Page 88 of Enslaved

Lodírhal stirs on his cushions beside her. His faded eyes flutter, open, revealing milky irises. He tries to sit forward then groans and drops back on his cushions even as concerned attendants crowd close. I have no sympathy to spare him. I turn my attention back to the bridge below.

Lord Kiirion states the rules that govern the Rite of the Thorn—no magic may be used, neither fae nor human. Not even glamours are permitted. The battle itself will end in one of two ways—either upon the sword or with one or both opponents fallen into the mist below. Should one fall, he shall be given a count of ten to reemerge. If he does not, the winner shall be proclaimed.

“Have you heard and understood?” Kiirion demands.

“Aye,” Ivor responds. The Prince nods, grimly silent.

“Very well.” Kiirion sweeps a hand. “Let the glamours be gone.”

I watch in terrified fascination as Ivor’s glamours melt away. I’ve always believed he didn’t wear beauty augmentations, or not many. Only now do I realize how mistaken I was, how taken in by the subtle magic of which I’d been unaware. Gone is the glorious golden lord. This man’s face is creased in hard, terrible lines, his body riddled with scars. He’s enormous—that at least wasn’t a glamour. If anything, he’d disguised himself into far more lithe and graceful lines than reality. He looks like an old, scarred bear with a broad, scowling forehead and a leering mouth and jaw.

The Prince, by contrast, is still himself. He’s a little slighter and slimmer, perhaps, not the image of fae perfection his glamour projects. Still beautiful enough to stop the heart of any unwary lass.

But his face . . . his face is one I hardly recognize. It’s the face of a killer. He looks at Ivor with absolute murder in his eyes.

Ivor looms over the Prince, widening his stance to seem even broader and more dreadful. His supporters shriek and fawn. If one were to judge by size alone, there wouldn’t even be a contest.

Lord Kiirion looks more staggeringly beautiful than ever by contrast to the two of them, but somehow his beauty is rendered cheap. He’s nervous too and hastily backs away from the competitors to climb into the saddle of his winged horse. He spurs it into flight, weaving through the bridges until he hovers above the arena in sight of all viewers.

“May the gods themselves show us favor tonight!” he cries, brandishing a small gold staff. “And may Tanatar, God of Battle and War, determine the future of all Aurelis, revealing unto us the true heir to the throne.”

As the crowds’ thunderous applause, squeals, and cheers erupt once more, and more purple and gold flowers fill the air, Kiirion lifts his staff high above his head. With a cry of, “Let the battle begin!” he swings it down in a single stroke.

Time seems to slow, slow, slow. All the force and pressure of that split second before either warrior moves concentrates into a small eternity of existence.

I stand at the balcony rail, every atom of my body taken up in that sight. In Castien. In the way his muscles coil like a tiger’s as he drops into a crouch. The mounting power—not magic, but the power of his essential being—swelling inside him, ready to burst. I feel it all there, the lethal potential, the murderous intent.

My lips try to form his name.

Then with a painful snap, time jumps back into full motion. The Prince launches himself straight at Ivor even as Ivor rushes him. Steel clashes, sparks. The crowd erupts in roars of approval even as I gasp, grip the rail, my confused gaze struggling to follow the movements of either party. One instant, I’m certain Ivor’s blade will cleave Castien in two. The next, he leaps nimbly out of range only to retaliate with a blow that looks likely to strike Ivor’s head from his shoulders. Ivor blocks, blades shrieking against one another.

Below them the mist churns. Like a sentient being, somehow aware of their struggle. Light flashes, red, orange, and other colors for which I have no name. Those great, coiling tentacles ripple in and out of view.

A collective gasp from the onlookers. It’s as though all the air has been sucked from this enormous space and held in their lungs. I cannot breathe. Something is falling, spinning, tumbling. It takes a few blinks to realize it’s a sword. One of them has dropped his weapon, but as they grapple together, I cannot tell who.

With a great bellow, Ivor swings his whole body around. The Prince, caught off balance, flies wide, catches his feet, staggers, and goes over the edge of the bridge.

My heart lurches. A scream rises in my throat, but before I can utter it, he turns nimbly mid-air and lands with perfect grace on the lower bridge. He takes no more than a breath to recover before he’s running, running, leaping. He grips a sword in his hand. It was Ivor who lost his weapon then. Ivor, who now seeks to maintain the high ground, springing to the next bridge above, putting a little distance between himself and the Prince as he angles for advantage.

The Prince doesn’t give him a chance. He leaps from one bridge to the next, quick as a cat leaping from branch to branch. Heedless of any peril, of coils and churning magic, his focus remains fixed upon his prey. For that is what Ivor has become—majestic, massive, and terrible though he is, he cannot match the Prince’s rage. Something burns in Castien, an inferno that would make even the bravest warrior blanch.

My head spins as I watch them climb, descend, leap, and duck. Now and then they come back together, exchanging blows. Castien has the advantage so long as he retains his sword, but it also slows him down. He jumps up once swinging, but Ivor ducks and lands a terrible blow to his midsection. I gasp as though receiving the blow myself. Gripping the rail, I lean out over that horrible drop, my vision doubling, tripling.

The Prince skids to the edge of the bridge. They’re lower now than when they began, only three stories above the pit and the mist. He’s lost his sword—it lies some feet off. Ivor hastens to fetch it. Now he prowls toward the Prince, who lies winded. Why does he not get up? Does he not see the danger advancing?

Ivor raises the sword, brings it hacking down. At the last second, Castien rolls. The blade rings against stone, and the Prince springs to his feet, lunges at Ivor, wraps his arms around his middle. There’s a moment of struggle there on the brink. Then . . . then . . .

My eyes widen with horror, with disbelief.

The Prince falls.

This time, there is no nimble turn, no graceful landing. There is no slowing of time, no moment to grasp and hold onto. One instant he’s there, looking up, hair streaming about his face. I have enough time to think he will twist in the air, perform some impossible feat, catch hold of the two lower bridges. But he passes through them, one after the other.

The mist swallows him. A flare of red light burns where he entered.

The crowd goes deadly silent. Somewhere far away, Lord Kiirion’s voice counts down the time from ten. That’s what he’d said, wasn’t it? A count of ten and no more before Ivor’s victory is declared. But what does it matter? Surely there can be no returning from such a fall into such a place.

He’s gone.

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