In retrospect I find my heart fluttering with an altogether different sensation—something akin to, but not quite, terror. Delicious, delightful, delectable terror.
“Interesting.”
I flash a glance Philippa’s way then scowl at her. “Now don’t go speculating,” I say, pointing a finger at her nose. “Wasn’t it you who told me speculation is the playground of an idle mind or some such rot?”
She merely smiles. By the grace of one god or another, I’m spared further prodding by the arrival of my escort, come to take me to the assigned meeting place with Lord Elis. I flounce from the room, holding my chin high and channeling all the hauteur I can muster…but suspect Philippa isn’t fooled in the least.
My escort takes me to a wing of the palace I have not yet seen. At the end of a passage, we come to a doorway, and the guards hang back, indicating that I am to go on alone. Expecting to enter some chamber—hopefully a breakfast room, if the gods are kind—I push the door open and step through. But there is no welcoming breakfast to greet my startled eye. Instead I find myself unexpectedly in a sunlit garden. It’s so bright, so green and full of color and light, it stops me in my tracks. I’m obliged to stand where I am and gape for a full minute, maybe two, before my brain finally comprehends what it is I am truly seeing.
The light is more of that prism-directed glow such as I’d seen in the cavern at the first trial. It gleams off an exquisite array of flowers: delphinium and hyacinth, foxglove andliaxina, and bounteous displays of roses…all sculpted and crafted out ofgold and silver and exquisite gemstones of the purest, richest hues, so vibrant they look more alive than living blossoms. The effect is stunning; my eyes struggle to accept that I am not actually strolling through a lush and sunlit garden of the upper world but am instead still buried in the bowels of the earth, far from any living greenery.
“According to legend,” a voice says, speaking suddenly from my right, “this place was built in honor of the human queen of this realm by her adoring dwarf husband.”
I turn, startled, to find Lord Elis coming toward me along a narrow garden path. He smiles and offers a graceful bow. “I can give you some exact dates and specifics on the construction of this space, if you like. I may or may not have researched in advance, in hopes of impressing you. Say the word, and I’ll dredge up the driest of bone-dry facts, as fed to me by the illustrious Master Gormon, whom I swayed to my favor over an expensive bottle of Khylmirian wine just last night.”
“Indeed?” I say, tilting my head. “Then pray tell, my lord, what year was this garden constructed?”
“The eighth year of Saint Darfyn, in the thirteenth cycle, begun under the Moon of Huetha.”
“Is that true?”
“I haven’t the faintest idea.”
“Did you not pay any attention to what Master Gormon had to share?”
“Certainly not.” He flashes a grin, bright enough to rival the light reflected off the nearest cluster of amethyst violets. “In all honesty, his speech was a bit slurred by the end of it there, and my brain might not have been at its sharpest. Khylmirian wine is excellent for the loosening of tongues, but it loosens the faculties as well. Rest assured,” he adds, pulling his features into moreserious lines, “under other, less inebriated circumstances, my mind is like a steel trap.”
“Nothing in or out?” I suggest.
“Couldn’t have put it better myself.” Elis saunters toward me and offers his arm, which I take gladly enough. He leads me into the garden at a sedate pace, and it all feels very dignified and elegant. The beauty of the gardens could almost make one forget the blood spilled only last night and the massive tons of stone suspended just overhead. Tired as I am, I let myself fall into something of a daze, enjoying the not-quite-real light reflected off the more-than-real blossoms.
“Would you like me to enthrall you with further details of the dwarfish craftsmanship, engineering, and history surrounding us?” Elis asks after some moments.
“Entirely made up of your own imagination?” I suggest.
“Well, you can’t expect me to recountrealfacts, now can you? That would hardly highlight the inventive spirit one expects of a true champion.”
I laugh. Not a great laugh, but not a forced one either. I must give Elis this credit—he knows how to bring out the mirth in me, no matter how dire our circumstances. He looks genuinely pleased with himself and pleased with me too, perhaps. Philippa, as always, went above and beyond in her efforts over my appearance. I’m clad in sky blue, which brings out a freshness to my complexion. The high neck and long sleeves naturally cover my burns, but the bodice is ruched and trimmed in such a way to emphasize the more feminine lines of my figure. My curls gleam in the prism light, and, while I rather suspect the dark circles under my eyes are not fully masked by the powder patted there, the overall effect is one of breathless loveliness. All an illusion, perhaps, but a well-constructed illusion.
“And how are you feeling this morning?” Elis asks, his tone shifting to something rather more sincere. “Following the events of last night, I mean.”
I breathe out a little sigh, feeling the weight of Valtar’s knife, strapped secretly to my thigh underneath my bounteous skirts. I doubt I could reach it if I needed it, but I like knowing it’s there, nevertheless. It makes me feel less helpless. “As well as can be expected,” I answer carefully.
“It was a hideous circumstance,” Elis says. I glance up and find him not looking at me but glaring rather sternly into the middle distance ahead of us. “I feel…well, I feel rather dirty, truth be told. Being named champion. I only happened to be in the right place at the moment those monsters burst in. And Rune…gods alone know I didn’t like the Senlandian bastard, but he was a brave one down to the bone.”
I nod, uncertain what to say, uncertain if I can speak without tears clogging my voice. There’s a note of fear underscoring Elis’s words, which I wish I hadn’t detected, but which I cannot unhear now. He is afraid. Afraid of whatever the next trial may be. Afraid that he, like Rune, will not live to see the end of this championship. And what can I say to offer him comfort? Am I to urge him on, to encourage him? To give him this slip of silk in my hand? Or should I warn him, as I did Valtar?
I frown suddenly. The strangest feeling comes over me the moment I think that name. I can’t describe it. It’s rather like the sensation I experienced last night, when I felt the approach of the votyr before they burst into the hall. A vibration in the bones, aknowingwithout knowing.
We are being watched.
I look up from the garden path, out across the sparkling gemstone blossoms. Guards stand watch on the edges of this cavern,stationed at various discreet intervals. But that’s not what I’m sensing. There’s something else,someoneelse. Someone I cannot see.
Valtar.
I don’t know how I know it’s him. But I do. Some sense for which I have no name, something like taste or smell, but deeper, tingles with awareness of his presence.
“I’m sorry, did I spoil the moment?”
