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His words took the breath from my lungs, and as he stepped away, his mournful blue eyes gleamed in the dark. “Part of the curse meant I couldn’t tell a soul. Only Orla ever knew. I killed someone that I loved, Ava. I won’t ever let it happen again.”
He turned and slipped into the shadows, blending into the night.
I stood still, feeling my heart cracking. I hardly heard the sound of the lock sliding on the door, or the hinges creaking open.
By the time Morgant sauntered into the room, Torin had disappeared.
He frowned at me. “I felt your heart racing. You should go to sleep, Ava.”
But my heart still pounded like a hunted animal, and I wasn’t sure anything would help me sleep.
17
AVA
Morgant led me through a corridor with mossy vaults that soared hundreds of feet high. My footfalls echoed off the stone walls.
This morning, I’d been up at dawn and dressed in simple black clothes for the duel. I wasn’t sure if I’d slept at all, but my mind could not stop obsessively raking over whether I’d discovered a loophole.
Skewering, not killing…I’d been running the words in my mind all night.
“Morgant,” I said, “the queen seems very precise with her language.”
He turned back to me, nodding once. “Just focus on killing the Seelie king.”
I wasn’t in a fit state for a duel. My mind felt foggy and muted, my nerves crackling with exhaustion and panic.
Morgant led me into a room with towering stone columns on either side and aisles full of Unseelie spectators.Amber beams of morning sunlight streamed in through narrow, towering windows, gilding the crowd of fae with antlers, hooves, and long tails. They were clad in green garments, some of the females wearing gossamer dresses spun like spiderwebs. All eyes locked on me, and whispers rippled throughout the hall. For a few breaths, I let my gaze roam around, taking in the strange beauty of this place.
At the far end of the hall, Mab was sitting on an ornately carved wooden throne that seemed to rise out of the tree roots, her pearled gown spread out at the base. A pale, delicate crown glittered on her white hair.
Torin stood before her. This could have been some sort of strange wedding except for the four archers flying above, arrows pointed at him. Another three had weapons trained on me.
A moss green carpet ran the length of the hall, the distinctive bright red leaves scattered like drops of blood against blue-black stones. Ruddy leaves bloomed from dark vines that crawled over every column and wall. This place was lush with strange vegetation.
As I stepped further into the hall, Morgant drew a rapier and handed it to me by the bronze hilt. He stepped away, arching an eyebrow at me.
From her throne, Mab twirled a scepter made of gnarled wood that snaked around a glowing sphere. She stood and addressed the crowd in the Unseelie language, her words booming over the hall.
A guard with long red hair translated what she said into English. “My subjects. Does anyone have any idea whom this lost Unseelie belongs to?”
Her words sent my nerves jangling with a desperate hope that someone would speak up and this disturbing spectacle might be avoided. A mother and her long-lost daughter reunited would certainly be a distraction, a spectacle so heartwarming that no one would need to see bloodshed today.
I scanned the crowd again, desperately searching for anyone who looked like me. And when my gaze landed at last on a set of coppery horns, my pulse raced faster. The man, broad and athletically built, was maybe old enough to be my father, with copper horns like mine. Black hair, dark eyes, olive skin and tattoos—he didn’t look exactly like me, but…
“Dad?” I said, desperately. ”Dad!”
His brow furrowed, and he shot a nervous look at a winged woman to his right. I had no idea what he was saying in the Unseelie language, but the tone strongly suggested this woman was his wife, and it was probably a frantic defense of his faithfulness.
My heart sank, and after another moment of awkward silence, the redheaded guard was translating for the queen again.
“No one claims the Lost One,” she said. “This duel will follow our traditional fencing rules. No daggers, no running about in circles. If you step off the mossy strip, my archers will shoot you. If you fail to do as I ask, I will throw the Lost Unseelie off our tower walls. I will find a more creative fate for the Seelie king.”
This last remark elicited a disturbing ripple of pleasure from the crowd, their eyes gleaming. I closed myeyes, slightly horrified that my own kind were so unrelentingly sadistic.
Then, in English, the Queen called out, “Take your positions. By the end of this duel, I require that you use your sword to pierce through your opponent’s heart, neck, stomach, or eye socket, until the sword protrudes from the other side.”
The world tilted beneath my feet. No loopholes, then.
