Unseelie Queen Page 12

  “What’s this?” King Lod asked in disgust, pushing the food around with his gray finger. He never used the utensils and always ate with his hands.

  Lord Nicolaia and the other advisors frowned as angry murmurs swept through the banquet hall. “Bindel,” Nicolaia said in a stern voice. “Appear before me now,” he ordered.

  A shamefaced brownie appeared and stood on the table next to his meager meal. She had red-brown hair, sad black eyes and had the usual brown, bark-like skin of her kind. She wore a raggedy black dress and her feet were bare. “Yes, master?” she asked, cringing away from his anger.

  “What do you call this?” he asked icily, pointing at the food.

  “It is all we could muster up, master,” Bindel replied in a small voice.

  “This is absurd,” Lady Mildra protested. The advisor’s jet black hair with green streaks was falling out of its messy braid. “Surely, you can do better than this?”

  “Setting up the arena for the tournament tomorrow morning has depleted our power, mistress,” Bindel said, wringing her hands in worry.

  “We require better sustenance than this...offal,” Lord Vance declared, shoving his plate away. The brownie was nearly in tears now and couldn’t muster up a response.

  Asha hated to see the tiny woman in distress. “Don’t worry, Bindel,” she said kindly. “We know the brownies are doing their best. It isn’t your fault that magic is fading. Is it?” she said pointedly to the advisors.

  “It isn’t their fault,” Nicolaia agreed sourly, eyeing his plate as if it was covered in slugs. “Yet we’re accustomed to better than this.”

  “Until the balance is restored, we’re all going to have to make do and be grateful for what we have,” Asha said, raking her gaze across the throng and daring them to complain. “Thank you, Bindel and the other brownies who serve us,” she added. “We appreciate everything you guys do. Please just do your best for as long as you can.”

  Staring at the dryad worshipfully, Bindel gave her a deep curtsy. “We will try, your majesty,” she said, then vanished.

  “She’s not wearing the crown yet,” Camlim muttered cattily and received several cruel giggles in response. She was still humiliated from being excused from her position as Asha’s lady-in-waiting.

  Asha realized she’d made three enemies when she’d dismissed the fairies, but she didn’t really care. No one here was her friend anyway.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  DONNING HIS ARMOR AFTER choking down a lukewarm bowl of tasteless gruel for breakfast, Dacrith put his helmet on last and closed the visor. He was as anonymous as he could be, but that probably wouldn’t last long. Most fairies knew of him and many had watched him fight in the goblin dungeon countless times. All fae beings could apparently scry the labyrinth when King Lod allowed them to during what passed for daytime in his domain.

  Dacrith had perfected his own fighting style after battling so many monsters. His moves were as distinctive as his rare silver-gold hair and gold-flecked eyes. The key to remaining unknown was to alter his style. If it became known who he was before he won the tournament, he would surely be banished back to the labyrinth. Once he was within those dank halls again, he would never be able to escape.

  He followed the crowd of warriors and spectators through the rain to an arena that had just been created. Oval in shape, it was gigantic in size. The wooden walls rose high into the air and a domed roof would keep them all safe from the storm. While the spectators headed for a wide gate to the left, the competitors were herded to a much smaller entrance over to the right. An anteroom had been created where the combatants’ names were recorded. They were given a number to wear, then were herded to another large room to the right of the stadium beneath the seats.

  Dacrith gave a false name, then took the small bundle of cloth that the frazzled servant shoved at him. Other warriors were donning their numbers and he did the same. He was number one hundred and eleven and there were hundreds more men crowding in behind him. Their numbers were printed on two squares of white fabric that were joined by thick leather straps. The straps rested on his shoulders and the black numerals stood out starkly against the white cloth.

  While most of the competitors wore Unseelie suits of armor, others wore their own mismatched armor. Most were recently made from whatever scraps they could find. Without the use of magic to assist them, their armor was ill fitting and fairly useless. They couldn’t be discounted just because they hadn’t been trained by soldiers from the Court. All fae were fast, strong and agile. The incentive to be king drove them to succeed.

  The participants who had been registered were directed to line up in neat rows as the tournament began. In pairs, a mixture of twenty warriors, hunters and civilians entered the arena. The others watched through the windows in the waiting area as cheers sounded.

  Rows of seats had been erected so thousands of fairies could watch the entertainment. Gigantic magical yellow globes hung near the ceiling, casting light on the ground far below. Windows above them allowed the lightning to flare brightly almost constantly. A balcony had been built at the far end of the building, jutting out slightly over the arena. Asha sat on a throne with the six advisors flanking her.

  Dacrith’s breath caught when he saw his future bride. She wore a dark blue gown that made her blonde hair look even brighter than usual. Her eyes scanned the warriors who were facing each other, searching for him, or so he hoped. He had no way of signaling to her, but it was probably for the best. She knew he was there and that he would be fighting for her.

  Lord Nicolaia stood and the crowd went quiet. “Let the tournament begin!” he shouted and fresh cheers sounded.

  At his signal, the first twenty combatants went into motion. Dacrith watched the men as they attacked each other. The warriors in black armor shared similar fighting styles. Only a few competitors wore their own form of armor. Unsurprisingly, two of the three civilian fighters were defeated quickly. They slunk away towards the losers’ exit with boos and jeers trailing after them. The winners were directed to wait in a room directly across from the area where the next round of contestants were already paired up.

  Two warriors were battling it out harder and faster than the others. They were still going at it when the other fights were over. Dacrith could see one of the men was simply toying with the other one. He knew who the grandstander had to be. It would be Tartor, the blue-haired wonder boy.

  Prince Sindarian had sent Tartor off to take charge of the soldiers at a distant castle when he’d heard the warrior was becoming a little too big for his britches. If Tartor had remained, he would surely have attempted a coup. Now he was back and it seemed he planned to become king.

  Now that they were the only two competitors left, Tartor stopped playing with his opponent. He unleashed a vicious, swift flurry of blows, knocking the fairy’s helmet off to expose his face. His rival screamed in pain when the blade sliced into his cheek. Asha looked away, knowing the spectacle was for her and her alone. Tartor was showing her just how powerful he was. His savagery only made her less inclined to accept him as her husband.

  Not content with merely maiming his opponent, Tartor struck again, severing the fairy’s hand. The crowd roared in approval, drowning out the shrieks of agony from the loser. A medic sped over, grabbed the severed limb and gave the victor a frown of disapproval before herding the defeated challenger away.

  “Is he going to be able to reattach his hand?” Asha asked Lord Nicolaia.

  “Who cares?” he shrugged without taking his eyes off the arena.

  “I care,” she replied, but said it so quietly that no one could hear her over the noise of the crowd and the storm. With magic in such short supply, it wouldn’t be easy to repair the worst of the damage that would be done to these men. Their innate healing abilities still remained, but they would need magical help to reattach severed body parts. One rule that was in place was that there could be no killing blows. They feared they might no longer be immortal and that it would
n’t take much to end their lives. Further deaths would create an even worse imbalance, sending the realm into unceasing chaos.

  Tartor took his helmet off and held it up like it was the severed head of his foe. The spectators shouted his name and screamed their support of him. Turning in a slow circle, the warrior came to a stop facing Asha, then smirked as if he’d already achieved victory. She rolled her eyes at his theatrics as he sauntered off to the victors’ area. “This is going to be a long day,” she predicted sourly.

  “This contest is in your honor, daughter,” Lod reminded her. He was so short his chair had to be built higher so he could see over the balcony. “It was your idea, after all.” She scowled that he was right and that she didn’t have a comeback.

  Wishing he could hear what was going on in the royal balcony, Dacrith smiled beneath his visor when he saw Asha scowling at Tartor. Just as he’d known, the blue-haired warrior was number one. He’d probably bullied his way to the front of the line so he could be the first to sign up. There was no doubt that the fairy could fight, but Dacrith was confident he would win. He hadn’t been nicknamed death for nothing, after all.

  Side by side, the next twenty warriors strode out into the arena to take their turns battling each other. Most fights were over quickly and the winner progressed to the next round while the loser was shown to the exit. Dacrith had heard a rumor there were over three thousand combatants who had signed up to fight, which meant the tournament would last for several days at this rate. That was fine with him. It would give him a chance to refine his technique so he didn’t stand out too much. He had to make it all the way to the end without being recognized if he wanted to be seated next to Asha where he belonged.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  THE TOURNAMENT DRAGGED on for Asha as the day progressed. The other spectators cheered for the winners and jeered at the losers, who trudged the walk of shame through the side exit. She kept watch for Dalrin, but most of the combatants kept their helmets on. He was there somewhere, she was positive she could feel his gaze on her from time to time.

  They had a short break for lunch and the brownies did their best to supply the thousands of spectators and contestants with a meal. Grumbles and complaints at the meagre fare echoed through the arena, but they couldn’t hide their fear. Not a single fairy had managed to manifest their wings in the past couple of weeks. Nothing pointed at their loss of magic more starkly than that inability.

  Unable to fly or teleport, they had to walk everywhere. Now that even the brownies were struggling to perform their chores, they had to dress themselves and do their own hair. It was hard for Asha not to laugh at their distress. She probably would have if things weren’t looking so dire.

  By the time what little sun there had been had set, the field had only been narrowed down by a third of the contestants. There were still around two thousand left to do battle. Leaving the balcony, Asha waited for her turn to climb down the narrow staircase. Tartor was waiting for her at the bottom. His light blue hair was mussed and he smelled sweaty beneath his armor. He slanted her a confident smile and offered her his arm. “May I escort you to the banquet hall, my lady?” he asked in a poor imitation of a gentleman.

  “Why did you cut that poor fairy’s hand off?” she asked him baldly, reluctantly placing her hand on his arm.

  He almost missed a step and frowned down at her. “Do you not understand the concept of a tournament?” he asked in a condescending tone. “Two men oppose each other and fight until there is a victor.”

  Removing her hand from his arm, she gave him a flat stare as they left the arena and strode across the lawn to the palace. The brownies had erected a covered walkway so they wouldn’t get soaked by the rain. “Every time you open your mouth, I like you even less,” she told him.

  “I’m sorry, my lady, but your question made no sense. I fought my rival and defeated him. What does it matter if I relieved him of his hand?”

  “It matters because it wasn’t necessary,” she said as if explaining it to a five year old. “No one else felt the need to chop off any body parts. You were the only one who had to take it too far.”

  He smirked at her and tossed his hair over his shoulder arrogantly. “Perhaps I was the only one with the skill to do so.”

  “I don’t think so,” she refuted as they entered the palace. “You’re the only one who had to show off. Everyone else might be impressed by your bloodthirsty display, but it just proved to me that you’re even less fit to be a King than I’d thought.”

  Face tightening in anger, he grabbed hold of her arm and drew her into a hallway so they could have a semblance of privacy. “Like it or not, I will win this tournament and I will become your husband,” he hissed, fingers tightening painfully on her arm.

  Asha’s anger rose and her skin began to change color. “I suggest you let go of me immediately, or you’ll learn firsthand what happened to Corvine,” she warned him.

  Staring at her eyes in fascination as they changed to silver, Tartor didn’t move fast enough. Spikes shot from her arm, spearing all the way through his hand. Yelping in pain, he took a step back. “You dare attack me?” he asked in disbelief.

  “You dare put your hands on dryad and goblin royalty?” she shot back and advanced on him. She was gratified when he backed away. “You are a nobody and I’m a Princess,” she sneered, allowing her goblin half to do the talking. “You’re lucky I don’t have the guards throw you into my father’s dungeon for manhandling me.”

  “That can be arranged, my lady,” Kurtus said. He was standing in the mouth of the hallway, watching their exchange. Tartor was the last fairy he wanted to see in charge. Prince Sindarian had been bad enough. Tartor would ruin the realm even more if he was the one making the decisions.

  Tartor’s face darkened in anger, but he didn’t retaliate. With a final sneer at Asha, he stalked away. He deliberately rammed his shoulder into Kurtus’ on the way past. Showing he had restraint, the guard simply watched the warrior saunter away with a sardonic grin.

  “If he wins, there won’t be any way to save this realm,” Asha said when he was out of earshot.

  “Why not, my lady?” Kurtus asked.

  “I’ve already rejected him,” she said quietly. “If he puts his hands on me again, he’ll end up in pieces just like Corvine did.”

  “There’s no second chances with you?” he asked as they headed for the banquet hall.

  “No. Men only ever get one chance. Once my goblin side rejects them, they don’t get another shot.”

  He nodded thoughtfully, then heaved a sigh. “If Tartor wins and attempts to bond with you, he’ll fail and we’ll be left in the same position we’re currently in,” he summed up. “We won’t have a king and the chaos will continue to rage.”

  “Pretty much,” she agreed glumly.

  “Then I fear we’re doomed,” he responded just as gloomily. “Tartor might be insufferable, but he is our best warrior.” There was another ex-soldier who was even better than Tartor, but no one had seen Dacrith since he’d escaped from the goblin dungeon. He’d vanished after using a dragon to kill his father and his whereabouts were currently unknown. It was unlikely that death would attend the tournament. The advisors would never allow him to rule. Not after they’d done their utmost to oust Sindarian.

  Asha detoured to her suite to change. Olsa and Unwin weren’t alone when they appeared on the coffee table near the couch and armchairs. Bindel was also there. “I want to thank you, your highness,” she said in a voice that trembled with emotion.

  “For what?” Asha asked as she crossed to them and took a seat.

  “For coming to my defense last night at the banquet.”

  “That’s okay,” she said kindly. “I don’t like seeing the brownies get into trouble for something they can’t control.” They exchanged guilty looks. “Is there something you’re not telling me?” she asked.

  “We might be exaggerating our lack of magic slightly,” Olsa whispered, holding her thumb and
pointer finger a smidgen apart.

  Asha narrowed her eyes at the bashful trio. “Just how much magic do you still have?” she asked just as quietly.

  “Um, quite a bit, actually,” Bindel confessed. “We can’t seem to teleport without pooling our resources, but we can still perform our normal tasks.”

  The dryad put her hand over her mouth to stifle her giggles. “Are you deliberately making the fairies dress themselves and have been feeding them plain food?”

  “Aye,” Unwin replied with a smirk. “It serves them right to have to fend for themselves. We’ve been taken advantage of for far too long.”

  “This is priceless,” Asha said and descended into muffled snickers. All the haughty courtiers who were usually impeccably dressed looked frazzled and messy. “I needed that,” she said when her giggles finally petered out.

  The brownies had also given into their laughter, but they looked worried. “If they find out that we’re deliberately not serving them as well as we could, our kin who were imprisoned will be punished horribly,” Bindel whispered.

  “They won’t find out from me,” Asha promised grimly. “Doesn’t anyone have any idea where your kin were taken?”

  “None of us know where they are,” the head brownie of the palace replied sadly. “We know they are still alive, but we haven’t seen them in eons.”

  A stab of pain for them lanced through Asha. It wasn’t right that they were being used and abused like this. She was proud of them for finally standing up for themselves, even if their hated masters and mistresses didn’t realize what their servants were doing.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  WHEN IT CAME TIME FOR him to fight the first time, Dacrith found himself paired up with a hunter who fought bravely, but lacked skill with a blade. He was careful not to be too flashy when he fought his opponent. Watching so many soldiers do battle before him had helped him copy their style. He defeated the hunter with relative ease while not standing out from the crowd.