cringe inside. I should have worn something other than sandals.
Sighing with exasperation, I check my well. Peaceful and waiting.
Her unique golden orbs regard me with impressive stillness.
I raise my hand to wave but halt as her lips curve into a sneer.
“What are you even doing? You were disowned. Trisha should be here.” Her voice sounds like a Fae fucked a ghoul; melodic but raspy, seductive yet haunting at the same time. But the words coming out of her foul mouth?
I swallow the lump in my throat at the reminder of Trisha, and my admiration for the mediocre clone is cut in half.
Her lips are still smirking when she reaches forward and brings a beautiful gold sword into existence.
Without batting an eyelash.
Without any sweat.
I don’t want to be impressed anymore, but fuck this!
I believe in you. Aidon’s muted voice sounds at the edge of my mind.
“It was a misunderstanding,” I mutter under my breath, more to myself than to... myself. Feeling forced to acknowledge what she said. What she spat, more likely.
I draw from my power to wield a sword and make the stupid mistake of closing my eyes, because the impersonation of me has no sense of fucking honour. Instead of waiting for me to get ready, she charges, leaving a cloud of dust in her wake.
Anxious and more than a little unnerved, I hurry to summon the sword. The gold blade appears in my hand, but before I can get into a defensive stance, she changes tactics, wielding a crossbow and aiming straight at my arm.
Ahh, fuck this! How dare she? I throw caution to the wind and charge at the motherfucking bitch—a real insult, considering how awful my mommy is.
She parries my attack with ease, and I stagger back, gasping.
“We don’t exercise, what a bullshit,” I mutter, while she appraises and clearly finds me lacking.
“You are so pathetic,” she says dryly, her tone full of mock sympathy.
“At least I exist!” I retort, but she uses the moment to make a badass turn and sink the blade into the gravel, cutting me right under my knees.
The pain explodes as I drop to the ground, flinching when my skin grazes the cut.
“It’s unrealistic, I don’t work out.” It’s the only thing obsessively running through my stupid mind.
She seizes the moment of inattention, slamming her fungus foot into my head before driving the sword right into my throat.
I have no choice but to surrender, the fucking sword point pressed against my vital spot. The moment I yield, the clone disappears.
“Round one ended in an astonishingly shameful defeat. Is Seleste Berigander even worth our alliance?” Margorate’s screams echo across the arena.
My cheeks flush as I rise, flinching from the throbbing pain.
Riven, Aidon, and Jestin wait for me at the edge of the circle. I wince at their faces, reading only confusion, concern, and quiet disappointment. Yet they don’t comment. Apparently, they can’t find the words to describe how big of a loser I am.
Riven grabs my hand as soon as I reach them, and his healing magic rushes to mend the worst of the injuries, but it only stops the bleeding.
I let them lead me out of the circle.
“Karo!” I bellow, noticing the girl in the shadows near the drums. She scurries to me.
“Give me a moment,” I say to the males and leave. Thankfully, they don’t follow.
“Give me more,” I order.
She shakes her head, “The Witch said no more than one a day.”
“The witch isn’t here, is she?” I snarl, ignoring the drilling gazes of my males from where they are standing. “You will listen to me or I will find a new herbalist.”
“Yes, My Lady,” She bows, avoiding eye contact, and reaches to her satchel, giving me the remedy.
I massage it into my pulse quickly, before they think about snatching it from me. The immediate clarity is wonderful. I stretch, making my way to Margorate and my males, who now chat with her.
“Bring the doppelganger back,” I order.
She examines my shoulder, then lets her eyes travel to my knees. “Take care of those cuts first.” Then she eyes Karo. “And who the hell is she?
I draw my power, wave my hand; needles and threads sink into my arm and knee. I take it like a motherfucking badass and don’t wince, waiting for her to deliver what I’ve ordered her.
She raises her bushy brow. “You should rest.”
Fine.
I stroll into the circle and look at the hags perched around the arena. I have their attention.
“Are you denying me my right? Are you preventing me from accessing my heritage?” I roar, lacing my voice with power. The message echoes across the mountains.
Then I glance down at Margorate, and smirk, seeing her fuming with anger.
Still, she denies me.
“I don’t recommend it,” she drawls.
“Have it your way,” I say to her, then call out to the crowd. “Do you want carnage?”