Briony shook her head, unsure what that had to do with anything.
“All of the eligible candidates train their entire lives, and growing up, we were told there was a test to choose the champion,” Finley explained. “And so my cousins and I waited, and waited. Until the tournament was days away, and the adults hadn’t said a word.
“And that’s when I realized. Our champion isn’t selected—our champion volunteers. Whether or not they’re the strongest doesn’t matter. What matters is that they’re mentally prepared and willing, no matter the outcome. Our code is simple: honor, valor, integrity. A champion who chooses this is one prepared to uphold all three of our family’s values in life—and in the tournament.”
“So you volunteered to protect your family,” she whispered.
“Yes. And no. I volunteered because I wanted to do my family proud. But I wouldn’t have volunteered if the Thorburns had named you champion instead of Innes.”
Briony remembered the way he’d looked at her when the Landmarks were still ruins. When she was still the champion’s sister. “You didn’t want to fight me.”
“Of course not. I never changed my mind. And then when I saw you here that first night…” It was now his voice that shook. “I won’t kill you. Why the hell would you ask me to?”
Briony hadn’t thought she could possibly feel worse, but she did.
“So you’ve done some fucked-up things to get here—I won’t pretend that my strategy was ever noble, either. But I’m realizing that nothing about the tournament is good, and my family’s code of honor will never make up for that. I think it’s time to write my own rules. To find my own way to make things right.”
Then he held out a hand.
“Come on,” he said. “Get up.”
She took it, then rose hesitantly to her feet. They were very close now. She could see the remnants of a few faded cursemarks against his skin, the dried blood still crusted to the collar of his polo shirt.
“I want to make things right, too,” she said.
“Then don’t give me your guilt. You need to take responsibility for yourself and the people you’ve hurt.” Finley paused, and he didn’t need to add that he was one of them. “If you really mean what you say, then you won’t surrender. You won’t give up.”
He wasn’t giving her an ending. But he wasn’t giving her a new beginning, either.
“Then what happens now?” Briony asked.
“The two of us finish what you started. No matter what it makes us to our families—heroes, villains. I don’t care. And I don’t think you do anymore, either.”
Briony felt a gratitude beyond measure well up inside of her. She would no longer be adrift. She would find a new way forward, and she wouldn’t have to find it alone.
“So you … you want to go back to the Monastery?” she asked.
But Finley shook his head. “Elionor told me what you said about the septogram, and that she didn’t care. I don’t think the others will believe you, either. Not without indisputable proof.”
Briony eyed the Sword on Finley’s back. Just minutes ago, it had rested against her neck. And now it could be the first step to all of their salvation.
“Well, I know how you can get that proof,” Briony said. “Alistair has left the Cave unattended. He’s at the Castle. And you’ve got the Sword.”
Something ignited in Finley’s eyes. Determination. His gaze moved past her to the mountains beyond them, where the Cave was hidden. And then he turned back toward her.
“Then let’s go,” he said.
Briony nodded, then knelt to collect her spellrings. She knew the truth about herself now. She had caused so much pain, so much damage. And she’d been trying to end the tournament for the wrong reasons. But if she and Finley could prove this was real, maybe, just maybe, she could find the right ones.
ISOBEL MACASLAN
Our families kept this secret for centuries. Seems to me that means, on some level, we all know that what we’ve been doing is wrong.
A Tradition of Tragedy
For several heartbeats after the drawbridge lowered to the earth, no one moved.
Isobel tightened the Cloak over her shoulders.
Gavin cracked his neck.
Alistair hovered behind them, dark and noiseless as a shadow.
Gavin was the first to stride over the bridge. Though Carbry’s death had lightened the effect of the Blood Veil, the difference was slight, and Gavin in particular did not wear the scarlet-tinged day well. Every shadow of his cheekbones and jawline seemed starker, any softness in his face washed out. His cool blond hair looked almost colorless.