An idea dawned on her: foolish and dangerous, but far more appealing to her than either of them dying here. Surrendering the Relic would mean giving up this chance to prove her theory, but it might lead to more, better chances. If it worked, she would have not one other champion to sway to her cause, but three: Finley, Carbry, and Elionor. And unlike Isobel, they all could use magick.
Plus, there was history between her and Finley. That had to count for something.
“We could fight,” Briony said slowly. “But I’d rather make a deal.”
Finley’s eyes narrowed, but he didn’t immediately shut her down. Briony decided to consider that a victory. “What kind of deal?”
“I’ll let you have the Sword. But you have to do something for me in return.”
He weighed her words in silence for some time. Knowing Finley, he had entered the tournament with a detailed strategy—one that she knew included the Sword. But it didn’t include her. And flexibility had never been Finley’s strong suit.
“What do you want?” he asked suspiciously.
“I want to join your alliance.”
“Why? Your sister turned us down.”
“I’m not my sister,” said Briony, trying not to wonder how Innes was doing, if Innes was safe.
“How do you know I won’t just turn on you once I have the Sword?”
“I trust you.” Briony thought back to their breakup. How much it still haunted her. Surely it haunted him, too. “You always keep your word. And I don’t think you actually want to kill me.”
Finley stared at her across the crater, the moors around them silent and waiting, the Blood Veil a rusty stain across the sky above. His spellrings glowed with power, but he didn’t cast anything. He was still enough to be made of stone.
“Fine,” he muttered, after what felt like an eternity. “I give you my word.”
Briony sagged with relief. “Really?”
“If you let me have the Relic, I’ll take you back to our Landmark. But I can’t guarantee they’ll let you stay.”
It was a dangerous gamble, but it was the best she could hope for.
“All right,” she said, backing away.
The moment Finley touched the hilt, the red light that shone from the spellstones embedded in the blade swirled around him, then sank into his skin. Finley raised the Sword with a triumphant smile, and Briony’s first thought was that Finley looked complete holding it, as though it was made for him.
Her second thought, as he turned toward her, was how defenseless she truly was now.
“I remember what I said when we broke up,” he told her, holding his weapon high. “But I want you to know that I’ve changed my mind.”
Briony’s heart stuttered with fear. She backed away from him, cursing herself for relying on old feelings and misplaced trust.
But then Finley grinned, teeth stained crimson in the light emanating from the blade, and gestured outward to the moors.
“Now let’s get going.”
Briony thought about fleeing, but she had nowhere else to go. And as Finley led them through the darkness, Briony hoped that she was not a fool to follow him.
* * *
The Monastery was perched very close to the edge of the Blood Veil. During the tournament, its ruins transformed into a building of crumbled stone that looked more dilapidated than grand, even with the power of high magick coursing through it. It had been built on what was now a blanket bog, and over the centuries the building had sunk unevenly into the unstable, loamy ground beneath it. It was one of the largest Landmarks, with reasonable defensive properties, and it was the place Finley, Elionor, and Carbry had chosen as their fortress for the tournament.
Although monks had not lived there since before the first tournament transformed the Landmarks from ordinary buildings to constructions of high magick, traces of their presence remained—in the well-kept gardens out front, in the statues and fountains in the courtyard, and in the small, plain bedrooms that they had built for themselves, slotted into the walls of the building like tiny cells.
It was in one such bedroom that Briony now found herself, stripped of all her spellrings, totally defenseless as Elionor, Carbry, and Finley argued over her fate.
Briony had expected this argument, but she wasn’t prepared for how long it would take: until the morning light streamed through the grimy windows. The lapsed time made fear flare in her like a well-kindled flame, fueled by far too many dangerous thoughts.
That she’d made the wrong decision, not just to trust Finley, but to enter the tournament at all. That if she died here, she would die a traitor to her family. To her sister.