“I’m already enjoying it!” Mawyndul? shouted.
“You have forgotten so much.” Myron sighed with obvious pity. “ ‘Revenge is a bittersweet fruit that leaves the foul aftertaste of regret.’—Patriarch Venlin, The Perdith Address to the Dolimins, circa twenty-one thirty-one.”
“You are clever, aren’t you?” Mawyndul? said.
“ ‘Clever are the Children of Ferrol, quick, certain, and dark their fate.’—Nyphron of the Instarya.”
“Shut up, Myron,” Hadrian growled.
Arista also saw the flare in the elf’s eyes but Myron appeared oblivious. To her relief, Mawyndul? did not strike out. Instead he stood and walked away. His two guards followed with the chair. The banquet vanished and the fire’s flames dwindled to mere embers.
“Are you insane?” Hadrian asked Myron.
“I’m sorry,” the monk said.
“I’m not.” Mauvin clapped the monk on the back, grinning. “You’re my new hero.”
CHAPTER 27
THE CHALLENGE
Trumpets announced the gray light of the predawn.
The elves had transformed the top of Amberton Lee overnight. Where once only the desolate remains of ancient walls and half-buried pillars stood, the crest of the hill now displayed seven great tents marked by shimmering banners. In the misty haze of melting snow, a low wall of intertwined brambles created an arena marked by torches that burned blue flames. Drums followed a loud fanfare and beat to an ominous rhythm—the heartbeat of an ancient people.
Degan shivered in the cold, looking even worse than the night before. Hadrian, Royce, and Mauvin fed him coffee that steamed like some magical draft. Gaunt clutched the mug with both hands and still the liquid threatened to spill from his shaking. Arista stood with her feet in the cold dew, every muscle in her body tense as she waited. Everyone waited. Aside from the three whispering last-minute instructions into Gaunt’s ear, no one else spoke. They all stood like stones on the Lee, unwilling witnesses.
Modina waited with the girls, prepared to face what could be their last sunrise. The boys stood only a few feet from her with Magnus and Myron. The lot of them formed a straight line, uniformly standing with their arms folded across their chests—all eyes on Degan.
Mawyndul? appeared relaxed as he sat in his chair, his legs outstretched and crossed, his eyes closed as if sleeping. The rest of the elves milled about in small groups, speaking in hushed, reverent tones. Arista guessed this was a sacred religious event for them. For those in her party, it was just terrifying.
She turned when she heard Monsignor Merton say, “I know you have a good reason.” At first, she thought he was speaking to her, but when she saw him, his eyes were looking up. “But you have to understand I’m but the ignorant fool you made. I don’t mean that as an insult, of course. Perish the thought. Who am I to pass judgment on your creation? Still, I hope you have enjoyed our talks. I am entertaining at least, aren’t I, Lord? You wouldn’t want to lose that, would you? Many of us are entertaining and it would be a shame if we disappeared altogether. Have you considered how you might miss us?” He paused as if listening, then nodded.
“What did he say?” Arista asked.
Merton looked up, startled. “Oh? What he always says.”
She waited, but the monsignor never explained further.
The drums grew louder, the rhythm faster. The sky began to lighten and birds, newly returned to the north, began to sing. The faces of the men and elves grew more serious as the priest of Ferrol entered the ring with a thurible burning Agarwood incense. He began singing softly in elvish.
Gaunt placed a hand to his chest, rubbed his shirt, and whispered to himself. Arista cringed and Hadrian said something sharply but quietly and Gaunt pulled his hand away. Arista glanced at Mawyndul? and suspected the damage was done. The old elf narrowed his gaze at his opponent.
Mawyndul? rose from his seat and walked toward Gaunt. He glanced to the eastern horizon. “Not long now,” he said. “I just wanted to wish you good luck.”
The once Patriarch held out his hand. Gaunt looked at it hesitantly but reached out to shake. Mawyndul? was quick and nimble and he tore Gaunt’s collar wide, revealing the medallion hanging there. He staggered backward as Hadrian and Royce quickly pulled Gaunt away. Mawyndul? sneered and glanced at Arista, then Hadrian, and lastly Myron. He looked about quickly, nervously.
“Not long now,” Royce reminded him. “And how will you fare when your magic is useless?”
Mawyndul? smiled and with clenched teeth he began to laugh.
“Muer wir ahran dulwyer!” Mawyndul? shouted suddenly. All the elves turned to face him. Everyone else looked at Myron.
“He evokes the Right of Champion,” Myron said.
“What does that mean?” Royce asked.
“It means he asks for someone else to fight in his stead.”
“Can he do that?” Arista asked.
“Yes,” Myron replied. “Remember the inscription on the horn: