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

42. Veyka

42

VEYKA

“To first blood.”

His voice was achingly similar to Arran’s. My chest flooded with emotions, the killing calm deserting me. I could not allow that. Not now, when every swing and stab was fraught with meaning and consequences. My heartbeat throbbed in my arm. The pain was easier to block out than the feelings. I’d spent twenty years blocking out physical pain. Tucked in at my side, stabilized against my body, was the best I could do for my broken arm.

I forced a slow, confident smile to climb my face as we circled, mirroring each other’s footsteps. “Are you reminding me or yourself?”

Every twitch sent a lance of fire through my body. For a few seconds, I debated. I could call this whole thing off. Mordred was the only terrestrial left. He’d earned the seat at the Round Table that I’d promised to Morgause. There was nothing to be gained from continuing—except that the other terrestrials had all heard Morgause’s snide comment about proving his worth—and understood that it had really been about proving mine. And now they’d all seen Arran jump into the Pit to defend me.

Broken arm or not, I had to fight.

Mordred tossed his hatchet from one hand to the other and back again. “I have no wish to harm you, Majesty.”

We were deep enough in the Pit that no one could hear us, not even the crowd of fae ears overhead. I might never have this opportunity again.

I drew my dagger with my good hand and tossed it without pausing.

It sailed past Mordred’s head, close enough to prick the raised collar around his neck. He moved easily to avoid it.

“I do not believe you,” I said simply.

I stepped in and out of the void, retrieving my dagger before he could. I threw it again—disappearing again—narrowly avoiding his hatchet, flying head over shaft, and catching my dagger on the other side of the Pit.

One handed was no way to fight. But at least I could still move through the void.

Mordred turned, walking backward to retrieve his hatchet, careful not to show me his back. The distrust was mutual.

“You do not wish to kill me either,” he said. “Unless your prowess with these blades has been overstated.”

Well noted. He recognized that if I’d wanted to kill him with those throws, I could have.

I tossed again, appearing behind his shoulder just in time to catch the hilt of the dagger I’d sent sailing over it. “It hasn’t,” I whispered.

He had the good sense to leap out of reach. I let him go.

“You could choose not to hate me,” he said quietly, chest heaving.

Was he tiring already? Or trying to curry my favor with a show of emotion? He needed a better education on what impressed elementals.

“I do not hate you,” I said, coming to a decision. I slid my dagger back into its scabbard. “But I do not trust your mother.” I drew Excalibur.

Mordred sighed. He adjusted his hold on the hatchet and lifted a wrist toward the opening above us. The unmistakable slither of vines reached my ears.

“You are wise not to trust Morgause.” Another casual toss of his hatchet. The vines cleared the first level of the Pit. “But would you be judged by the actions of your mother? Or would you rather stand alone?”

I’d been judged by and against my mother my entire life. But just because Mordred knew how to twist the invisible knife he’d shoved into my gut changed nothing.

How did he know? Morgause had spies. We already knew as much from the comments Morgause had made about Cyara’s harpy. I’d made a spectacle of Igraine’s execution, and word of it had reached Cayltay ahead of us.

“I killed my mother.” Vines slithered down over the edge behind me, in my periphery, everywhere. “Would you be willing to do the same?”

He held my gaze, hatchet held fast. Ready. His eyes were not quite as dark as Arran’s. More brown than black, with flecks of paler gold and even blue. An unusual color for an unusual male. The son of a king, but not his heir. Flora-gifted, like both his mother and father, but his power clearly resembled Arran rather than Morgause.

I lifted Excalibur.

Mordred inclined his head the barest fraction of an inch. “I would do as my queen commands.”

I lunged forward, swinging Excalibur for his knees. But he was ready, sending vines twisted at me from every direction. Pushed back on the defensive, I sliced through vine after vine, twirling in a circle as I went, faster than he could summon new ones to replace those I destroyed.

Excalibur was heavy and unwieldy in the compact space, but the reach was longer, allowing me to keep my broken arm pinned to my side. I darted over the ground, knowing from experience that if I lingered too long in any one place, those vines would ensnare my ankles and drag me down.

But Mordred was quick as well. He hurled his hatchet at the shoulder on my uninjured side. Slow—I was too damn slow with the injury. Even as I shoved the grimaces down, they distracted me. I threw myself into the void, coming crashing out a few feet away, landing hard on my broken arm.

My scream reverberated against the walls of the Pit. Arran’s beast growled, but I could not afford to look to see if he’d shifted again or if it was just in my head.

I kept screaming even as the pain ebbed. Mordred’s vines did not creep any closer. They curled, ready and waiting to strike. A stupid mistake. He was not as ruthless as his mother, and he would pay the price. He’d learn.

I screamed through the pain as I leapt from my back to my feet, exactly as Guinevere had taught me. Using my momentum, I slashed through the wall of vines Mordred had erected around himself. The hatchet was back in his hand. He parried the tip of Excalibur as it sliced through the vines he tried to rebuild. But not fast enough.

Mordred’s eyes were wide. I was still screaming. He thought I was going to kill him.

Excalibur cut away the last of the vines, but caught on the downward swipe, sending my hand ricocheting back and pain radiating through my arm and into the rest of my body. The force of my fist knocked the hatchet from his.

Then there was nothing between us but air, and my sword pressed to the column of his neck.

Killing him would be easy. So deliciously easy. It was even logical. If I slaughtered the last terrestrial in the Pit, I could declare that none of them had proved themselves worthy and take my army with impunity. I’d have to kill Morgause. But that was likely necessary, anyway.

I could kill him.

The slightest pressure of Excalibur’s amorite-swirled blade and he would be dead. Another threat disposed of—when had I ever hesitated? I’d killed for less, and often.

Arran’s son.

This was the reason that Morgause had insisted that either Arran or I entered the Pit. Because in either case, victory could be hers. If Mordred won, he would earn the coveted Knighthood of the Round Table, extending Morgause’s influence beyond the Dyad. Had Arran entered the Pit and faced Mordred, he would have been forced to injure his own child—potentially creating a divide between them that Morgause could then exploit. And if I was overcome with wrath, if I used the opportunity to punish her by killing Mordred… I would forever drive a wedge between Arran and myself.

My head swam. I had not lost any blood, but the pain in my arm radiated out. I’d compounded the break by falling on it. Maybe a couple of ribs as well.

I swallowed down the whimpers of pain, shoved those tendrils of fire back into my arm, concentrating and imagining it as nothing more than a pinprick. A pinprick of pain was nothing.

“You said you did not want to kill me,” Mordred said, his mouth barely moving for fear of slicing himself on my blade.

“I said I did not hate you,” I corrected.

A part of me did want to kill him. A selfish, horrible corner of myself did not want this added complication to the short time that remained to me and Arran. I’d told Arran I did not begrudge him his son—and in that moment, faced with my mate’s needs, it was true. But here, in the depths of the Pit, where the layers of myself had been stripped away, I was who I had always been. Selfish.

But that was not all I was. Not anymore.

I lifted Excalibur from Mordred’s throat to his cheek. With control fueled wholly by adrenaline, I drew a shallow cut from the outer tip of his eyebrow down to his jaw.

Mordred’s throat—notably intact—bobbed. “First blood is yours.”

I stepped back, not even attempting to sheathe Excalibur. I wasn’t sure I could without further injury to my throbbing arm and side.

“That is your first lesson you should take to heart as a Knight of the Round Table. How I feel and what I want are inconsequential to what I must do.”

I loved Arran more than myself. For him, I would ignore the selfish parts of myself.

Swallowing back a sigh, I kicked Mordred’s hatchet toward his feet. “You’re responsible for getting yourself out of here.”

He frowned in confusion, but I did not wait to explain. I used the void to take myself up to the top, to Arran’s side. It took every ounce of my remaining strength not to collapse into his arms.

“Isolde,” Arran demanded.

I shook my head. “Not here.”

Arran growled in my ear, but he slipped his arm around my waist and started toward the stairs.

Overhead, a fractious caw split the air. A single raven swooped down from the sky, passing the battlements, aiming for the inner bailey. Everyone knew what to expect, clearing away a landing zone. I was too addled to realize what was happening.

The raven landed, shifting into a petite female with blue-black hair that matched her raven’s wings. Another female reached out to steady her, but she threw out a hand to hold her at bay.

I’d never seen her before in my life. But she knew exactly who we were as she gasped the words out. “Word from Outpost! The Spit is under attack!”