“Well, yes. My family has a library filled with the winners’ records of their tournaments.”
“And you’ve read them all?”
“Of course.”
“That’s very impressive.” Briony understood now what he’d meant by knowledge. “I bet you know everything about this tournament.”
Carbry’s chest puffed up a little. He looked far more confident than he had a few moments ago, his round cheeks flushed with pride. Briony wondered if anyone had ever given him a compliment before.
“If that’s what all your books say, then why did you ask my sister?” Briony asked.
“That was Finley’s idea, not ours.”
Briony had no doubt that Finley did have a grand plan here, but she still couldn’t put the pieces together. “And you just go along with his ideas?”
“It’s my best chance,” Carbry said solemnly. “The Darrows have only won the tournament a handful of times, and I could tell, saying goodbye to everyone last night, that they don’t expect me to come back. Elionor pretends to be confident, but the Paynes don’t have the greatest track record, either. It must be nice to come from a family who make your chances of winning better, not worse.”
The stark honesty in his voice struck Briony hard. It reminded her of the way Isobel had always talked about her family, done everything she could to distance herself from their reputation.
She didn’t blame Carbry for being frightened about what could befall him beneath the Blood Veil. But if she could end this tournament peacefully, Carbry could go home. They all could. And her own fear aside—that was worth fighting for.
“It’s not fair,” she said quietly. “Nothing about this tournament is.”
“Unless you’re a Lowe,” Carbry grumbled.
“If you’re a Lowe, it’s just unfair in your favor.”
Briony was uncertain how Alistair Lowe factored into her plans. She wanted to save as many people as possible, but she wasn’t sure the Lowe champion would want the tournament ended. Not when his family had benefited the most from it for so many years. If nothing else, A Tradition of Tragedy had shown her just how much the Lowes had gained through their repeated wins.
“It doesn’t have to go the way it always has,” she continued, feeling emboldened. “The Lowes don’t have to walk away with the prize. We could change that.”
“By killing the Lowe, you mean?” Carbry sighed. “He’s probably holed up somewhere, whispering sweet nothings to his death curses. We can’t compete with him.”
We might not have to. The words were on the tip of Briony’s tongue. Carbry was clearly disillusioned by all this—maybe she could say something to him. Set him on the same path she was on.
But before she could speak, a noise rang out through the room, sharp and blaring—a tripped defense ward. Carbry rushed to the window and gazed out at the courtyard, his outstretched hand glimmering with magick.
“What is it?” Briony asked, hurrying behind him.
“Someone’s come for us.” Carbry’s voice was hollow with fear. “The Monastery is under attack.”
ALISTAIR LOWE
There’s a rumor that the Lowe champions often go mad after they win. Maybe it’s not the weight of their conscience—maybe it’s the weight of a secret.
A Tradition of Tragedy
Alistair Lowe was brooding.
He lay in a mahogany four-poster bed, surrounded by crystals collected from spellmakers all over town. He held a particular teardrop stone up to the dim candlelight and examined it. The death curse inside from Reid MacTavish was one of the most powerful weapons he’d received, but he couldn’t trust that the cursemaker hadn’t tampered with it. All this magick, and he couldn’t trust any of it.
He groaned and threw it across the room. It clunked against the damp stone walls of the Cave.
Alistair was far superior at casting spells than crafting them. After botching the Vintner’s Plague a week ago for his grandmother, he didn’t trust himself to meddle with the stone in case he accidentally blew himself up in the progress. All that effort and intimidation to amass this deadly trove, and now he lay upon it bitterly, a dragon hoarding its worthless treasure.
Of course, the collection contained a prized piece—the Lowe family’s signature curse, the Lamb’s Sacrifice. Not only did it annihilate anyone in close proximity, but it sucked the magick out of their bodies, leaving a withered, gray corpse and a fortune in raw magick behind. It could penetrate any common magick shield through class ten. It wasn’t a guarantee—after all, one third of the Lowe champions still perished—but it was almost invincible.