CHAPTER 36
walk down a stone tunnel toward the Knight Riding Court, Tana by my side. Her mouth is set in a grim line, and she seems on edge.I “Neither of us can get culled, you know,” she says, glancing at me. “I’m certain now that we both have an important role to play.”
I swallow hard. “I don’t doubt it. We’ll be fine. Let’s just get through this trial.”
The tunnel runs below the spectator stands. Once, the knights of the Round Table would have ridden their horses through this tunnel on their way to strike each other with lances. Arthur himself probably traveled through this exact passage. But Arthur, I’m sure, felt much more confident than I do now.
For the past several days, we’ve been watching combat trials, and they all seemed so skilled. So brutal.
We’re both in hard leather armor, reinforced with chainmail beneath it, and it weighs me down as I walk, pressing on my shoulders and chest.
Today, it’s me against Tana. The only thing making this bearable is that she was matched with me, probably because we’re both small, unskilled, mediocre fighters compared to the rest.
We step out of the tunnel into the sandy arena, and the bright sun hits my face. It’s September, but it still feels a million degrees in this leather and armor, and I’m already sweating.
I glance at Tana, and she smiles at me. Hopefully, after watching our duel for ten or twenty minutes, the judges will be so bored, they’ll end it out of sheer tedium.
The wind whips at my hair, and my nerves spark. The spectators in the stands are watching us intently. Since I got the replica Excalibur, they’re all paying very close attention to me.
I don’t like being the center of attention, and my pulse races.
Raphael is in the stands. He’s watching me, too, his jaw clenched tightly.
“We’ll do fine,” I tell Tana, more to reassure myself.
“Yeah, sure.” Her voice wavers, and I can hear the worry laden in her voice. “Let’s just get through…” She trails off, her gaze going unfocused.
“What? You can’t do this at the last minute.”
“Do what?” I look around, trying to see what has upset her, but everything seems normal—the judges on their platform, the spectators in the stands.
She blinks, frowning in confusion. “I thought…never mind.”
I’m about to ask her what she thought she saw, but Amon calls for everyone’s attention from the platform.
“Today’s trial by combat will be between Nia Melisende and Tana Campbell. We will start in—”
Wrythe suddenly leans in and whispers something in his ear. Amon turns to him and shakes his head. Viviane stands, looking furious. Amon mostly
seems confused.
“What’s going on?” I ask Tana.
“Nothing good,” Tana says.
Now Amon is nodding, his face dejected. Wrythe folds his hands at his waist, looking pleased with himself.
“There’s been a change in today’s trial,” Amon calls out. “Apparently, Tana Campbell’s psychic abilities are urgently required on a mission. So, today’s trial by combat will be between Nia Melisende and Tarquin
Pendragon.”
My stomach plummets.
“What? You can’t do this at the last minute,” Tana calls out.
“Tana Campbell,” Wrythe bellows. “That is an order.”
My heart races. When I turn to look behind me, I see Tarquin already moving through the crowd, prepared with his sword. He knew this was happening, and Wrythe still waited until the last minute to announce the change.
“This is bullshit,” I mutter. The last time Tarquin and I fought, he had me pinned within moments. He’s bigger than me, stronger than me, faster than
me, and he’s been training since he could walk. He’s also wielding a long, heavy sword, which I can’t parry properly with my flimsy rapier. I am utterly fucked.
Tana grips my arm hard. “Nia, remember. You have to pass.”
“How?”
“Use everything you’ve got,” she says. Her suggestion echoes Viviane’s instruction so similarly that a chill runs up the back of my neck.
She pivots and stalks out of the arena, back into the tunnel. Off on a bullshit mission that I’m sure Wrythe made up to fuck with me.
I’m left standing by myself in the old tiltyard, sweating into my clothes.
My breath feels short and sharp, and I wonder how much blood Arthur spilled on this sand.
Slowly, with a thin smile, Tarquin stalks in front of me. He closes the distance between us and leans down to whisper, “Ah, the public bus.” His voice is low so only I can hear. “Remember what Horatio did in his trials?
I’m going to do so much worse. A sacrifice to Arthur. Nia, you were never meant to be here.”
My thoughts go quiet, and I keep my face inscrutable as I glance at his sword. Sure, the blade is dulled for the trial. But like Horatio’s weapon from that first trial, it’s heavy enough to kill. And I have no doubt that is Tarquin’s plan.
This is no longer about just passing the test. This is about survival. And I
can’t pull any punches.
“Begin!” Amon shouts.
I leap forward and thrust my rapier at his face, aiming for his eyes. He stumbles back but manages to parry my thrust, nearly pulling the rapier from my hand. Quickly, he pushes with a swing at my body that I barely dodge.
Both of us take a step back and scrutinize each other. I can see the tiniest hint of surprise in his eyes.
He goes at me with half a dozen swings and thrusts. I dodge them, jumping back each time. But he’s hardly making any effort, and I’m already out of breath. I used my inhaler before starting, but it isn’t enough to get me through the immense effort of this trial. I can’t go on leaping around like this without getting completely winded. When he thrusts again, I parry with my knife. But as I do, my knife is torn from my hand, spiraling out of reach.
Fuck.
He swings, and I manage to duck.
From below, I strike upward, aiming for his face. But now he’s ready and smashes his sword’s pommel into my shoulder. I grunt and stumble back, barely dodging his next swing.
He’s already figured out how to predict my moves.
Fear pierces my chest, and I realize that I need to incapacitate him quickly. Take his eye out, tear his nose in half. With my thin, dull blade, his face is my only option. And he’s not going to let me get close to it.
I need to use everything I have—but all I have is this shitty rapier. Sure, I’m faster and stronger than I used to be, but so is he. I can feel my face going red, my body overheating. I’m drenched with sweat.
And my lungs are whistling, constricting… One last, desperate idea takes root in my mind. As he swings at me again, I dodge to the side and feint with my rapier, driving him to parry. His hand nears mine, and I press the back of my hand against his, letting my telepathy powers unfurl.
I will put you in your place, demi-Fey. His voice rings in my head. Get your hand off me.
I can sense what he’s thinking—that I’m trying to grab his wrist. And I know what he has planned. He’s going to pull his arm away, up and to the left.
Swinging, I strike with my rapier down and to the right. It’s a move that makes no sense in my current position. But as he reacts, he exposes his midriff. I thrust my blade at his stomach.
“Ugh,” he grunts.
I leap back and grin. He reacts like I assumed he would—furiously. Now, he’s coming for me twice as hard. I dodge once, twice, three times, then pivot. With a quick twist, I manage to touch his exposed neck with my fingertips. His thoughts pour into mine, a river of calculating rage.
I sense his next strike, move to avoid it before he even starts, and suddenly, I’m behind him. I get another thrust in.
Tarquin is an asshole, but he’s not stupid. He seems to realize he’s being manipulated. He whirls, but he doesn’t go for me again. Instead, he studies me warily. He’s breathing hard, and a lock of his slick brown hair dangles before his eyes. He presses his thin lips into a line, breathing through his flared nostrils.
As he tries to figure out what’s going on, his pale features look pinched.
I need to come up with a plan that’s more than just reacting to his strikes.
When I touch him, I can feel his thoughts. And when I stop touching him, they dissipate, but not instantly. I can almost feel the link between us stretching before it snaps away.
Can I use my powers to maintain that link? To keep our minds connected even when I’m not in contact with him? I have to use every advantage I can get.
He darts forward and swings at me, using the length of his sword to keep me from touching him. He doesn’t know I’m telepathic, but he seems to have figured out that I’m trying to touch him for a reason.
My breathing is already labored. I have to finish this fight soon.
So, when he swings again, I let the dull blade hit my armored side. The strike knocks the wind out of me, and I know it will leave a brutal bruise under the armor. I nearly fall down, but instead, I grab at his hand, faintly
brushing his fingers.
I’m about to end you, bitch.
I already sense his next move and barely manage to duck as the sword goes for my head. Then I leap back and focus on the connection between us.
I’m not touching him, but it’s still there.
The telepathic strand stretches between us, and I enforce it with everything I have, pushing my powers as far as they will go. And it doesn’t snap. Tarquin’s thoughts keep pouring in, disturbing and extremely useful.
Amid his hatred of me and downright insanity, I can glimpse his moves before he makes them. I can dodge them more easily, even make a few attacks of my own. But it’s not enough to turn the tide of our duel. For one thing, part of my concentration is constantly on using my magic, and I’m also fighting with the distraction of his insipid thoughts in my mind.
My breathing is getting harder. Since his strike hit me, I feel like I can’t fill my lungs, and it’s taking a toll. I’m getting dizzy. I have maybe one or two minutes before he manages to take me down. And I doubt the judges will stop the trial in time since they didn’t give a fuck before.
Gritting my teeth, I draw even more telepathic power and pour my concentration into our connection. I sift through his surface thoughts, his hatred, his anger, his intentions. I drill down, down, down, deeper into his psyche, looking for the source. Something I can use.
A memory.
A family dinner. Tarquin is a little boy at a long dining table set with candles. His parents leave to go into the drawing room, and he sits with his
cousins. Tarquin is ecstatic, left to talk to the big boys. He wants to show them his collection of Fey coins. He reaches into his pocket and pulls one out. The moment he does, one of his cousins slaps his hands, and the coins tumble away. Tarquin yelps with surprise.
“Listen to the little mummy’s boy cry,” his cousin says in a plummy accent. “Poor thing dropped his pennies.”
“Mummy’s boy? More like mummy’s little baby,” another cousin pipes up.
Tarquin sniffles and bends down to pick up one of the coins. The oldest cousin kicks him in the bum, and he falls over, burning with anger. He’s flat on the embroidered rug, wanting to call for his mum. But they’ll only tease him more.
“Aw, poor mummy’s baby fell down,” says his cousin.
“You know what I think? I think the little mummy’s boy stinks. Did he soil himself?”
“Is that right, baby?” the other one jeers. “Have you not been house- trained yet?”
“Shall we put the stinking puppy in the dog kennel with the other animals?” The cousins are closing in on him as he scuttles back, cornered.
The looks on their faces are cruel. Vindictive. Predatory. “But you’d better be quiet. The rottweilers will kill you if you cry.”
A sword swings inches from my face, and I tumble back, gasping. For a few seconds, I’ve been lost in Tarquin’s horrible memory. He nearly finished me. Thank the gods I snapped out of it in time.
I suppose I know what turned him into such an asshole. Viciousness begets more viciousness. For the first time, I almost feel sorry for him.
But I can’t afford to. Whatever happened to him in the past, this Tarquin is literally trying to kill me. And I need to take him down.
“What happened, mummy’s boy?” I say, imitating his cousin’s accent.
“Do you belong in the kennel with the other animals?”
His eyes widen. “What did you just say?” he snarls.
“Poor mummy’s boy. You know, the rottweilers will kill you if you cry.”
I have to move quickly as he screeches in fury and tries to bludgeon me in the head. The power of his rage is so intense that it flays our telepathic connection. His thoughts vanish from my mind, and he goes after me.
But no longer am I fighting the careful, cunning Tarquin. This guy is mindless, a raging, furious child throwing a tantrum. All his years of training
are forgotten. He uses his sword like a battle-axe, swinging carelessly, trying to annihilate me. The judges, noticing the change, are shouting that the trial is over, but Tarquin can’t hear them. Perhaps he doesn’t even know where he is anymore. He’s no longer fighting me. He’s a little boy raging at his bully cousins.
I jump to the left as he swings, his sword lodging itself deeply in the ground. As he tries to pull it out, I bash his face with the pommel of my rapier. I feel his nose crunching. As hard as I can, I kick his wrist, and a bone snaps.
He screams in agony as I jump back. His hand dangles at his side uselessly, his sword stuck in the ground.
At last, Wrythe shouts that the trial is over. The cadets are roaring, screaming, I can hardly catch my breath as I glance at the judges. Wrythe and Amon both look horrified.
But Viviane meets my eyes, and her lips twist in a tiny smile.
THERE’S a small grin on my lips as I watch Tana and Serana battling each other in the tiltyard. For them, it’s the last trial. They’ve aced everything else, and I can tell by the distinctly coordinated whirling and swinging that they’ve choreographed this. Serana’s ginger hair flows around her as she pivots gracefully.
Today, the summer sun beams down on us. It’s been a few days since my tournament against Tarquin, and my muscles still ache.
But today’s competition is a dance, not a battle. Serana has even allowed Tana to draw a little blood to make it look real, but I already know that neither of them will end up hurt.
Darius leans in to me and whispers, “If Serana were actually fighting Tana, she’d possibly be dead by now. Let’s hope Tana doesn’t face any real threats in the field.”
“We’ll all keep her safe.” I clear my throat. “Assuming I pass.”
“You’ll pass,” he says. “Can you believe I got copper? I didn’t even think I’d pass at all. I was certain I’d be culled.”
Darius has a habit of fishing for compliments, and I have a habit of
indulging him. “Don’t be ridiculous. Of course you passed. You’re brilliant.
We all know this.”
“Thank you, love. Are you nervous for your magic trial tomorrow?”
My stomach clenches, and I feel like I want to throw up. “Nope.”
“Liar.”
“Hold your arms!” Amon shouts. “The trial is concluded. By a small margin, Serana O’Rourke is the winner.”
My breath catches. They’re about to announce the torcs.
I watch as the trio of judges confer for a few minutes in a tense huddle.
Viviane is pulling out papers, pointing to them.
I swallow hard.
At last, Viviane turns to the arena, and the wind whips at her blonde hair.
“Tana Campbell,” she bellows. “Silver!”
Darius grabs my arm in a death grip, grinning. “She’s a knight! She’s a fucking knight.”
“Serana O’Rourke,” Viviane calls out. “Silver!”
I feel the grin splitting my face from ear to ear. “Holy shit. This almost makes up for the fact that Tarquin and Horatio got gold.”
“They’re going to be insufferable. Well, they didn’t earn theirs, did they?
Tarquin lost to you. But these torcs actually make sense.” Darius is bouncing in his seat, and he reaches down to pick up a blue paper bag. “I knew it. I fucking knew it. I mean, I didn’t realize it would be silver, but I knew they’d pass. Obviously.”
He pulls out a bottle of champagne and with a whoop, uncorks it.
Champagne fizz bursts over the people in front of us, and they yelp with irritation.
Suppressing a laugh, I say, “Don’t you want to wait for the two knights?”
“No, I’m drinking this now. I’ve got twilight cake, too. It’s time to bloody celebrate. Also, they’re knights now, so who knows if they’ll even hang out with us anymore? They’ll be at the knights’ dining hall from now on.” He lifts the bottle to my lips. “And you, Miss Nia, are going to do fine tomorrow.
Absolutely fine.”
I take a sip of bubbly, and he pulls it away, admonishing, “Not too much, love. You need to be clearheaded tomorrow. Wrythe will try to mess you up, you know?” He raises the bottle to his lips and pours the champagne down his throat.
What, exactly, might Wrythe have planned for tomorrow?
