Page 106 of Avalon Tower
“Nothing good,” Tana says.
Now Amon is nodding, his face dejected. Wrythe folds his hands at his waist, looking pleased with himself.
“There’s been a change in today’s trial,” Amon calls out. “Apparently, Tana Campbell’s psychic abilities are urgently required on a mission. So, today’s trial by combat will be between Nia Melisende and Tarquin Pendragon.”
My stomach plummets.
“What? You can’t do this at the last minute,” Tana calls out.
“Tana Campbell,” Wrythe bellows. “That is an order.”
My heart races. When I turn to look behind me, I see Tarquin already moving through the crowd, prepared with his sword. He knew this was happening, and Wrythe still waited until the last minute to announce the change.
“This is bullshit,” I mutter. The last time Tarquin and I fought, he had me pinned within moments. He’s bigger than me, stronger than me, faster than me, and he’s been training since he could walk. He’s also wielding a long, heavy sword, which I can’t parry properly with my flimsy rapier. I am utterly fucked.
Tana grips my arm hard. “Nia, remember. You have to pass.”
“How?”
“Use everything you’ve got,” she says. Her suggestion echoes Viviane’s instruction so similarly that a chill runs up the back of my neck.
She pivots and stalks out of the arena, back into the tunnel. Off on a bullshit mission that I’m sure Wrythe made up to fuck with me.
I’m left standing by myself in the old tiltyard, sweating into my clothes. My breath feels short and sharp, and I wonder how much blood Arthur spilled on this sand.
Slowly, with a thin smile, Tarquin stalks in front of me. He closes the distance between us and leans down to whisper, “Ah, the public bus.” His voice is low so only I can hear. “Remember what Horatio did in his trials? I’m going to do so much worse. A sacrifice to Arthur. Nia, you were never meant to be here.”
My thoughts go quiet, and I keep my face inscrutable as I glance at his sword. Sure, the blade is dulled for the trial. But like Horatio’s weapon from that first trial, it’s heavy enough to kill. And I have no doubt that is Tarquin’s plan.
This is no longer about just passing the test. This is about survival. And I can’t pull any punches.
“Begin!” Amon shouts.
I leap forward and thrust my rapier at his face, aiming for his eyes. He stumbles back but manages to parry my thrust, nearly pulling the rapier from my hand. Quickly, he pushes with a swing at my body that I barely dodge.
Both of us take a step back and scrutinize each other. I can see the tiniest hint of surprise in his eyes.
He goes at me with half a dozen swings and thrusts. I dodge them, jumping back each time. But he’s hardly making any effort, and I’m already out of breath. I used my inhaler before starting, but it isn’t enough to get me through the immense effort of this trial. I can’t go on leaping around like this without getting completely winded. When he thrusts again, I parry with my knife. But as I do, my knife is torn from my hand, spiraling out of reach.
Fuck.
He swings, and I manage to duck.
From below, I strike upward, aiming for his face. But now he’s ready and smashes his sword’s pommel into my shoulder. I grunt and stumble back, barely dodging his next swing.
He’s already figured out how to predict my moves.
Fear pierces my chest, and I realize that I need to incapacitate him quickly. Take his eye out, tear his nose in half. With my thin, dull blade, his face is my only option. And he’s not going to let me get close to it.
I need to use everything I have—but all I have is this shitty rapier. Sure, I’m faster and stronger than I used to be, but so is he. I can feel my face going red, my body overheating. I’m drenched with sweat.
And my lungs are whistling, constricting…
One last, desperate idea takes root in my mind. As he swings at me again, I dodge to the side and feint with my rapier, driving him to parry. His hand nears mine, and I press the back of my hand against his, letting my telepathy powers unfurl.
I will put you in your place, demi-Fey. His voice rings in my head. Get your hand off me.
I can sense what he’s thinking—that I’m trying to grab his wrist. And I know what he has planned. He’s going to pull his arm away, up and to the left.