AllFreeNovel
Share Us
We can’t be with me leaving soon. Most of the notes left all my emotions tangled in knots and my words with them. I’d smile at my feathered friend and rub his head like I used to—or Sigurd’s, I guess, if he looked through his eyes at that moment.
The last note though, the one delivered late last night, struck my heart and lingered. Even now as I rub the paper like a talisman, the words echo in my mind.
I believe in you.
Whatever awaits on those tables, I can handle it, even if they make me wield a poisoned sword or some nonsense.
I’ll find a way. I have to.
The announcer’s assistant blows on a massive horn. The deep sound rumbles through the air, and I fight the urge to cover my ears.
The crowd goes eerily quiet, taking their seats. The announcer’s grin grows as he stretches his arms wide, displaying the silky black feathers stretching out like great wings on either side of him. He’s the picture of somber elegance.
“Today,” he says, “our remaining competitors take their very lives in their hands.”
Peachy.
“Behind me stand tables bearing seven goblets each. Fine vintages fill each one.” He moves his hands as he speaks, grand movements that have his feathered sleeves catching the light.
“Trying to get us drunk?” one competitor laughs.
My fist tightens around Sigurd’s note. Oh yes, drinking fae booze went so well for me last time.
The announcer laughs and wags his finger at us. “Each goblet, however, is laced with a little something extra.”
Poison. My mouth goes dry. Of course.
“Our competitors must match each goblet with an antidote for the poison lingering within. Will they rely on luck and instinct? Will they risk their lives and rely on taste? A little of both?”
The crowd rumbles with answering shouts and murmured conversations. They’re quite pro tasting.
“The first five to correctly match the poisons and their antidotes advance. If our healers”—he gestures to the robed fae behind the tables—“must intervene, a competitor will be eliminated.” The announcer looks back to us. “Competitors, pick a table.”
I glance between Galen and Lysandir. No, they can’t help me, but their smiles and nods give me strength. The prince takes my hand and grips it tight.
“Good luck,” I whisper.
“And to you,” Lysandir says.
Galen sucks in a deep breath. “To the finals.”
I pick a table covered by a shimmering blue cloth. Sigurd’s colors. May it grant me luck.
“No peeking at each other’s tables.” The announcer’s voice is far too upbeat for what awaits us. “It won’t help you. Each table is unique.”
No wonder they all have their own uniquely colored cloths. It’s probably some signal for the healers stationed behind them, so they know what antidotes to give. The one stationed on the other side of my table is a middle-aged fae woman. Her carefully blank face gives nothing away. However, she gives me the slightest nod. Encouragement, I hope.
Other fae step to the corners of the tables, lifting the edges of the cloths.
“Begin!” the announcer calls.
The cloths are ripped away.
Seven goblets sit closest to me. Various colored liquids fill each halfway. Beyond…
Sweet baby Jesus. There must be at least two dozen possible antidotes—liquids, powders, berries, leaves.
Breathe. Be calm.
