Queen of Blood and Vengeance (Secrets of the Faerie Crown #4)

34. Veyka

34

VEYKA

I knew that in the terrestrial kingdom, the heir was determined through battle. Gwen had briefly described how she’d fought dozens of other females to the death to win the honor. Only to have it all taken away when Arthur was murdered.

I’d even heard the grumbling in Eilean Gayl about how Arran had circumvented the traditional process. Our engagement had been rushed to ensure the security of Annwyn, and only one male in the terrestrial kingdom merited no challenge.

But I knew nothing of the Pit.

The smell alone was enough to defeat many warriors. Thousands of years of blood and decaying bodies had sunk so deep into the stone that there was no washing it away. And it was right there in the center of Cayltay, where no one living within the fortress would be able to avoid it.

At least it was open to the sky above.

At the top, the roughly circular pit gaped about a hundred feet wide. Three levels descended concentrically, each smaller than the last. The final level was at least forty feet below the flat ground of the inner bailey.

The edges of the Pit were already lined with terrestrials.

“I was promised a meal,” I groused as we descended the final level of uneven stairs from the Cloud Tower.

“My apologies, Majesty. Once word spread of the place of honor at your Round Table, your subjects were eager to prove their worth.” Morgause’s words were perfectly respectful and correct, but the hatred on her face betrayed her.

I rolled my eyes and walked past her. Hatred I could deal with. Especially in someone so terrible at concealing it.

Arran was at my side a heartbeat later. I threw out a hand in the direction of the descending levels opening from the ground like hell itself. “Care to explain?”

“Fighters enter the Pit. When half remain, they descend a level. Only the final two descend to the lowest ring.”

He wore his taciturn battle commander’s face. He had fought and killed in the Pit. Just like the fortress itself—one way in, two ways out. Victory or death.

Isolde appeared at my other side. The terrestrials pressed in closer, eager for a look at the strange creature the High Queen had brought into their midst. I resisted the urge to put my arm around her tiny shoulders. It would only make her look weak, and then she would be more of a target.

Lyrena was at my shoulder, as always, and Barkke had taken up on Arran’s other side, inserting himself between Arran and Morgause. My affection for the fauna-gifted terrestrial grew.

Assign Barkke to watch over Isolde, I said through the mating bond.

Arran did not respond, but his gaze marked Isolde at my side before he turned and spoke to Barkke. His old ally moved immediately, positioning himself directly behind the faerie—and shoving away several disgruntled terrestrials in the process.

Now I was able to focus.

“What does the victor win?” I asked Arran. But Morgause answered.

“Whatever is put up as stakes. Castles. Weapons. Females. The occasional male.”

I fucking dare you. I let my control slip. Morgause flinched.

I licked my lips and flashed Arran a grin.

“A seat at your Round Table,” Orcadion said. Thus far, he’d been content to let his wife try to spar with her betters. Now he wanted his turn? Fine.

“Let’s get on with it, then. Someone bring me a chair and something to eat, and they can have my Ancestors’-damned throne.”

Chairs appeared. Food, too. It looked more delicious than it had any right to, coming from a place as bleak as Cayltay. I had no doubt that Morgause, the flora-gifted half of the Dyad, had a talent for poisons. But I was too fucking hungry to care.

I devoured roasted lamb in cherry wine sauce and herb root vegetables while the terrestrials organized themselves. Arran made a comment about my plump, round ass, his eyes glowing with black fire for emphasis. I called for second servings.

There were no desserts or chocolate croissants. But by the time the terrestrials lining the uppermost level of the Pit had thinned, I was fully sated. Only those that would actually enter and fight remained at the edge, weapons of choice in hand.

Males, females, and those who identified as neither. An assortment of weapons just as impressive as the array I’d seen at Eilean Gayl—swords, daggers, axes, flails, spears, and even a mace tipped not with metal spikes but some sort of razor-edged animal tooth. A shame that so many formidable fighters would die.

Today, we’d endure this barbaric tradition. Tomorrow, we’d raise an army.

I tried to mark out Talismans where I could. Most concealed them, not keen to give any hints about the power that lived beneath their skin. But surely most of these combatants already knew each other.

One female, wearing nothing on top but a leather bustier I was instantly envious of, had membranous wings etched across her back. A bat shifter, maybe. Another had blades of grass tattooed on his neck, reaching up to graze his jawline. I remembered how Arran had subdued the skoupuma in Baylaur using thousands of blades of grass.

That one caught my gaze and sneered openly. I blew him a kiss.

“Let’s start this,” I said.

Morgause rose. “Of course. The victor shall earn a palace at the Round Table, as Knight and councilor to the High King and Queen.” She turned her eyes to us. “Tell us which of you will enter the Pit, and we shall begin.”