Page 87 of Enslaved

Estrilde drops a kiss on her uncle’s hand. “Dearest uncle,” she proclaims, more for the benefit of the courtiers present than the king, I suspect, “I cannot tell you how delighted I am that my beloved will have this opportunity to prove his fitness to rule before all Aurelis and Eledria. Surely even the most foolish doubters will exclaim at the wisdom of Lodírhal the Magnificent in naming Ivor Illithor his heir.”

The king turns his head, blinking vaguely in Estrilde’s direction. His lips move, but not a sound emerges. Estrilde takes her seat beside Lodírhal, close to the viewing rail. Her friends and companions assume places around her, all in attitudes of deference. I, along with her other attendants, move to stand by the wall.

Only now do I dare turn my gaze from the box out to the arena itself. My heart drops.

It’s a vast space—far greater than I imagined. An enormous circle, ten stories high, with viewing boxes at every level situated between graceful white arches and gold columns. Spanning the vast space are bridges—ten bridges, all angled differently, overlapping one another, creating a vertical as well as horizonal space for the opponents. But they are not what sends this stone of dread dropping in my gut.

It’s what’s down below.

The arena has no floor. Instead, it has been built above a great mist-shrouded pit. A gash in the worlds, a plunge into some strange reality. Whatever magic is used to close it off has been unlocked, revealing those terrible depths. The mist is like a living thing, twining and churning. Here and there rawquinsatralight flashes in colors beyond the ordinary spectrum, and something vast and coiled undulates into view before once more retreating into that murky shroud.

I’d known the Rite of the Thorn would be bloody and brutal. I’d not expected this. Nothing like this.

I lift my gaze from that pit, taking in all the beautiful fae gathered in their boxes, eager for the entertainment to begin. Their bloodlust is palpable, a pulse in the atmosphere as terrible as the flashing lights below. These are the same folk who venture into the City Under to watch slaves and Obligates beat each other to death for their enjoyment. The only difference now is they need not hide their vile cravings from polite society. Here it is acceptable. Here that same brutal sport is sanitized in the guise of heroic prowess.

Bile burns in my chest. In all the years I’ve lived and served in thrall to the fae, I’ve never felt such a strong upsurge of disgust. I hate them. I hate them all. If I could, I would rend them apart limb by limb. I could do it to. With a flick of my pen, with a single written word, I could summon darkness, evil. I could see them all screaming, dead—

A sudden blare of trumpets. I jump in my skin, shocked from a stupor. All the world has taken on a surreal filter. Dark specks dance on the edges of my vision. This can’t be real. The Prince—Castien—myhusband—he won’t die. He can’t die.

But if he does then Oscar . . . Oscar . . .

You’re not seeing rightly.

I press my knuckles to my temples. I want to scream, but cannot, dare not. I can only stand against that wall and watch the nightmare play out.

The trumpet fanfare finishes with a flourish, and the crowd goes wild. Overhead, the Summit Night moon shines bright, gleaming on cascades of flower petals suddenly falling from every viewing box—some gold to honor Ivor; some purple to honor the prince. There’s so much more gold than purple. Most of these people expect Ivor—a warrior born, uncursed and whole—to defeat the half-human son of the king.

A fae lord rides into the arena on winged horseback, landing on the fifth bridge in the middle of the vertical space. I recognize him: Kiirion the Fair is his name. The one-time lover of Mary West, a human girl I once knew who forgot the perils of loving the fae and suffered for it. The sight of him brings her face to mind. My stomach knots. I never thought I’d find myself standing in Mary’s shoes.

Kiirion dismounts and takes the center of the bridge, raising his arms and simultaneously raising a cheer from the onlookers. “Who’s ready for a king-making?” he cries.

A hearty roar from the Lords and Ladies. They’re ready for anything so long as they are entertained.

When at last their voices subside, Kiirion swings an arm to the right. “Behold!” he cries. “The chosen heir of our beloved King Lodírhal the Magnificent! The Golden Rose of Aurelis, your champion, your future, your liege—Lord Ivor Illithor!”

A fresh cascade of gold petals fills the air as Ivor steps into view, appearing under the arch at the far end of the fifth bridge. He strides out to the center, arms raised to receive adulation. He’s breathtaking—shining with golden glamour-light from the inside out. A sword hangs from a thick belt around his waist, and armor protects one shoulder, but otherwise his torso and legs are bare, all his musculature on full display.

Gall rises in my throat. I wish I could bend over the balcony rail and be sick.

Once Ivor has reached the middle of the bridge, Lord Kiirion holds up a hand. “But!” he cries, and the crowd quiets once more waiting for what they know must come next. “Every rose has its thorn. And so I give you, the challenger—son of the king, forsworn heir of Aurelis, come to reclaim his bloodright and prove his fitness by might of battle and favor of the gods—Castien Lodírith, Prince of Vespre!”

Another roar of enthusiasm. Another cascade of flowers, purple and gold together, twirling, glittering, disappearing into the mist below. I am scarcely aware of any of it. All my attention fixes on that figure standing at the far end of the bridge. The Prince. My Prince. Glamour-lights are turned his way, illuminating his proud, upright figure. He too is clad only in light armor, his body displayed for the admiring gazes of friend and foe alike. His hair is swept back and secured at the nape of his neck, a style I’ve never seen him wear. It emphasizes the gorgeous sharpness of his cheekbones and jaw, the vicious intensity of his eyes. If I did not already love him, I would surely fall for him beyond all recovery at this sight. As it is, I remember too well what it felt like to be held in those strong arms, to press my lips against the chiseled indentations of that chest, the hollow of that throat . . .

But he betrayed me.

He cursed my brother, my Oscar.

He withheld the truth from me even as he took me, kissed me, entered into me. Claimed me as his wife.

I realize suddenly that I’ve left my place at the wall, moved to the balcony rail. Gripping it hard in both hands I lean out, heedless of the fall, desperate for a better sight of this man I love and loathe and long for all in the same breath.

“Back to your place, human,” Estrilde snarls behind me.

I turn. Look at her. Meet her cold, merciless eyes. I do not speak. I do not have to. I simply let her see me. The real me. Not the mousy librarian, the Obligate she once bullied and abused. No . . . I let her see instead the face of one who has killed. One who has created, summoned, and unleashed forces of darkness far beyond Estrilde’s small and mean-spirited reckoning.

One who knows exactly how to do it again.

A muscle in the princess’s cheek tightens. Then she lifts her chin. “Fine. Stay and watch your lover be cut down like a dog. It makes no difference to me.”

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