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Conflict among the Minor Courts is as expected as conflict between water and fire, but it must be set aside regarding certain subjects. Our core values are the same, our goals for the future identical. If we remember nothing else, we must remember this.

—EXCERPT FROM THE MAJOR ARCANA: A TREATISE ON THE HISTORY OF THE OLD GODS

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

I CAN’T STOP ROLLING my shoulder as I cross the courtyard, heading for the Sun’s temple. It’s healed—I know it’s healed—but it feels wrong. Achy and too tight and I swear there’s something grinding that isn’t supposed to be. Maybe it’s all in my imagination. I’m honestly not sure.

Cato steps out of his temple as I approach, directly into a particularly strong beam of sunlight. It’s the strangest thing. We’re all standing beneath the Sun, but he seems to shine a little brighter, his dark brown skin shimmering as if lit from within. He sees me and smiles, the expression so genuine, I nearly trip over my feet. “You look better than you did last night.”

“You mean I’m moving under my own power and not unconscious in your arms?”

He chuckles. “Something like that.” Cato’s gaze lingers on my shoulder. “It’s fortunate that the Moon is waxing and could do so much healing in such a short time. We might have lost you otherwise.”

I don’t know what to do with this strange softness from him. Cato is easier to deal with when he’s being brash or even flirty. This feels like the first time I’ve seen him without his full mask in place, and the sudden intimacy has me rocking back on my heels. “What does your priest have against shirts?”

He’s in another kilt, this one a deep purple that makes the golden designs painted on his bare skin seem even more vibrant. They swirl around his broad shoulders and down his arms, growing in intricacy and density until his hands are fully golden. He looks good … really good.

Cato laces his hands behind his head and flexes a bit. “Like what you see?”

“Even if I did, I’m not suicidal.” I shake my head. “You flirt too easily.”

“And you don’t flirt easily enough.” He motions at my dress with its silver accents. “We really do make a good-looking pair.”

Not this again. I roll my eyes even as I fight not to blush. “We’re not a pair, Cato. We’re a trio.”

Vesper chooses that moment to walk up, leaning heavily on their cane. They’re wearing a white tunic that hits just past their knees and has slits up the side so they can move freely, the customary brace on their leg, and white-and-silver ribbons woven into their braids.

I shake my head. “Cato’s priest wants him to freeze to death and yours made you a walking target in a competition that happens at night. What are these people thinking?” At least I have my shadow powers to hide them from sight.

Vesper stops just before us. “There are the themes to consider.” The words have their usual sardonic twist, but it feels like they’re putting in more effort than normal. As if they’re even more tired than I am. “You both look well.” Like Cato, their attention falls to my shoulder. They wince. “Well enough, at least.”

I never thought I’d wish for the damned bodysuit back, but if this is going to be everyone’s reaction to my shoulder, it would be preferable to this dress. “We don’t have much time before the party. We should go over the plan for tonight.” After how terribly the last two nights have gone, running and hiding and giving ourselves extra time to recover is a great idea.

Vesper speaks before I can continue. “We go after the Chariot tonight.”

“No.” I don’t realize I intend to protest until the word bursts from my mouth. Both of them look at me with identical expressions of frustration, but someone has to be the voice of reason right now. “Not because I’m going to argue that we need to go after Death.”

“Then why?” Cato snaps.

“I’m barely healed, and Vesper’s not healed. You ran yourself into the ground keeping me alive. All three of us almost died last night, and that was against a champion who didn’t have twenty-two years to learn his powers inside and out. If we go against the Chariot tonight, we’ll lose.”

Vesper’s mouth thins and they straighten slowly. “We may be allies, but do not think for a second that you can speak for me, Kestrel.”

“I’m not trying to speak for you.”

“No, but you’re trying to make decisions for me because you’ve made assumptions about my abilities.” They shake their head. “There’s too little time left. If we want any control over who makes it into the Cinque, we have to go after the Chariot. Tonight.”

I know I should stop, but I can’t quite manage it. I’m too worried about them, about me, about all of us. “You were just leaning on that cane like you might fall down without it. How the fuck are we going to go after the Chariot when every step is causing you agony?”

Their dark brown eyes go flinty. “There it is.”

It feels like I walked into a trap I knew was there and still ignored all the warning signs of. Damn it. Even only knowing them a few days, it’s clear their leg is a delicate topic and they don’t want charity. But that’s not what I’m doing. I’m … I suck in a frustrated breath. “I want you to live. I don’t want you to hurt. Why is that such a bad thing?”

Vesper’s expression doesn’t soften. “You want me to be pain-free because my pain makes you uncomfortable. I’ve managed to keep up until this point. I’ll keep up tonight, too.”

The guilt inside me grows vicious thorns. Maybe they’re right. I don’t know where the lines are. I protect the people around me as best I can, and while I never planned to extend that protection to any of the other champions, I can’t stand the thought of Vesper being hurt further because we rushed things. Every time I close my eyes, my mind spins, offering up memories of the night before—of all the nights of the Trials.

The horrible helplessness of cowering in the shadows as the Fool scents the air in the passageway, holding my breath and hoping to live.