“The land?” I ask, confused.
“She is our queen, she is connected to this place, to its people,” Duddon explains slowly, like I’m a lost child.
I’m reminded of the memory I saw of Lydia and Emmett in the Isern Caves. Lydia was looking around the wilting castle gardens.I think the land is sad when he’s not herewas what she said about Bram and his frequent absences. Is there a chance she knew because she was connected to it, too?
Did Bram think so little of Lydia it never occurred to him to consider her the true queen of the Otherworld? Did it never cross his mind she might possess her own kind of magic?
“My heart hurts.” Duddon clutches their chest. “The land cries out for her. It’s mourning. All of the folk who are connected feel it too.”
A shout of agony pierces through the driving rain, and my head snaps up. That was Bram’s voice, I know it was, and this isn’t over yet.
With as much tenderness as I can muster with only one working hand, I leave Lydia on a bed of vines that are bursting into brilliant pink flowers, and push myself to stand.
“Wait!” comes Duddon’s tiny voice behind me.
I turn to see them crouched over the spring, pulling something heavy from out of its depths. Their body slumps and strains as they struggle to lift whatever it is, and then they turn, their face in a triumphant grin, their eyes still watery.
“A gift, in exchange for the tears.”
They pull the object through the writhing vines and drop it at my feet.
I gasp as I finally see what it is. The blade is soaked, but still sharp. I bend, and grasp the hilt of the sword Bram gave me during the first trial to kill the unicorn—the sword I threw into Duddon’s spring in a failed attempt to save the creature.
“Go. Be clever,” Duddon instructs.
I pick up the sword, and on heavy feet, my shoes soaked through, take off in the direction of Bram’s audible struggling.
I slash through the ever-growing forest that has sprung up in the middle of the coliseum. But it doesn’t take long; Bram is only a few paces away.
“Ivy.” His voice is agonized as I cut through the clearing and see him fully.
He’s pinned to a massive tree, his back flush against the trunk, his arms and legs held in place by thick branches that have wound around him like claws.
He struggles against them, his wrists already visibly raw with effort, but they do not budge.
His eyes flash to the sword in my hand. “Cut me free, Ivy. Now.”
But I do not obey. I stand there, looking at him in icy silence, the rain pouring down my face and arms, until it drips off the tip of my sword.
In his face, I search for the boy who kissed me in the garden at a ball, who made me feel so special and cared for at a time in my life when I felt nothing but small and lost and afraid.
Is Bram as good as you say?
It was one of the first questions I ever asked Emmett, when we were scheming to put him on the throne. I know the answer now. Bram’s life has gone on too long, and whatever goodness that might have once existed within him has withered and atrophied and died, leaving nothing but a desperate creature who feeds on power and control like a predator.
Another branch sprouts from the tree and winds itself around Bram’s neck, pulling tighter and tighter until he’s sputtering. “Please,” he rasps.
I march toward him, dragging my sword at my side, until we are nearly nose to nose, close enough to kiss.
In his gray eyes, I search for any flicker of regret.
“Why did you do it?” I ask him, my voice cracking around the question. “Why pit us against each other like this?”
Bram’s eyes drop closed, his lips growing pale. “I only wanted you to fight for me. Why didn’t you fight for me, Ivy?”
“What about Lydia?” My question comes out in a sob.
Bram doesn’t answer and the tree branches keep squeezing tighter, digging into the tender flesh of his throat.
