Chapter 10
I have never been less inclined to kiss anyone in my life.
Fortunately, despite how heavily armed they are, they make no move for their weapons. The woman smiles as she approaches, although I’ve no idea what there is to be pleased about. The corpse in my peripheral vision is a punch to the gut.
‘Oh, Brandon.’ She sighs. ‘Spent last night trying to convince us we should pick off the competition. Told him he’d meet a sticky end, but did he listen? Nope. And here we are.’ Her gaze locks on me. ‘How’d you do it?’
I chew my lip. She could be feigning her indifference to his death, and already be plotting her revenge for once she’s confirmed her suspicions I’m responsible. A quick sniff reveals nothing; her emotions are as bland as chalk.
‘Nothing to tell you,’ I settle for saying. ‘He . . . dropped down dead.’
‘Man’s got a blade to your throat, and you thought you’d kiss him for fun?’ She raises a brow, while dread is a sinking stone in my stomach. I hate the idea of anyone seeing what I did. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Tell us yours first.’ It’s Astin who answers, his palm still resting on my lower back, warm and reassuring.
‘Not sure you’re in a position to be asking the questions.’ She taps the hilt of her blade. ‘But I’m Nuri. This is Cale.’
She gestures at the gangly man, who’s busy looking at her as though she’s more impressive than any emerald glade. Interesting. I wonder if she knows.
‘A sensible pair would take this as a sign to go home,’ she says. ‘Brandon won’t be the last to do something silly over this reward. Better get out now, while you can.’
‘Is that a threat?’ Astin says.
She grins. ‘An observation. I’ve been encouraging people not to kill one another, I’ll have you know. Which leads me back to you, and my dear friend Brandon. You still haven’t told me how you killed him.’
‘I didn’t kill him.’
‘Uh-huh, sure you didn’t.’ She studies me. ‘You got poison on your lips?’
‘. . . No.’ It’s the truth, as far as I know. I’m unclear how my hex works, only that it does, and I hate myself for it.
‘Some kind of magic then. Are you a witch?’
I frown at the unfamiliar word, as does her companion. At our expressions, she purses her lips and makes another guess. ‘Or one of those . . . Soulthingys?’
Astin flinches, while I bristle. Must be nice to grow up so unafraid of them you don’t even know their name. She’s about to head out in search of a cure for something she doesn’t understand.
‘No, I’m not a Souleater,’ I tell her. Saying it doesn’t feel like a lie, as though I’ve worn the mask of normality so long it’s melded to my skin. ‘And I’ve never heard of a witch.’
‘Oh.’ Amusement dances in her dark eyes. ‘I read about them in a story somewhere. Now come on. If you won’t heed my warning about turning round, the least I can do is help your friend get you to the party safely. He seems very concerned about you.’
It’s true, Astin is growing increasingly agitated, shifting on the balls of his feet, the smell of anger and smoke growing strong enough to pick out from the jumble of his emotions. It intensifies at her words, while her smile grows wider.
‘Come on, come on,’ she says, gesturing at Cale. ‘He knows a shortcut.’
Cale looks delighted to be bestowed some of her attention, while Astin and I exchange a glance. Following them means trusting they’ll lead us to the ruins, but unless I plan to kiss more people today – which I do not – all we have against their litany of weapons is Astin’s knuckles.
‘It’ll be fine,’ I whisper, unsure if I’m reassuring him or myself. ‘If she wanted to hurt us, she’d have attacked already.’
Astin merely scowls as we trudge after them, his focus fixed on Nuri’s knives.
I have to admit, for someone who claims she’s encouraging a non-violent approach to this quest, her appearance suggests the opposite.
Her clothes are plain, form-fitting, and her muscular build suggests she’d have no trouble defending herself against another competitor if required.
The emerald continues throughout the forest, wrapping itself around trees and branches with no thought for the life it’s choked out beneath. The least it could do is make itself useful, but if it’s as indestructible as it appears, it can’t even solve our money woes.
Eventually, the trees clear, and we find ourselves facing a bridge stretching over a ravine, leading the way into the ruins.
Not that they’re all that ruined, not any more.
Nestled between the forest on the other side, the old castle looms, but its stone too is encased in emerald, turning it into something from a storybook, all gleaming walls and polished brick.
It would be perfect if it weren’t for the spots where pieces have crumbled away and fallen to the depths below – a tower is missing on the right-hand side – making the whole building jagged and uneven. It’s got more roof issues than the inn.
When she’s decided I’ve gawked enough, Nuri nudges me over the bridge.
A river rushes far, far below, and my stomach swoops when I make the mistake of glancing down.
I revert my focus to the ruins, and as we draw closer, it’s easier to spot further signs of damage to the original building: the glass has blown from most of the windows, while the flag of Rerta droops, partially ripped in two, over an entrance with both doors missing.
A yawning mouth of green awaits beyond, like a snake’s head preparing to swallow us whole, its fangs formed from the remnants of a portcullis poking from the ceiling.
Inside, a set of stairs remain grey and covered in dust. A painting presumably depicting the old royal family hangs on the far wall – the king, crown nested between white curls, with his arms around the queen in all her finery. A fair-haired child sits at their feet, beaming up at them.
Voices echo beyond an archway ahead, and we follow the sound to find a queue winding down a narrow corridor.
‘What’s this?’ Nuri asks the girl at the end of the line.
‘We have to meet the Emerald King before the party,’ she tells us. ‘He wants to greet every applicant individually.’
Oh no. Oh no. What if he’s checking for Souleaters infiltrating the contest?
What if he’s got wardens on standby, ready to inspect us for signs of magic?
Sweat beads on the back of my neck. I’m as confident as I can be that I’ve no magic left, but sometimes I worry I’ve missed something, that one day I’ll discover a magical swirl on my body and realise I was marked a monster all along.
Nuri’s also less than enthused by the idea. She tugs on the cuffs of her sleeves, a gesture so reminiscent of my attempts at hiding my hexmark, I wonder if she’s got one too. ‘Hardly seems necessary,’ she says.
‘Finally, something we agree on,’ Astin mutters. ‘I don’t like this, Dais. I don’t want you going in there on your own.’
Neither do I, but we don’t have a choice if we want to be accepted into the competition.As the queue shuffles on, there’s a sense of anticipation in the air.
The desperation and frantic energy from the woods has been replaced with an excitement of the unknown, of meeting this mysterious stranger who’s promising us gold, and it’s addictive.
Exhilarating. It makes me think anything is possible if I try hard enough.
Someone has to win. Why can’t it be me?
Nerves return when we edge to the front of the queue. The door ahead is closed, and even when it opens to admit the next person, it’s hard to tell what’s beyond besides more emerald walls. Nobody comes out the same way they go in.
When it’s our turn, Cale enters first, then Nuri.
Astin tries to persuade me to let him go next, but now the queue is smaller – we really were some of the last to arrive, with only a few stragglers behind us – the smells emboldening me have dwindled to nothing.
I need to go in now before I lose confidence.
When a smooth voice calls, ‘Next,’ I take a deep breath and enter.
Emerald drenches the room. Both the walls and floor gleam, slick and smooth, with it, while a mural painted across the ceiling is so coated that the original picture is barely distinguishable.
Ahead, emerald twists around two pillars flanking a high-backed chair at the far end, on which sits a man – the Emerald King, I presume.
To my right a lone wooden bowl sits on a long table draped with lace, and next to that is a door which, hopefully, is where the other contestants have gone, safe and sound.
The man doesn’t speak, and I edge forward slowly, my steps echoing as I take him in.
He’s younger than I expected; probably around Astin’s age.
Everything about him is unfairly perfect, from the chiselled cheekbones to the smooth skin to the way his clothes don’t have a single wrinkle.
His white-blonde hair is slicked back and sleek, while his eyes are piercing, the pale blue of glacier ice, the same shade as the cloak he wears.
It’s thick and heavy, with a fur-lined collar and stars stitched into the fabric.
A pair of silken, dark green gloves cover his hands.
Finally, when he’s deemed me close enough, he says, ‘What’s your name?’
‘Daisy.’
‘Welcome, Daisy. I’m Damian,’ he tells me. While Astin’s voice always has an undercurrent of gravel, Damian’s is polished marble. He cocks his head, assessing. ‘I’ve just heard the most interesting story about you.’
I hesitate. Nuri or Cale must have told him what they saw in the forest.