From where I crouch, I observe the women exchanging worried glances amongst themselves.
He goes on, pressing his advantage. “What is it that bothers you, Mother Mabel? That I speak the truth, or that you are not strong enough to weather it?”
She halts her circling. My peers hold tight to dark iron at her back. Had I understood what purpose the blades served in perpetuating this bloodletting, I would have set down my hammer long ago. “I will not tell you again.”
“Punish me as you see fit.” He shrugs. “My life is forfeit anyway.”
Her eyebrows crawl all the way to her hairline. Then the abbess smiles, face contorting into punishing angles. “You want your life?” She draws her sword. “Then fight for it.”
The Orchid King lurches forward with a scowl. “That is not in your power to decide, Mother Mabel. Zephyrus is mine.”
Mother Mabel maintains her focus on the man bent before her as she says, “You have seen me spar before. Do you doubt myability to win this bout?” With his silence, she indicates the audience overhead. “Your subjects came all this way. Why not give them a tithe to remember?”
Jeers cut the air, and shadows flex in the darkest corners. The Orchid King considers the abbess, then the West Wind, blue eyes watchful.
“Very well,” he relents. “I suppose there is little harm in it.”
My fingers curl into the grass, hooking me in place so I will not intervene. Aside from our weekly training, I’ve witnessed Mother Mabel duel a handful of times during my apprenticeship. She handled the blade with remarkable mastery.
“Well?” She peers down at the West Wind.
He stands. How can he not? Many centuries he has run, but today, Zephyrus, Bringer of Spring, will fight.
“You have a blade,” he states evenly, “but you will not grace me with one?”
Mother Mabel swings Meirlach overhead, testing its response to a new master after centuries gathering dust. It unsettles me. A blade is a tool, a method of defense, yet Mother Mabel, a woman of station in the faith, intends to shed blood for sport.
“You are a god,” she replies. “You have your winds, your wit. Let that be enough.” Hilt enveloped snugly in her grip, she nods to the Orchid King. “Break his bonds.”
Tonight, I understand fear is personal. It manifests in twenty iron daggers held in the hands of the pious, the clank of chains clattering onto softened grass, a heart ceasing its beat. Meirlach is god-touched. If he falls beneath this blade, he will not rise.
Once free, Zephyrus rotates his wrists, massaging away the stiffness with a bland expression. An air-carved sword materializes in hand, its silvery curve haloed in milky light.
Shadows stretch and bend around the fair folk as they grow unruly, electrified by the promise of blood. The altar, an eruption of white stone, smolders at Zephyrus’ back. But as Mother Mabel lifts her sword, black eyes remote, she whirls toward the Orchid King instead.
Pierus has anticipated it. That is abundantly clear as his own sword appears, driving upward to catch Meirlach with a startling clash. My peers scramble backward, press into a huddle, their backs to the wall. The fair folk howl and shriek and collapse into squeals of delight.
Between the cross of their blades, Pierus gifts Mother Mabel a close-lipped smile. “All these decades I’ve wondered when you would make your move. I’m relieved the time has come at last.”
Strands of blond hair hang around her reddened face. I’ve seen disappointment disturb that cool serenity, exasperation, even moments of outrage, rare though they are. Never true abhorrence as I witness now. “I have indeed bided my time.” Despite the Orchid King’s overwhelming height, her stance remains unbending. “I have endured your horrendous nature and repulsive proclivity for violence, your parasitic bloodletting, the disrespect you show toward my charges. I have endured it all for this moment: an end to an era.”
The Orchid King’s eyebrows wing upward. “You seem confident of this end.”
“Seven years you kept me captive.” Mother Mabel speaks no louder than is required for intimate conversation, yet in the silence that has fallen, every word rings clearly. “No matter how I pleaded—begged—for mercy, you refused to listen.”
“You knew the consequences of a broken contract. You failed to show up for the tithe with the required twenty-one donors. It was well within my right to steal away a few of your women.”
Teeth bared, she leans into the stance. “I approached you multiple times concerning the tithe. I wanted change. You agreed it was a barbaric ritual, to forcemycharges to give blood, only to growyourpower. We agreed Thornbrook’s participation in the tithe would be no more.”
“You chose to endure the punishment in your charges’ stead,” he argues. “I did not make the decision for you.”
“I do not regret taking the place of my charges all those decades ago. They would not have survived the abuse.” Her arms begin to shake, yet she pushes against him so he’s forced to give ground. “But I did.”
“You did,” the Orchid King concedes. “You were strong for a mortal woman. No matter what cruelties you endured, your faith never wavered.” Two pale vines curl around her ankles, slinking toward her stomach, up to her breasts. “I admire conviction.”
“Don’t touch me,” Mother Mabel hisses.
“May I remind you, Abbess, that you enteredmyrealm? What did you think to accomplish by revealing your hand?”
