The gong sounds.
Oh god, I can’t watch. I just can’t. I scrunch my eyes up tight and wish for it all to be over. The crowd murmurs and exclaims. I can’t hear anything else.
The gong sounds again.
My eyes snap open. Tristan is still standing. All his limbs are intact. He looks fine. I suck in a desperate breath. It is his turn now. His third, if I am managing to keep count accurately. His third and therefore his last.
I can’t breathe. I can’t even blink. I think even my heart has stopped working.
Tristan flings out some more invisible magic. Llywelyn’s eyes widen. His smirk vanishes.
Oh my god. Is Tristan winning? What is happening?
The gong sounds.
Fuck me, I hate that thing. I want to find it and smash it to pieces. I never, ever want to hear that sound again. I already know it is going to haunt my dreams.
Llywelyn isn’t doing anything. He is just standing there. Motionless. A fine sheen of sweat beading his brow. Does this mean Tristan has him? He has frozen his brother? He is winning?
The gong sounds.
Llywelyn missed his turn. The crowd whoop and jeers. All teeth and malice. Is it over? Has Tristan won?
Tristan steps behind his brother. Llywelyn remains motionless, but he is clearly trembling.
Tristan pulls out a beautiful dagger from a sheath at his hip. He raises it to Llywelyn’s hair. The whole of court gasps as one. I think even my lungs join in.
The dagger slices through one tightly coiled braid. The sound is strangely sickening. Ripping, tearing, severing. I watch, darkly enthralled, as the long golden coil of hair falls to the floor.
Slice, slice, slice. The dagger rips through more hair and long plaits flutter down like snow. Llywelyn’s eyes areclosed now and silent tears are streaming down his pale cheeks. His hands are clenched by his side.
Hair continues to fall. He looks different with short, choppy hair. Younger, softer, less of a douchebag. It really suits him. Though I know that is no consolation. This isn’t a make-over or a new look. This is something abhorrent and awful in fey culture. He is now a resyn. It is going to affect the rest of his life.
The last braid falls. The crowd cheers. Llywelyn suddenly moves, walking so quickly it is basically running. He darts in a straight line and everyone parts around him. A rock in a stream. Nobody looks at him. They all act as if he isn’t there. I watch as he makes it to the doors and disappears through them. Damn, not so much as eye contact.
I turn back to the centre of the room. Tristan is surrounded by a hoard. Clapping, cheering, back-slapping. The picture of jubilant glee.
Tristan has won. It is over. He is safe. I am safe. We get to stay together. It is wonderful, it really is, and I am so very thankful.
But I have never felt less like celebrating.
I just want to go home.
And with a wry smile I realise, home is now Tristan’s rooms. Home is where Tristan and I are alone. It is the only place I want to be.
Chapter thirty-five
As we finally walk into the sanctuary and privacy of our rooms, my sigh of relief is interrupted by a confusing sight. I leave Tristan’s side to drift over to the table.
“Is this a giant wheel of cheese?” I ask in bewilderment. “With a sparkly red bow on it?”
Tristan strides over to join me.
“Yes,” he says proudly. “It is your favourite cheese.”
My eyebrows rise. Is it? I don’t even know what my favourite cheese is. Has he really been paying more attention to what I stuff in my face, than I do?
“Thank you?” I babble.
