But those were not the whispers circulating around me.
“—enough to overpower ancient magic—”
“No one has seen power like that in thousands of years…”
“—above the laws of nature itself.”
I let the words slide through my consciousness, across that golden bond, down to where Veyka stood quivering on the edge of the Pit’s second level. Neither she nor Mordred waited for a signal from above. They met each other’s gazes and they jumped.
I emptied my thoughts, clearing the whisperings and any lingering guilt or rage. Veyka needed none of that now. She needed a clear mind as she approached the last round of the Pit.
The final descent.
42
VEYKA
“To first blood.”
His voice was achingly similar to Arran’s. My chest flooded with emotions, the killing calm deserting me. I could not allow that. Not now, when every swing and stab was fraught with meaning and consequences. My heartbeat throbbed in my arm. The pain was easier to block out than the feelings. I’d spent twenty years blocking out physical pain. Tucked in at my side, stabilized against my body, was the best I could do for my broken arm.
I forced a slow, confident smile to climb my face as we circled, mirroring each other’s footsteps. “Are you reminding me or yourself?”
Every twitch sent a lance of fire through my body. For a few seconds, I debated. I could call this whole thing off. Mordred was the only terrestrial left. He’d earned the seat at the Round Table that I’d promised to Morgause. There was nothing to be gained from continuing—except that the other terrestrials had all heard Morgause’s snide comment about proving his worth—and understood that it had really been about proving mine. And now they’d all seen Arran jump into the Pit to defend me.
Broken arm or not, I had to fight.
Mordred tossed his hatchet from one hand to the other and back again. “I have no wish to harm you, Majesty.”
We were deep enough in the Pit that no one could hear us, not even the crowd of fae ears overhead. I might never have this opportunity again.
I drew my dagger with my good hand and tossed it without pausing.
It sailed past Mordred’s head, close enough to prick the raised collar around his neck. He moved easily to avoid it.
“I do not believe you,” I said simply.
I stepped in and out of the void, retrieving my dagger before he could. I threw it again—disappearing again—narrowly avoiding his hatchet, flying head over shaft, and catching my dagger on the other side of the Pit.
One handed was no way to fight. But at least I could still move through the void.
Mordred turned, walking backward to retrieve his hatchet, careful not to show me his back. The distrust was mutual.
“You do not wish to kill me either,” he said. “Unless your prowess with these blades has been overstated.”
Well noted. He recognized that if I’d wanted to kill him with those throws, I could have.
I tossed again, appearing behind his shoulder just in time to catch the hilt of the dagger I’d sent sailing over it. “It hasn’t,” I whispered.
He had the good sense to leap out of reach. I let him go.
“You could choose not to hate me,” he said quietly, chest heaving.
Was he tiring already? Or trying to curry my favor with a show of emotion? He needed a better education on what impressed elementals.
“I do not hate you,” I said, coming to a decision. I slid my dagger back into its scabbard. “But I do not trust your mother.” I drew Excalibur.
Mordred sighed. He adjusted his hold on the hatchet and lifted a wrist toward the opening above us. The unmistakable slither of vines reached my ears.
