*
“Cass! Cass!”
I looked up, tears streaming down my face, to see a hazy version of Billy’s red shirt dodging through the images. I stared around, suddenly afraid, but there were no murderous fey in sight. Just Billy, looking frantic and furious. And then vastly relieved when he spotted me.
“You’re in here?” He zoomed over and started shaking me. “Why are you in here?”
“I— It’s hard to explain—”
“Never mind. Just get out! Get back inside you!”
“I can’t. I think I ended up in one of the leaders, and he—he has some kind of communication spell on him.” I stared up at Billy’s freaked-out face, and the pieces finally came together. “Billy, I think it might be Seidr!”
“So?”
“So Seidr doesn’t just let you see what’s happening.” I looked around at all those images, all those minds. And remembered Mircea saving Rhea’s life from a few thousand miles away. “It lets you influence it.”
“Cass!”
“Just listen! I’ve been stepping into minds that are linked by the spell. I possessed this guy, kind of by mistake, and now I can leap into any of them! I don’t have to fight the fey for dominance. I don’t have to burn through shields with power I don’t have. I don’t have to do anything—”
“And I say again—so?”
“So I think that’s why Ares cut Mircea’s Seidr connection to me on the drag. I’d blundered into the spell he was using to communicate with the leader, and it made him vulnerable. He was afraid Mircea would use it to hurt him—”
Billy shook me some more. “Ares isn’t here!”
“But someone else is. If I can find the right mind, I may be able to help—”
“Help yourself! You—” He broke off, staring around wildly. And then pointed at a nearby image. “There!”
It took me a second to realize that he’d found this body’s eyes. Which were showing me another battle between witches and Svarestri, only this time, they were in the great hall. And they were fighting over me.
Literally.
A bunch of Svarestri were near the door to the right of the hall, maybe trying to rescue their beleaguered captain. Only instead, they’d run into some witches coming through the door to the left, from the stairs leading down from the royal suite. The predictable had resulted, with the battle taking place over my and the fey’s prone bodies. And knocking us about every time the floor shook from a deflected spell, which was pretty much all the time now.
Something that was not great news to a person hanging precariously over a massive gap in the floor.
“Come on!” Billy yelled, to be heard over the sounds filtering into the fey’s ears from outside.
I shook my head. “Not yet! There’s something I have to do first!”
“Yeah! Not die!” Billy screamed, and then screamed again as the body we were in was hit by a spell, causing it to flop around all over.
I guessed that was what had distracted the fey from searching for me—a greater threat. Only it had just become great enough to convince him that he couldn’t deal with the problem outside until he solved the one within. Because a second later, he appeared out of nowhere, standing over me, sword in hand. It was a shadow, too, but that didn’t matter. It was made from his own energy, which meant—
It was deadly, I thought, looking at one just like it suddenly sticking out of his stomach.
The fey looked down at it, too, for half a second, before toppling over and smashing into smoke against the floor. It wouldn’t last; he wasn’t dead. This whole thing would have disappeared if that were the case. But he was hurt, and that meant—
“Whatever you’re trying to do,” Billy yelled, sword in hand, “do it now!”
I stared around, knowing I didn’t have long. But it wouldn’t take long. If I could only find the right image, the right mind—
And then I did. It was small and far away, but when I concentrated, it zoomed toward me. Like a wide-screen TV and then a theater screen and then an IMAX, filling my view.
And this time, I let it come.
Chapter Fifty-eight
The sky was blue again. It arced overhead, like an upside-down bowl, clear and strong and perfect. I could see glimpses of the fight that raged beyond: the shadow of a body, as if thrown against the sky, magnified to giant-sized before disappearing again. Streaks of light, like deadly rainbows, flashing overhead. Flames dancing in the distance, like trees glimpsed through fog.
But all of it strangely peaceful.
Because all of it was outside the watery protection of Nimue’s shield.
Under the dome, the Svarestri I was possessing dodged a stinging arc of sand and then threw it back, laughing. Because earth was his element, and wasn’t likely to work against him. And because Nimue was at a serious disadvantage.
Aeslinn’s brain obligingly informed me that the fire the witches had started had been aimed at the shield. Being attacked by a wave of Svarestri early in the duel had forced her to encase the combat area in her protection, ensuring no further interference. And putting Aeslinn’s device completely out of reach.
I could see it now, glowing under the sands of the arena: Arthur’s sword was pulling power from the other pieces of that cursed armor, and becoming stronger by the second. But one look at Nimue’s face showed that she was too lost in an Ares-inspired frenzy to notice. And no one else could reach it until the duel ended.
But it didn’t look like that was going to be anytime soon. A tornado exploded through the small area under the dome, sweeping the body I was using off its feet and into a maelstrom of fury. But not for long. As soon as Aeslinn hit earth, it flowed over him, cradling him, pulling him in. Building a bulwark around him that the pounding winds couldn’t penetrate, and allowing his opponent to exhaust herself for nothing.
Yet he didn’t go on the offensive when the winds abruptly stopped, raining sand down everywhere. He didn’t do anything. Because he wasn’t trying to win; he was trying to run out the clock.
And he was succeeding.
Pritkin and the witches were turning the stadium into an inferno to try to evaporate that shield, and let them in. But it was like trying to burn through the sea; all their spells barely touched it. And deploying it had limited Nimue to a single weapon in an element that was not her own.
The result: she was losing, but not fast enough. And I couldn’t help her; the immense amount of effort needed to throw that other fey’s spear offside had been nothing to this. No matter what I did, Aeslinn’s efforts remained undisturbed, elegant and lightning fast. I wasn’t the one holding him back—he was.
He was teasing her, egging her on, keeping the fight going and them entrapped in their own little world. But not hurting her—not really. Because then . . .