Page 89 of Enslaved

He’s gone.

I’ll never see him again. Not to accuse him, not to beg him, not to rage or plead or hate him. Not even to love him.

He’s gone. Fallen into horror. Carrying my heart with him.

“Five . . . four . . .”Kiirion’s voice intones from above, “three . . .”

Suddenly, one of the vast coils ripples out from of the mist. Slimy, hideous, covered in enormous suckers underneath, it lashes up, almost all the way to the lowest of the bridges, like a sea serpent rising from the waves. On its unfurling ridge, a figure runs in great leaps and bounds, balancing with impossible grace. One long stride after another, and at the very crest of the coil’s swell, just before it drops back into the pit, he leaps. His body stretches out, one arm extended.

“One!”Lord Kiirion cries just as Castien catches hold of the lowest bridge and, with a ripple of muscle, hauls himself up.

The crowd explodes, frenzied with relish. Lords and Ladies alike leap from their seats and hang over the balconies, screaming and shouting and tearing out their own hair in unchecked admiration of the feat they just witnessed.

I cannot join them. My throat is closed tight. I grip the rail and think this must be happening to someone else. It’s a story, perhaps—some tale of a faraway handsome prince, a hero, a legend. I’m reading it in the pages of a book, passing the time with idle thrills while I myself remain safely curled up at home. My reason simply cannot accept that this is real. That I’m here. That I’m watching this take place.

The Prince sprints along the bridge now, his gaze upturned to Ivor, who stands five bridges up, looking down with an expression of absolute shock. Then he lets out a roar and starts to run as well, leaping down from one bridge to the next. The Prince stops, turns, head craning to follow his enemy’s movements. With a graceful pivot, he changes direction, springs to the next bridge, and meets Ivor just as he descends.

The blow he lands across Ivor’s face sends the fae lord sprawling. The sword spins from his grasp, flashing as it clatters. For a moment, it looks as though it will go right over the edge of the bridge, but by the grace of the gods it remains there, teetering on the brink.

Ivor pulls himself up, lunges. Takes Castien around the middle and backs him up as though to hurl him back into the mist from which he just escaped. By some twist or trickery I cannot follow, the Prince slips free of his hold. He strikes Ivor in the side. The massive fae lord staggers, falls to his knees.

Castien grips him by the hair atop his head then slams his face into the stone. When he draws his head back up again, Ivor’s face is a mass of blue blood.

“Make it stop.”

I whirl about, wrenching my gaze from the battle to see Estrilde kneel before Lodírhal. Her face is ferocious though her voice is pleading. “Make an end to it, Uncle. I beg of you.”

Lodírhal sits forward in his cushioned seat. One shaking hand grips the rail before him as he peers out on the scene below. His clouded eyes are brighter than before.

“Only you can call it off,” Estrilde persists. “You are king! Spare your champion, who has only ever served you with the true loyalty of a son. When has he ever disappointed you, failed you, betrayed you as Castien has done?” She leans in closer, breathing her poisonous words in his ear: “Ivor would not have let your wife die.”

Lodírhal blinks. But he says nothing, makes no move.

“Make it stop!” Estrilde cries, her voice strangled, guttural. Even her glamours are slipping now in her agitation. “Make it stop, or I swear I’ll—” She raises a hand as though to strike the old man. I take a single step, a protest on my lips, uncertain what I will do.

Lodírhal, however, does not need my help. One hand comes up, catches Estrilde by the wrist. His grip is stronger, firmer than I would have believed possible. Estrilde is equally startled. She gapes at him as he turns his haggard face to her.

“Let the gods’ will be revealed,” he says.

Another horrible gasp from the crowd. I whirl only to see that Ivor has got the sword. He stands with it raised to shoulder height, the hilt gripped in both hands. The Prince stands before him, breathing heavily, bleeding from his nose, his lip. Ivor draws near, one step at a time.

I can do nothing. In that moment, I can’t even breathe. The Prince is spent, exhausted. He doesn’t look as though he has any strength left in him. But that light is still in his eye—that burning, savage glow.

With a roar, Ivor charges. The Prince springs, catching the edge of the sword across his ribcage, a long, bloody gash. But at the last, he drops low, kicks out with one leg, catching Ivor hard in the knee. Ivor grunts, pitches. His arms wheel, the blade flashing.

Then, with a single thin cry, he falls. Tumbles. Reaching for handholds, missing by inches. He twists around, his eyes staring wildly up into the crowd. I feel as though they find me. As though they burn directly into my soul.

Then the mist consumes him in a flash of light and churning darkness.

Lord Kiirion begins his countdown. No one stirs. No one breathes. No one voices a word.

Any moment, Ivor might do the impossible. We’ve seen it done once already, haven’t we? He might yet emerge from the depths, borne on the very wings of the gods and fate, returning to crush his opponent.

The Prince stands on the edge, staring down, while I stand at the rail, staring at him. Willing, hoping, praying. Dreading.

“Three . . . two . . .”Lord Kiirion says. Just as he cries, “One!”Castien turns. Looks straight up at me. His face breaks in a triumphant smile.

The noise of the crowd is like thunder from the high heavens, threatening to shatter the very foundation stones of this arena and send us all crashing down into that pit. Flowers, garlands, banners, jewels rain down upon Castien from every side. The hated Prince, the forsaken heir, now beloved by all who look upon him. Their champion, their future king.

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