Chapter 10
Chapter
Ten
“ I ’m here; I’m here,” Ayc says between gasps as he comes to a stop where Lora and the rest of the Five have gathered in the tunnel between the courtyard and the barracks.
The gray predawn light cloaks all of them in shadow. He leans a palm lightly against the stone wall. He smiles, so it’ll seem casual, when really his back is spasming hard enough it threatens to double him over.
In less than a minute, he dressed, buckled his new longsword at his side, and slung his cloak and pack over his shoulder. Then he ran to the courtyard with Xylie at his side. Alongside the weapon, Peregrin procured him simple leather armor. It buckles tight at his sides and rises in a high collar to protect his neck. He hates the way it constricts against his chest. It’s a reminder that someone might aim a blade for his heart in less than an hour.
Xylie wears her own new armor, with her usual coat pulled over it and the noise-dulling ear cuffs. Tavish’s armor is similar to Ayc’s, but he wears cuffs that extend from wrist to elbow. Even Saga is wearing a leather vest, the harness and guide handle now fitted over it. It looks—Ayc thinks with a smile—ridiculously adorable. Peregrin appears every bit of the warrior they are, dressed in a lighter version of the Adamant armor, theirs a color that reminds Ayc of a cool, gray dawn instead of black.
Each of Lora’s Five wears a pin on their chest, a tree with branches spiraling toward the sky. The symbol of the Totus Omni.
“Late night?” Bronwen asks with a hint of a smile. Her staff leans casually against her armored shoulder, the blade at the end gleaming in a nearby torch’s light.
He ignores the question and glances to Lora, trying to gauge how angry she is. It’s difficult, because she continues to stare into the courtyard. There, everyone gathers in clusters made of the victors, their Five, and the ones who have come to cheer for them. The stage before the crowd is empty.
“I thought you weren’t coming,” Lora states without emotion, adjusting one of the dozen leather straps that cross over her chest, though it already fits perfectly against her scalelike armor. “I’m going to hurt you.”
Ayc gives her a cheeky smile, though she’s not looking at him. “Let me guess: peeling off my fingernails one by one?”
“Castration with a dull knife.”
“Shit.” Definitely pissed at him, then.
He considers apologizing, but when she swings her steel-colored eyes upon him, the idea dies a rapid death. “Were you with Wren?”
Ayc straightens. His smile falls. “I don’t think that’s any of your business.”
Her eyes darken. “It is my business. According to the rules of the Trials, after the trumpet sounds today, she could slit your throat in your sleep.”
“She’s not going to?—”
“Loraphne,” calls an unfortunately familiar voice.
Ayc bites back an audible groan as Marcellus strides toward them. He wears no armor, still dressed in the holy blue tunic and a white cape like he thinks the divine himself can protect him. Beside him is who Ayc can only assume is his First: a pale, sour-faced male roughly the size of a small hut that Ayc has frequently seen beside Marcellus at festivals. He’s dressed similarly, but instead of a single broadsword like Marcellus wears, he’s armed heavily—a war ax over one shoulder, a sword over the other, and multiple throwing axes and knives at his hips.
Marcellus’s approach has a visible impact on the Five. Color drains from Bronwen’s face, and Xylie moves to halfway hide behind Ayc’s back. Peregrin subtly unlatches one of their knives from their belt. Saga stands at attention, laying back his ears, and Tavish picks up the leash of the Kindred collar. Lora marches forward to intercept Marcellus as though aiming to keep some distance between Marcellus and her Five.
“Can I help you, Marcellus?” Lora asks, not attempting warmth in her tone.
He spreads his hands in a peace-making gesture. “I and my First, Brother Erech, wanted to wish you the best in the Trials, before it all officially begins. We all know you have a long legacy to follow.”
“Thank you,” Lora says. She doesn’t wish him luck in return.
The slight doesn’t go unnoticed. Erech’s face turns more sour, and Marcellus’s eyes tinge silver around the very edges, coming and fading in a blink. He glances past Lora and surveys the people behind her. Ayc pastes on a smile and resists the immature urge to send Marcellus a vulgar gesture.
“It’s quite a party you’ve assembled here, Loraphne. Quite unexpected, and just…” He hums thoughtfully. “Just so full of irony.”
“What do you mean?” Lora asks, her words cold as ice.
Marcellus smiles and, as he speaks, his gaze moves from Peregrin, to Xylie, to Tavish and finally to Ayc. “I mean, you have a warrior who can’t walk. An academic who can’t talk. A navigator who can’t see. A human who’s barely even useful. And…” Marcellus settles heavily on Bronwen, and his smile turns dark. “A sorceress who isn’t a woman at all. Isn’t that right, Brother Eliaki?”
The words are meant to be a blade, and they aim true. It slices across every one of the Five. Xylie presses her forehead in Ayc’s back, Peregrin curses, Tavish sucks in a breath, and Bronwen, for her part, only lifts her chin in self-assured pride.
The anger sweeps over Ayc—swift and complete. Red flashes across his vision, and his hand curls around the hilt of his sword before he knows what he’s doing. He strides forward but makes it only two steps before Peregrin seizes Ayc’s wrist and casts him a heavy look. Ayc remembers himself, just in time.
A hiss of metal echoes as Lora draws one of her twin blades a few inches from her scabbard. Her tone matches the ominous noise, “ Her name is Bronwen, you son of a bitch!”
Bronwen steps forward and lays a hand on Lora’s shoulder. “It’s fine, Lora. His words hold no power over me.” She meets Marcellus’s gaze, unflinching. “Not anymore.”
Marcellus’s confident smile flickers like a candle threatening to go out before a strong wind. He looks away from Bronwen to Lora once more. “I am only pointing out the irony, Lady Loraphne.”
“Just like you,” Ayc says, grinning at him. “You’re a man who’s clearly a giant dick. Only in personality and not in actuality, though, I’m sure. Very ironic.”
Bronwen laughs, before pressing her fingers to her mouth to silence it. Lora shoots Ayc a glare, but the way Marcellus's smile disappears completely from his face tastes too sweet.
“Watch your tongue, human,” Marcellus growls, his eyes turning fully silver this time. “Or one of these days, I’ll cut it out.”
Xylie’s fingers curl around the back of Ayc’s sleeve, but Ayc only rolls his eyes.
Lora takes another step forward. “Do not threaten my people, Marcellus, or I’ll?—”
“You’ll what?” Marcellus scoffs. “Rip my heart out? You allow your weaknesses to be too transparent. It’ll make you far too easy to defeat.”
A voice booms out through the courtyard. “All victors join me on the stage.”
The reigning Sovereign stands at the center of the dais, dressed in the same armor her daughter wears. Ayc hasn’t seen her in it since the day at Creed Castle. The air loses all its warmth.
It’s time.
Lora’s eyes shift to her mother. She steps toward the stage, but Marcellus grabs her arm and yanks her a step closer to him. Fury explodes once more within Ayc’s chest, and his vision tunnels to Marcellus’s hand wrapped around Lora’s arm. And Ayc, fuck?—
Ayc wants to break every single one of his fingers.
It takes every last shred of Ayc’s will to resist. He presses his eyes closed against the heat of rage.
“When I am Sovereign,” Marcellus says, “and mark my words, I will be Sovereign. The divine has willed it.” Lora barks out a mocking laugh, and Marcellus’s words become a snarl, “When that day comes, I will take great pleasure in having you bow before me.”
Ayc snaps his eyes open in enough time to see Lora shove Marcellus back with a hand on his chest. “I will be dead before I bow to you.”
Marcellus draws himself up and smirks again. “So be it, Loraphne.”
The air grows even colder. Marcellus turns and marches toward the stage, Erech following after. Lora glances back at Bronwen, who nods and lays a hand over her heart.
Lora raises her chin as though wearing a crown and marches toward the stage and her destiny.
So be it, Loraphne.
Marcellus’s words echo in Ayc’s head, and he remembers all at once. The words he heard last night, what Wren asked Ayc to consider, the decision he didn’t quite make. All he has to do is nothing. Say nothing. Do nothing. Let fate take its course. And maybe, unwarned, Lora survives. Or maybe all of this ends before it has barely begun.
And Lora ends up dead.
It should be the easiest thing in the world to let Lora walk to her fate, after all she has done to Ayc. But watching her walk through the crowd toward the stage, he feels like that fourteen-year-old boy again, on the banks of the Ever River, staring at Lora’s blue face, unable to breathe until she did.
Like that day, saving her doesn’t feel like a choice.
Ayc sprints toward her, ignoring Peregrin and Bronwen’s protest. He catches Lora’s arm right before she steps on the stairs and yanks her to the side. Hason nearly collides with them and glares before ascending to the stage.
“Ayc, what are you doing?” Lora hisses.
Ayc pulls her a few more feet from the steps and leans in closer than he normally lets himself dare. He whispers, “The other victors are going to try to kill you, as soon as the trumpets sound.”
She stiffens. “What?”
“I overhead something last night. Hason and Mienna were talking. They see you as the biggest threat, and there’s a plan amongst all the victors to take care of you as soon as the trumpets sound. And I realize I should have told you sooner, and I’m sorry, but just—you have to be careful.”
“I’m Yris’s daughter. I already know I have a target on my back.” She pauses and then adds, “But… thank you.”
Ayc searches her eyes, her face. But as usual, it’s as emotionless as it is beautiful. He doesn’t know if she’s taking his words seriously.
“Lora…”
“You have to let me go now, Ayc,” she says softly.
He hasn’t noticed that his hand still lingers on her bicep, on the smooth material under the shoulder armor. He can feel the warmth of her skin beneath it. The fire of last night is still there, sparking in the ashes.
Something tugs at his throat, and he recognizes the order he has been given. He yanks his hand away as though it burns.
She slips away from him and up the stairs, her autumn-colored cape flowing behind her. She takes her place with the six other victors. At least, she is the last one on the stage, closest to the stairs.
When he turns back around, he finds Wren standing in the crowd, staring at him, a frown on her face. He forces a smile for her. Wren only nods and turns her attention back to the stage. Ayc lets the coolness reflect off his skin. There are far too many emotions this morning to take it personally.
Ayc starts back toward the others. Tavish and Xylie have lingered in the tunnel, but Bronwen and Peregrin have approached. They position themselves at the side of the crowd, only ten feet from the stage.
“What was that about?” Peregrin demands when Ayc rejoins them and Bronwen.
“I think the other victors are going to turn on her as soon as the trumpet sounds,” Ayc tells them both lowly. “Based on something I heard last night.”
Bronwen and Peregrin exchange a look. Peregrin’s eyes narrow, but they don’t appear surprised.
“Even Wylder?” Bronwen asks, glancing to the other end of the stage where the tall fae towers.
Ayc shrugs. “They said all the victors.”
Bronwen scowls as she fixes her eyes on Lora. A pulse of power releases from her skin, like a gust of wind. “They can try.”
Bronwen adjusts her hold on her staff, and Peregrin slides one small dagger from their belt. Ayc drops his own hand to the sword that hangs on his hip, an unfamiliar weight. The blade Lora acquired for him is exquisitely made, obviously crafted by an Audori sword-smith, a blend of tungsten, iron, and silver, the very best Everadyn has to offer. The leather-wrapped hilt fits his hand like it was made for it, and when he pulled from is sheath when Peregrin first gave it to him, Ayc found it perfectly balanced.
On the stage, Yris stands before the seven of them. The first rays of dawn stretch over the parapet, bathing everything in a pink glow. “My good fae, I give you your victors.”
The crowd cheers loudly.
Beneath the noise, Ayc hears Bronwen sigh. “Well,” she says, not taking her eyes off the stage, “I guess you all know now.”
“Know what?” Ayc asks, though he knows she’s referring to what Marcellus said. “That you’re a strong, powerful woman who overcame a lot to get to where you are? I already knew that.”
Bronwen grants him a smile, before shifting her focus back to the stage.
Yris makes a beckoning gesture. Fennix approaches her, carrying a satin-covered tray holding seven metal bracelets. A rainbow of gemstones decorate the silver circumference of the bracelets. Yris takes one, undoes its clasp, and approaches Wylder. He extends his wrist, and Yris snaps the bracelet on.
As she speaks, Yris makes her way down the line, giving a bracelet to each victor. “These are chroniclers. They will guide you through the quests. As you accomplish each one, a gemstone will light up. If you wish to forfeit your claim to sovereignty, you may remove the bracelet from your wrist. Only you will be able to remove the bracelet. When a victor completes all seven quests, the chroniclers will send out a message. All victors who remain alive at that time will return here to pledge allegiance and witness the crowning of the new Sovereign.”
Yris stops last at Lora. She extends her wrist and tries to meet her mother’s gaze. Yris barely looks at her as she slides the chronicler into place and then backs away. Lora looks down at her arm. She yanks her sleeve back, baring her forearm. Her lips part. The same surprise echoes over many of the victors’ faces as they stare at their own arms.
At the top of her voice, Yris declares, “May the Trials begin!”
From on top of the wall, the sound of trumpets roar, so loud the stone trembles.
Lora jerks her head up. Ayc’s hand tightens on his sword. And before the trumpets have fallen silent, Hason, the victor from Sal Maris, who stands beside Lora, draws his cutlass and aims it straight for Lora’s neck.