The Bard’s wife paled and whispered, “Dagrid?”
He shook his head. At least half of the conjurers had snuck out the back. They weren’t taking any chances.
Jacob was the Ward, and no matter how harmless he looked, he could turn their minds inside out and upside down in half a second.
“Are you here to make trouble?” the Clark asked. His voice was a thin, hostile hiss.
Jacob looked around as if he were trying to find who the Clark was talking to, then he pointed in surprise at himself. “Me? Here for trouble? No. I’m here for cake.”
I held back a snort, flattening my mouth into a thin line.
He tapped again, and it was a ticklish, funny feeling that made me want to laugh.
It was going to be okay. Jacob was here. Celia and Ragnor would come. Luvic wouldn’t marry Last.
“Let’s get on with it,” Last hissed, glaring at the Bard’s wife. “The wine!”
She startled and then regained her composure, holding the cup out to the Bard. “First, we drink.” Her voice shook. “We share the cup of plenty and sorrow. We pledge our loyalty and combine our fates.”
The Bard took the cup and swallowed a mouthful. He handed it to his wife, who drank. Then the Clark drank. He began to hand it to Primus, but then the cup slipped from his hands. It clattered to the floor. The wine ran over the marble, coating it bloodred.
Then, like a game of dominos, the Bard collapsed, the Bard’s wife collapsed, and the Clark collapsed.
Last tore her hands from Luvic’s and bent over her father. She pressed her fingers to his throat and looked up at Primus.
“Dead,” she said.
Luvic bent down and felt his father’s pulse, and then his mother’s. He shook his head.
Dead.
This time, there was no scream. There was only a harsh, wheezing laugh.
“I told you they’d try something,” a man called.
I shook my head, staring at the back of the room. The Bard walked in from the hall, trailed by his wife and the Clark.
At his appearance, another group of conjurers slipped out.
“You seem to be losing guests,” Jacob said as the Bard walked past.
I frowned at the three conjurers on the ground. They were wearing illusion. I hadn’t thought anything of it. Most conjurers here were wearing at least minor illusion. Now that they were dead, the knots were slipping free.
As the Bard, his wife, and the Clark approached, the bodies on the floor shifted to their original forms. Two Bards and a Clark. Cousins I recognized from the games.
I quickly looked at Luvic. He stared back, his expression flat.
“Let’s try that again,” the Bard said. He twisted his hand and conjured a cup filled with wine. “We can’t trust the wine here to be free of poison. So . . . we do what we must.”
He drank, his mouth twisting with disgust, then handed the cup around. After the principals, the Bard’s wife drank, then Primus, then he handed the cup to me.
“We all drink. As witnesses to the pact.”
I nodded and took a quick swallow.
The wine was bitter and chalky. It tasted like tart grapes crushed in limestone, fermented too long. Yet because it was conjured drink, it was also delicious. It filled me with a warm, fuzzy glow that made me want to tip back the cup and swallow the rest of the ambrosial liquid.
I vibrated with greedy thirst, my mouth watering and puckering for more.
