“He’s witnessing the masque for House Dire. Half the drasgard here are under his direct supervision.”
“Fuck.” Rakos jumps to his feet and looks around for Bell. “Thanks for the heads up.”
Irenka jumps up too and catches his hand. “Go to the southern entrance. I’ll send Ludvik to wait for you, and he’ll make sure you reach the road. That’s all I can do. Find me in Parsk if you make it there, and I’ll help you as much as I can.”
“Wow, you must really hate Vana,” Rakos says. “Thank you.”
Irenka downs the rest of her drink. “Please, don’t thank me.”
Rakos lets her go and walks around the dance floor, looking for Bell. The room is crowded and chaotic, and he pushes past a number of tipsy revelers before the realization hits him.
Bell is nowhere to be seen.
?
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Bellamy
Bellamy itches at the sight of Rakos dancing with someone else. The mask hiding Rakos’s face makes it even worse. Bellamy never thought he would relate to Claude’s fuming about other nobles acting too friendly with Mother. Is jealousy a hereditary trait? Does Galant possessiveness run with Sandry magic in his veins?
However, Rakos’s annoying new dance partner is the opportunity Bellamy’s been waiting for. While Rakos is distracted, Bellamy adjusts his mask and slips away towards the main chamber.
If any Silaisan representatives are in attendance, Bellamy wants to corner them without anyone overhearing—including Rakos.
The labyrinth magic doesn’t hurt his eyes, but it’s everywhere. That’s one thing Draskora and Silaise have in common. Nobles and mages can’t resist showing off. Change the obsidian for wood and the gargoyles for gilded trees and stags, and this could be just another banquet at Sandrelle. The revelers are just as drunk and joyful.
Except in Silaise, the revelry doesn’t center around a pair of dying mages.
In the central chamber, the shielded pedestal pulses faintly. Stomach twisting, Bellamy winds his way through the crowd, searching for familiar figures.
The masks complicate his search. Plus, he has no idea who he’s looking for. Who could be visiting Draskora? Tensions persist since the last war, and official delegations have to be approved by Mother or Audric. But Bellamy isn’t naive enough to discount the possibility of unofficial visitors.
Blood-red magic flares in his peripheral vision. Bellamy side-steps a trio of drunk men and cranes his head towards the mages on the pedestal. The duel has lasted for hours, and besides the attending drasgard, only a few guests continue watching intently from outside the barrier. Two men stand apart from the others, both white blond. The taller of the two wears a sword across his back, apparently excused from the masque’s weaponry restrictions.
Bellamy finds a seat near a wall behind them. He doesn’t want to watch, but a sick sense of obligation pins him in place. The same urge to witness he felt passing the gallows outside of Orthin.
Under Bellamy’s magic sight, the winner is already clear. Second by second, the power flowing toward the female mage increases, guided into her along the paths of her tattoos. Meanwhile, her male opponent dims and withers. Every element of his body is alight and flickering. A candle scoured by the wind. His jewelry is twisted and cracked.
His grail fares little better. A young man around Bellamy’s age, he’s gray with strain and swaying on his knees. Barely any power remains in him, but it’s not all gone.
Bellamy squints. He’s never seen grails in use before. Born with vast reserves of power but no means of wielding it themselves, grails are used in Draskora, Fellrin, and some other countries to amplify other mages. Bellamy can only see active magic or enduring spells—he can’t tell if someone’s a mage just by looking at them if they aren’t actively using magic. Drawing from a grail’s reserves apparently counts as active magic, and a core of power glows within each of the two grails on the pedestal.
The man’s grail shines far brighter than the woman’s, but with each moment, the man siphons off less and less power.
His death is inevitable. Bellamy has never seen a mage’s active power so faint before. Despite his nausea, Bellamy finds himself riveted. The man could save his own life by burning out his grail.
But he doesn’t. And Bellamy is somehow certain it’s not just the law holding the mage back.
The thread of power between mage and grail breaks. The grail collapses with a gasp, the first movement on the pedestal in what feels like hours. When the grail crawls over and grabs his mage’s arm, the man doesn’t move.
Magic continues to surge across the pedestal, wrapping like corrosive cocoons around the dueling mages. Suddenly, the female mage laughs, a spasm through her bare torso. She surges to her feet, arms uplifted in victory.
Slowly, like sand sliding away, the man slumps forward onto the platform. His grail’s choked sobs are muffled by the cheers and curses exploding throughout the room.
Beside Bellamy, a man elbows his companion and demands his winnings from a wager they threw. Gold changes hands throughout the crowd, while other forfeits take form as shots of liquor. Only the drasgard on duty and the two pale-haired men Bellamy noted earlier remain still, any emotion concealed behind their masks.
Nauseous, Bellamy stumbles from the chamber. Forget investigating. He just wants to be at Rakos’s side now.
