by Gwynn White
She wrung her hands. “I know. And please don’t remind me of those deaths. I will have nightmares for the rest of my life over that tragic, pointless waste.” She breathed deeply on Niing’s smoke to calm her nerves. “I cannot sit through more of that, smiling like I think it’s okay that these men slaughter each other. There has to be a way that satisfies the law without all this.”
She didn’t add that the prospect of Raith winning any more battles that required swords, bow and arrows, or cudgels was so remote as to be preposterous. And she needed him to win.
Jorah, Niing’s hopeful, not only scared her with his killing precision, but he was distant, evasive, and clearly loved someone else. Why Niing had suggested him, she would never know.
Perhaps he didn’t know about Lila.
After all, how could he, when Niing lived here and Jorah somewhere on an isle across the Pearl Sea?
Either way, marrying Jorah was not an option.
As for the others . . .
Prince Coven was so young; she would be marrying a boy if he won—as unlikely as that was. In reality, she would end up with his death on her conscience, too.
Lord Lardel was another enigma. He had barely exchanged more than two words with her. All she knew about him was that he’d been only a little slower in killing his opponent than Jorah had been.
And as for Lord Mahlon . . . She shuddered.
Raith was the only one of the group she could conceive of marrying and being happy with for the rest of her life.
So, things had to change.
She stood and walked to her little balcony to think.
The stars were bright in the velvet sky. Water tinkled in a hundred fountains and lapped against the canals. From the banqueting hall, she caught snatches of laughter. Farther afield, people reveled on free wine.
She was the only person in the capital who was miserable tonight.
And the seconds and families of the men who died in this terrible travesty.
Raith’s words came back to her: I trust my lady does not object to a suitor who displays more brains than brawn?
How had he known her deepest desire for these trials? A desire she had been too afraid to voice in the planning because she hadn’t wanted to fall foul of Artemis and the Intelligentsia.
From the start, she had wanted a series of tests that required wit and intellect to conquer, not brute force. The same wit and intellect it would take to beat Artemis and the Intelligentsia. The same wit and intellect that would make her fall in love with one of her suitors—and remain so for the rest of time.
Mind made up, she spun to face her friends. “I’m changing the way the trials are structured. We will shift them to the burrow. To my garden. They will need to know about the things I love in order to win my hand. Also, there will be no more unnecessary bloodshed—lest it be by the poorest of luck.”
She hoped Raith knew about plants and potions. She bit her lip; if he didn’t, she could always give him a few pointers. A flush of red lit her body. It wouldn’t be cheating—not really, would it?
Niing’s face lightened, and his eyebrows bobbed. He brought them under control. “I think we need more details before we do anything rash. Artemis will not allow this. The people and the Intelligentsia will want to be entertained. And your suitors agreed to come based on a promise of blood sports.”
She sighed.
What does it matter what Artemis and his cronies think? They will try to execute me whatever I do.
“The Intelligentsia have free wine and food for that. And as for the suitors—if any of them don’t like it, they can leave.” That seemed cruel and ungracious, but it was better than having them die needlessly.
“And Artemis?” Niing asked.
As for Artemis . . . Niing was right. There was no way Artemis would let her change the trials, even if she did decide to follow her heart.
But then again . . .
At Lazard’s send-off, she hadn’t waited for Artemis’s permission to speak. She’d acted as she always did—speaking first and thinking later—and he’d been unable to do a thing about it.
She could use that great “failing” now to her advantage.
She wouldn’t bother asking. Instead, she would just do it. Any other way, Artemis would offer a hundred objections. He could even call in the Intelligentsia to support him.
Better to hand them a fait accompli. That way, if Artemis challenged her, he would be the one who ended up looking like a fool for being out of touch with things—the way he had at Lazard’s send-off. She had humiliated him, and he wouldn’t want to risk that again.
But would that risk outweigh his will to uphold the law?
She bit her lip. No, to Artemis, saving face was most important. He would rather let her get away with breaking the law than look like a fool before the Intelligentsia, whose support he relied on. He would bow to appearances.
In theory, anyway.
But she couldn’t forget that the last time she’d defied him, he’d killed a little boy and left his remains in her bed as a warning. Rinlin.
If Artemis wanted to punish her this time, whose life would be at stake? Hers? The suitors’ lives? Would someone die?
But letting this needless killing and violence go on was just as unthinkable. Left as things were, another four men would die needlessly in the arena. She couldn’t let that happen out of fear that Artemis might kill someone as punishment.
“No matter what, I can’t let this continue,” she said. “I’ll surprise Artemis with the change of plan, and he’ll have no choice but to let it happen, lest he look foolish to the Intelligentsia.”
“You’re relying on his vanity to exceed his will to uphold the law?” Niing asked. “Knowing Artemis, it could work.”
She set her sternest face. “I’m determined, Niing. This is my one shot at happiness and at finding a consort I can trust. I have to put these men through trials that matter—to me. Even if it causes more trouble in the short term.” She looked to Keahr and Zandor to back her up.
“I want you to be happy, and for that, you need someone equally as special,” Keahr said. “What do you think of Jorah?”
“He’s a complete ass,” Zandor answered first. “And by that, I also mean a donkey crossed with a horse.”
Niing scowled at Zandor and then opened his mouth to speak.
Aurora waved him to silence. As handsome as Jorah Thalyn was, he had a quiet menace that frightened her in a way no one else ever had. It wasn’t just the speed with which he had killed his opponent; it ran deeper. The big man radiated power and danger from every pore. Embarrassed to admit that, she said, “Zandor is right. Jorah arrived late. Barely smiled. Talked in riddles. Got into an argument with Raith. And has or had a woman he’s still in love with. Sorry, Niing, but he’s off the table. I have no interest in marrying him.”
Niing sent out a billow of smoke. “That is a great sadness. Despite all your concerns—valid ones—he would make you a fine husband.”
“But if he’s in love with someone else?” Keahr’s rasping voice.
Sadness settled like a shroud over Niing. “His sweetheart died a year ago. He’s still hurting, but Jorah has a great capacity to love—born out of honor and loyalty. Once he comes to know and honor you, his heart will follow. His loyalty will then be yours until the day you die.”
“And beyond, it would seem,” Aurora said, unconvinced. “How do you even know him? And who is Trojean?”
A long pause while Niing drew on his pipe. “Trojean is dead. Like Lila. She was Raith’s twin sister.”
Aurora’s stomach knotted. She slumped down onto her bed. Knees up, she tucked her dress over her feet. “What happened?”
An even longer pause. “I’m not sure of all the details. I had not met Raith before today, and as you say, Jorah does not share easily.”
Keahr’s face twisted with worry. “I know you favor Raith, but I think he fought dishonorably. It was supposed to be a sword fight. Nowhere in the rules d
id it say he could use fire. As for Coven and Mahlon—well, the less said, the better. Lardel is an unknown.” A shrug. “My bets are still on Jorah.”
Aurora tapped her toes with her fingernails. Even if Keahr was right about Raith, he’d used his intelligence to survive. Brains over brawn. “Look, none of this matters. Not when I have to create a new set of trials by morning.”
Zandor grinned at her. “I’m assuming they will involve some of the nastier plants in your gardens.”
Aurora smiled. “That you can count on.”
Niing tapped his pipe against his boot. “I find myself in favor of the plan, my princess. Let’s put our heads together to scheme.” He smiled at Aurora. “I’m sure between the two of us we can come up with a few dastardly challenges to shift the real gold from the pyrites. You will end up with the very best husband—one who loves plants and alchemy almost as much as you do.”
She grinned back at him. “I love that idea and that analogy.”
For the first time since the trials had been announced, her heart sang. By the end of the week, she would have a consort who not only shared some of her passions, but one canny enough to stand at her side against her enemies.
Chapter Twenty
Raith sat with Carian amid a clutter of leftover lunch dishes at a table in the banqueting hall. They were not the only ones to linger. All the courtiers who had gathered for the meal still slouched at their tables. They, too, awaited Aurora to announce the start of the next trial.
“Ginger is late,” Carian grumbled.
As if Raith needed the reminder.
A lanky tabby cat, which had filched tidbits all through the meal, lay curled up on the bench next to Carian.
Even in this magic-dulled world, Raith’s nose tickled at the magic emanating off the gangly thing.
It deepened his cravings, even though a lifetime of supping on such trinket magic told him that he would get little satisfaction from feeding off the cat—even if he could.
That the cat chose to sleep so close to him—usually the Magical knew exactly what he was and instinctively avoided him—was ample evidence that its stunted magic would not satisfy him.
“I’m talking to you,” Carian hissed. “At least acknowledge that you heard me.”
“Just be patient. She’ll get here eventually.” Raith kept his face and attitude passive. Aurora wasn’t the only one he had to fool. She and her abusive uncle likely had spies watching every contender.
Still, he swallowed a sigh of irritation and pulled at his leather breastplate. Like every other contender, he wore his full body armor—such as it was. Hopefully during this trial, no one would attempt to turn his head into a ham. As it was, his bandaged arm, where Gathroar had cut him, throbbed.
It was a small price to pay to be alive.
“I heard talk the next trial will be a joust,” Carian said.
Raith’s stomach knotted. Jousting had never been his strength. He worried his lip with his teeth. In his gums, his fangs ached. He tried to ignore it and focused on his competition.
Mahlon’s armor clanged as he paced across the checkered marble floor. Lardel leaned against the banqueting hall wall, asleep for all appearances. Coven sat alone, picking at the ridiculous red fox tail hanging off his helmet.
At the table opposite them, Trojean’s killer sat with his powerful arms folded across his chest. He hadn’t stopped staring at Raith since arriving here almost two hours ago.
Raith shuddered.
The dragon was a formidable opponent. Raith may have won the word tussle last evening in the carriage, but he was under no illusions—not even his hatred of the man was enough to hide his fear at the prospect of facing Jorah in a mundane battle.
If I had my full powers to beguile, even Jorah would fall under my trance.
But he didn’t have his full powers, even if Aurora seemed to swoon under his sultry gaze.
Reality—and honesty—hit him like a punch.
Not even Trojean had managed to beguile Jorah. The dragon had torn into her despite her enormous power, gleaned from the dozens of Magical she had supped on. Including Lila.
So, beating Jorah in a clean fight was out of the question.
He whispered to Carian, “We need a plan for the dragon.”
“I’m working on it,” Carian whispered back. “Walk with me.” He stood and headed over to the open glass door on the other side of the hall from Jorah and the other suitors.
The cat lifted its head and watched as Raith followed Carian.
Once they were alone, Carian said, “Get a grip, Raith, for Maleficent’s sake. Every time you look at Jorah, you go pale. You can’t show your weakness.”
“Easily said. You don’t have to fight him for your life. Even if by some miracle I make it past the other three, Jorah will kill me before I have time to piss myself.”
Carian leaned in closer. “I didn’t bring you here to die. You were smarter than Gathroar. Do it again with Mahlon, Coven, and Lardel. Ginger seemed to like it, from what you tell me.”
“And Jorah? What bright ideas do you have to offer me for dealing with him?”
A long pause from Carian. “If you draw him in a trial, we pull you out of the tournament. Let him have the ginger bitch.”
Raith’s eyes bulged. “You’ve lost me. How does that help?”
“You can stay here until the wedding is over. By then, I will have brewed the potion we need—I already have a list of Magical I intend to pick off. Before Jorah can take down the Guardians, you will drink the brew—and then you strike. By the time Jorah realizes what’s happened, you will have reaped so much magic, he will be powerless against you.”
Raith let out a long sigh of relief. “When will you start brewing it?” He gulped against his craving. “And I need more of the smoke, too. The hunger is killing me.”
Carian turned his back on the crowd. “Let’s meet beyond the Guardians after the trial today.” Last evening, Carian had mentioned that he had found a broken Guardian, the one Jorah had arrived through. “I’ll bring you the body parts of the Magical I collect for the blood potion. A double whammy—you get the immediate magic fix you need, and I get the blood to create the potion.”
“I’ll be there.” Raith closed his eyes. “If I make it through the torment Ginger has lined up for me today.”
Carian touched his face with a cool finger. “Stop giving into such gloomy thoughts.”
Aurora appeared at the double doors leading into the hall. Raith was saved from responding to Carian’s burble.
It was only when the ugly little thing and her stony-faced bodyguard wove through the bowing courtiers to the tables where the other contenders gathered that he noticed that the cat had vanished from its spot on the bench.
Chapter Twenty-One
Aurora’s heart beat like a kettledrum. Her suitors—the four who sat waiting for her—looked at her with faces ranging from stoic boredom—Jorah, with his arms folded across his chest—to rank annoyance, the scowling Lord Mahlon. Lord Lardel and Prince Coven merely looked expectant as they watched her approach.
She glanced around for Raith.
He and his second headed her way. She spared Raith a tentative smile.
He smiled back at her, his compelling, dark eyes enfolding her like an embrace.
It warmed her, making her want to twirl for him. She fought the extraordinary urge. Twirling was not how she usually spent her time.
“My lady,” Lord Mahlon shouted out, “do you purposefully insult us by neglecting us at every meal? This cannot be so when we are wed.” He pointed at the vast gold clock with its aquamarine face dominating the end of the hall. “And I will expect better punctuality. It does not serve a woman to keep a man waiting.”
“Lord Mahlon, if we are to marry, you will find that I am often both late and always out of breath. Aside from speaking fluent sarcasm, they are defining characteristics.” She turned bluntly away from Lord Mahlon and addressed her other suitors. “I apologize for my n
eglect, the reason for which shall soon become clear.”
It wouldn’t, because she had no intention of telling any of them—except perhaps Raith, because his beautiful face begged confidences—that, thanks to her uncle, she feared to eat with them in her own palazzo.
In reality, with a possible death sentence hanging over her, Artemis didn’t need to poison her.
But she wasn’t taking any chances. Since the start of all this business, she had taken all her meals in the burrow with Niing, eating food he had made for her.
Every eye focused on her, and she drew a deep breath. Artemis and the Intelligentsia would not be happy with the change of venue and schedule for today’s event. But these were her trials, and she could do with them what she liked.
Or so she hoped.
She glanced over at the table where Artemis sat with his cronies. They all watched her.
Waiting for me to mess up.
It was time to throw caution to the wind and enact her plan.
Her fingers clawed at her dress, a vital clue in the coming trial, leaving sweaty print marks on the violet silk. It couldn’t be helped.
“I know we summoned my suitors here for games of skill in the arena, but after last evening, there has been a slight change of plan,” she announced loudly, so even the deafest Intelligentsia could hear her.
A ripple of comment from the Ryferians, but silence from her watchful suitors—even Lord Mahlon.
“Even though I am as proud of my traditions as any Ryferian in this hall, I do not wish to see any more unnecessary bloodshed in my name or for my hand. From here on, the trials will be displays of intellect and stealth, not games of war.”
A quick glance at Artemis. His face resembled molten steel. He sat on the edge of his seat. Poised to leap up and challenge her?
He had better not!
But her heart raced. Had she misjudged him? Her eyes cast around the room, but his cronies watched her, not him. Did that mean that they thought she had his approval?
