“Can you tell me what to expect tonight?” she asked.
Bael climbed in, sitting across from her. “As you wish. We’re going to the hall of lords. There will be a feast. The lords will choose their champions, apart from me, of course. Hothgar will announce the rules of the melee. Then we will leave. Hopefully alive.”
Well, that inspires confidence.
“Do I get a dagger again?”
One of Bael’s eyebrows rose. “After last time? No. Absolutely not.”
She rubbed the solid ring in her pocket. “You’re going to leave me entirely unprotected, then. And if Abrax decides he wants to get me alone—”
“I’ll protect you.”
“You said I don’t deserve your protection.”
He winced. “I will protect you,” he said again.
She leaned forward, studying him. “Why don’t you choose me as your champion?”
Surprise flickered across his features, his eyes widening. “Why in the name of the dark god would I do that?”
“The other lords have better odds with five champions each. You’ve only got one. If I fight with you, it doubles our chances of winning, right?”
He shook his head. “You misunderstand. There will only be one left alive at the end,” he said. “None of the other champions will be left alive by the end of the tournament. I would have to kill you.”
She swallowed hard. “You’re injured. I could take your place, then. I may have a better chance than you.”
His eyes bored into her. “Don’t be absurd.”
Maybe he has a point. She might be pretty good with a sword, but she was no match for someone who’d been fighting for twenty-two thousand years. And moreover, she lacked a weapon and her firepower.
His eyes darkened. “Tell me you won’t call attention to yourself this evening. That you won’t attack anyone.”
“I can see you’re still upset about the kerfuffle with Nyxobas.”
“Tell me.”
“Fine. I’ll do what you say.” Within reason.
Chapter 17
The carriage plunged lower and lower through the air, and Ursula gripped the seat to steady herself. They were descending all the way to where Asta met the crater floor.
With a lurch, the carriage touched down on a rocky avenue.
She peered out the window at a long line of carriages. As the bats inched forward slowly on their claws, Ursula gazed out at the desolate lunar landscape. Apart from Asta’s violet light, darkness shrouded the land. Deep fissures cut into the stone around the base of the spire.
Their carriage slowly pulled forward to a covered entrance, and two footmen in gray jackets hurried out to open their door.
Bael stepped out, holding open the door for her. He offered her his hand as she stepped out.
Ever the gentleman.
This close to the ground, Asta’s crystal was a deep mulberry, the color of a bruise. Above them, gray clouds of moths swirled and danced, blotting out the stars.
“This way,” said Bael.
A walkway, lit by glowing mushrooms, led to the arched entrance. Ursula walked by Bael’s side, rubbing the silver ring between her fingers.
Through the doorway, she stepped into an enormous hall, carved from the purple crystal. The walls arched at least two hundred feet above them, and great clusters of glowing mushrooms hung from the ceiling like chandeliers. Long, onyx tables, populated by demons filled much of the hall. An open space had been left in the center, like a dance floor. By Bael’s side, she walked further into the center of the hall.
At the far end of the massive room, a single table stood on a dais. Eleven lords sat at the table, proudly enthroned in silver chairs. Abrax glared at her, licking his lips, and a shudder ran up her spine. No one here seemed to know or care that he’d tried to overthrow the entire Shadow Realm. Apparently, losing your wings was unforgivable, but a full-fledged divine coup was okay, assuming you were a demigod.
In the center of the table, in the largest chair, sat Hothgar. A gavel lay on the table before him.
Ursula frowned. That should be Bael’s spot. Until Abrax had ripped off his wings, Bael was Nyxobas’s Sword, the most senior of all the lords.
Ursula looked at the whorls of shadow magic behind the table. Nyxobas. Behind the powerful clouds of magic, she’d nearly missed him. He sat in a silver throne, half-shrouded by writhing shadows. As a swirl of magic cleared, his eyes—two dark abysses—seemed to stare right at her. At the sight of him, dread tightened its grip on her heart.
A small oneiroi hurried up to them.
“Milord,” she said with a deep bow to Bael before turning to Ursula. Her eyes trailed down to Ursula’s dress, and the shockingly sheer fabric that hung below her cloak. The oneiroi scowled, then plastered a smile on her face once again. “Please follow me, milady. The lord will be seated at the table of nobles.”
Ursula looked to Bael for help, but he was already moving toward the dais, leaving her behind.
“Right this way,” the oneiroi chirped, beckoning her forward.