Alistair offered up a class six Dragon’s Breath that he’d just set into a golden band.
“You’re rotten at school, but your parents still insist you’re bright,” Alistair guessed. “But it has nothing to do with that, bright or not. You just stopped trying a long time ago.”
“I’m at the top of my class,” the Grieve said dryly. “And I’d be surprised if my parents even knew that.”
“Another champion who hates his parents. It’s becoming a cliché. Hating your family doesn’t make you better than them.”
Even though he had no reason to, Alistair took another sip.
The Grieve’s gaze had a piercing edge, like he was trying to peel back Alistair’s layers one by one. He grimaced as he swallowed. Alistair had noticed he favored one of his arms—maybe he’d been cursed during his own fight that evening. “You can keep your stone and call it even. I do hate my parents. But I know you weren’t really talking about me.”
They continued playing. He was more proficient at this game than Alistair had expected, which irritated him.
Alistair reached for the bottle. “I guess I’ll need more, then.”
The Grieve slid another of Alistair’s spellstones from the pot to his collection, which, despite all their time sitting here, he’d somehow made no progress in filling with magick. Probably because he was focused on absolutely obliterating Alistair in this game. He’d guessed a baffling amount of information on him, and apart from some class eight curse called Revenge of the Forsaken—the Grieve had literally pouted when he’d taken it—Alistair had won little, and his newly crafted hoard was quickly diminishing. With most of his possessions still in the Cave, Alistair obviously needed enough spells and curses to defend himself, but he was struggling to care. After all, each one of the other boy’s answers gave Alistair another excuse to drain his glass.
“You think Briony’s theory is horseshit,” Alistair said.
Alistair had hoped the Grieve would take the bait and discuss it—Alistair still burned with the need to discuss it—but instead, the boy only smiled and took a sip.
“The last Lowe champion won after only four days,” the Grieve said. “I bet that eats at you.”
“Like even the idea of a Grieve winning eats at you.”
“If Isobel wasn’t protecting you, you would’ve died tonight.” The Grieve’s words were slurred. “You might be a Lowe, but you’re not special. Finley could’ve gutted you.” He glanced, once again, at the suits of armor. “Or I could have.”
I always wanted to be the one who killed you, Elionor had told him after she’d cursed him. And she was hardly the only one. All of Ilvernath had likely stared at the lightening Blood Veil and hoped it had been Alistair who’d died.
“Is that what you want? To fight me?” Alistair asked quietly. He stood up, and his balance veered slightly. “You could still lose the tournament, but at least … at least you’d have that, right? At least you killed the Lowe.”
The Grieve tipped his bottle to the side, as if lightly surprised he’d made so much progress. “Yeah. At least I would have that.”
“Should I be afraid of you, then?”
“I thought we weren’t asking questions.”
“I’m not sure we’re still playing.”
“But I have a question, and if you answer it, then I promise not to kill you before the sun rises.” The Grieve’s threat sounded real, like he believed he could actually kill him. And maybe he could. If Alistair was weak enough to let Hendry die, then maybe he was weak enough to lose to a Grieve, too.
Now furious enough to consider a fight, Alistair grunted. “Fine. Ask your question.”
The Grieve leaned forward, and when he looked at Alistair, he looked at his throat.
“That ring on your fourth finger—it’s the only one you were wearing earlier, besides your champion’s ring. It’s a curse, isn’t it? A powerful one.”
Alistair stiffened, all the anger seeping out of him. He could ask him about anything … anything but that. When he squeezed his eyes shut, he stood at the edge of his family’s estate. The forest in front of him was eerily quiet, the house behind him quieter.
“It must be powerful. It’s clearly the most precious stone you have,” the Grieve said. “So what was sacrificed to grant you that?”
Alistair stared at the bottom of his bottle, though there was nothing left inside it.