‘No? Want to see if we can think up any together?’
The flirtatious words slip out before I can stop them, nerves making me far bolder than I usually would be. Still, I don’t regret it; he’s attractive and friendly, and I need someone in my corner. Hearing about the deaths, and seeing the others sparring, has reminded me that I can’t take on all the other Rettlings alone. I need allies, and I could do far worse than Lord Lorathin’s son.
To my surprise, a pink tinge rises on his cheeks as the tension between us stretches so taut I’m pretty sure it could snap a rope. His eyes drift down to my lips, and heat stirs in my gut. I consider taking a step towards him, but I don’t. I might flirt, but I don’t chase. And although we were childhood friends, I don’t know the man he’s become. Not yet.
His pupils are blown wide, and his tongue darts out to wet his lips as I wait for him to respond. Finally, with a light chuckle, he releases the tension growing between us.
‘Let’s get you a place to put your belongings,’ he says.
He takes a few steps down the corridor and stops in front of a door.
‘Let’s try this one,’ he says, placing his hand on a metal doorknob and twisting it open.
Just then, a voice yells from down the corridor, ‘You found her then? The slum rat?’
I turn away from Jonas to find a young woman about my age standing with her arms folded across her chest. She’s dressed in the blood-red colours of Rowell, and while the sides of her head are shaved, the rest of her auburn hair is worn in three braids, the thickest of which runs down the centre of her scalp and is phenomenally intricate. I always thought I was adequate at braiding, but I’ve never managed anything as elaborate as that. Though given the way she’s practically snarling at me, I don’t thinkshe’s going to give me lessons on how to do it. She’s flanked by a few other Rettlings, and they don’t look any more welcoming.
‘Zara, you need to back away.’ Jonas steps in front of me as he speaks. His voice is measured, but I can hear the firm menace beneath the tone. ‘Go back to your room.’
‘Oh, I will,’ she assures him with a sneer. ‘Just as soon as I’ve culled the final runt.’
Chapter 10
Well, I guess I now know what happened to the other Rettlings. Or runts, as she so kindly put it. And if I had any doubts about how this Retterheld would go, I don’t anymore.
Unlike Jonas and me, Zara and her cronies have opted to wear their battle sigils to greet the other Rettlings: three symbols painted in blue on the left side of their faces, marking their hometown and their two fealty Gods. The blue chevron below her eye tells me she’s from Rowell, but it’s the other two marks that my gaze lingers on: the starburst above her brow line that marks her fealty to Yordenrin, the Goddess of Chaos, and the downwards arrow beneath the chevron denotes her second favoured God. But who the hell shows fealty to Mortidem, the God of Death? Especially in a tournament in honour of Etta, the Goddess ofLife.
I guess the answer to that is someone who thinks killing off people before the trials have even started is a good idea.
Still, however much of a bitch this Zara is, I don’t want the confrontation ending in bloodshed unless it has to, and if it does, then it sure as hell won’t be mine.
‘Rose, you need to get back,’ Jonas instructs me curtly as I move to stand next to him. The corridor is fairly cluttered with what I assume are items left by the guards forced to vacate this place for the Rettlings, but at its widest, it could fit about four people abreast. Zara is flanked by two Rowell women, both dressed in blood-red and looking as angryas their attire. Both wearing braids equally as amazing as their clear leader.
Damn it. This is not the time for hair envy.
‘Rose, did you hear me?’ Jonas hisses.
‘I heard,’ I reply, though I don’t move back. Not even a sliver of me is tempted to do as he says. This woman isn’t messing around, and the last thing I can afford is for this bitch, or anyone else, to think I have to cower behind someone to survive. That’s a sure way to commend me to Mortidem.
‘Do you really think Etta is going to let you win this if you’re taking out others before it’s even begun?’ I scan my opponent casually, surreptitiously looking for weapons. There’s nothing that I can see, but that’s not necessarily a comfort. Magic is the biggest weapon here, and the best hunters don’t need a full quiver when they go into the forest. Only those who fear missing a shot do. ‘I’ll be honest,’ I continue, tone solicitous, like I give a fuck about her soul. ‘I don’t think it’ll garner you any favours.’
‘I disagree,’ Zara replies flatly, without a hint of self-doubt. ‘If the Goddess disapproved of my methods, she would have come to the aid of the other runts. But what do you know …’ She smirks unpleasantly. ‘She didn’t.’
Zara has confidence and arrogance oozing from her pores and no matter how this ends between us, I’m pretty sure she’s not going to ask me to bunk down as her roommate after it.
‘You can’t honestly believe the Goddess of Life would choose someone who kills indiscriminately for a gifting?’ I press on, though I already know from the set of her mouth that I’m not going to persuade her otherwise. Violence is coming for me, and I have no weapons. Well, notnoweapons. I finger the bracelet on my wrist. I’m torn because I don’t want to use the magic lightly, and yet I’m sure that if this confrontation continues, Zara and her buddies will try to kill me. Why the fuck didn’t I just wear the damned blade?
‘I think the Goddess will gift the person who wins the Retterheld regardless of what they do to achieve victory,’ Zara snarls at me. ‘And if I wasn’t worthy, I wouldn’t be here. She heard my pleas. She choseme.’
Yup, Kay was right. Every Rettling believes in their absolute right to be here.
‘You’re the one who’s stripped, right?’ she goads. ‘Mummy was the Queenkiller, and daddy drank himself to death? And there was a baby, too, right? Did he even get his first steps before the king put him down?’
Rage roars in my veins, and I pull the bead from my bracelet. Only the fact that I don’t want to waste it tempers my fury. ‘I’ll give you one last chance to walk away. We’ll settle this in the tournament. The way we’re supposed to.’
She laughs. ‘Slum rat, you’re not going to make it to the trials. You’re not even going to make it to the ball tonight.’ She lifts a hand and a dull throb spreads across my knees and the top of my feet before a searing pain shoots across my palm. I glance down to see that the stitches from the night before have been ripped open. She’s a deleterious; she can reverse the healing my body has already done, causing old wounds to spring open.
I can cope with the cut on my palm, but it depends on how strong her powers are and how far back into my past she can go to make old wounds new. Days, weeks, months? Earlier this year, a potion I was making boiled over and scalded my thigh. Badly. I’d run out of salve at the time, and the blisters were so raw and angry I could barely cope with the touch of fabric against the skin for weeks. As if summoned by my thoughts, a searing pain flares at the top of my left leg. A gasp threatens to leave my lungs, but I lock my jaw against it. If that’s as far back as she can go, it means she’s not going to be able to get much more out of me. And while the burn and cut may hurt like a bitch, she’s going to have to do some actual damage herself if she wants to seriously hurt me.
