“Then you also know it’s a public spectacle.” Fingers laced behind her back, she did a slow circle around me, her emerald pants swishing with her long strides. “You also know it’s a rite every being in the kingdom is called to attend. You know they’ll cheer and pick sides, boo and eat popcorn, place bets on your life.”
I… didn’t know that part.
The queen must’ve seen it on my face, but hers remained impassive, carved from stone. “And because you’re so well-versed in elven tradition, I’m sure you know your fate is now in the hands of the gods. The old gods. The fallen gods.”
My blood ran dry. Flóki had made it sound like my fate would be in Hildur’s hands. Not… I gulped. Not some ancient higher power. “Then I’ll win. I’m the Angel of Water.”
She tilted her head. “Dear girl, do you know who the old gods are?”
The clink of armor and the thrum of steady footsteps echoed through the hall.
A line of Eyes filed through the open door, helmets down, eyes slitted, jaws locked.
“What’s this?” I squawked, flinching back.
The queen’s eyes flicked to me. “Seize her.” With the simple command, they formed a tight perimeter, circling me.
Were my friends behind some of those helms? Could they see my wide eyes and paled face, hear the plea on my lips? Would they do anything to stop this from happening?
Firm hands clenched my biceps, biting into the muscles. Power crackled through me, but I was too weak, too groggy, and their grip was too tight, too sure.
My gaze snapped to Hildur. “You were never going to take me to Gaia, were you?”
Pursing her lips, she forced air out of her nose, as if the question annoyed her.
“What about Gunnar and Freyja? What about the war?” I bucked against the guards, their metal chest plates digging into my back. “What about your Galdur?”
“Who needs that when I have people like you to keep my kingdom from crumbling?” the queen said with lethal calm.
My heart dropped. People like me. Like Olivia, Ryder. They were next. I had to tell them, save them. “You can’t do this!” I yelled, fists slamming into the wall of armor around me.
Ignoring me, she nodded at the soldier on my right. “Gestapennar.”
As the guards bore me away, I twisted, shouting back, “I will win your sick game, mark my words. And when I do…” Gritting my teeth, I fought against the hard grip pinning me down, managing to lift a hand, a finger. I pointed it at her heart. “You better hold on tight to your crown.”
Chapter 33
The chanting made pebbles dance across the floor, made sand trickle out of the walls.
Hundreds, maybe thousands of elves yelled in delight, their voices distorted by the thick layers of earth between the stands they gathered in above and the cell I was in.
I rubbed my arms, the muscles still sore from the guards’ firm grips when they dragged me from the Hall of Mystics and tossed me in here—some kind of holding area—a few days ago. My gut rumbled. The plates of food the servants had brought me were piled on top of a wobbly table in the corner, but I didn’t dare touch them. Could be poison.
Dust fell from the ceiling into my hair. I plucked bits of dirt out of my braid, brushed off the grit collecting on my shoulders.
At least the elves had had the decency to lend me some clothes I could actually move in. The firelight flickered off my leather pants, my shiny boots, my thin black shirt.
The portcullis locking me in this makeshift prison rattled against the frame as the crowd grew larger, rowdier, ready for their sick death match.
My stomach lurched.
I grabbed an empty vase, ducked my head over it, and retched—even if I had nothing in me. Bile burned my throat, stung my nostrils.
The ceramic slipped from my grip, clunking to the floor. I stepped over it, pacing the length of the room—fourteen steps to the portcullis, then to the far wall. Again, and again, and again. I could not stop moving. I was like a lion trapped in a zoo.
Was Ryder still in the dungeon? And where was Olivia, I wondered. My heart twisted.
On what might have been my fiftieth circuit, someone called from the entrance, “Trippy, isn’t it?”
