“That’s what I mean about willingness to be wicked.” He grinned slyly over the pages of his puzzle book. “And yes, I know I could make a joke out of that. You think I wouldn’t check your thoughts to make sure you told the truth?”
Her skin heated, and she turned over her wrist, where she knew—could she see it—the mark of the Divining Kiss would be, in the shape of Alistair’s lips. While she’d been distracted by the Reaper’s Embrace, he’d made one of her signature spells and used it against her. She swore and bent down to pick up the discarded paper. “Stop casting spells on me.”
He absentmindedly picked up a quartz discarded on the moth-eaten duvet. “Make me.”
She was afraid. She was humiliated. She was angry.
And he could see all of that.
“It doesn’t matter,” Isobel bit out. “None of it matters. We only need to make the high magick spell.”
“And where do you plan to get raw high magick?”
“The tournament is full of high magick. That’s what holds it together. I figured you knew how.”
“You’re right about the tournament, but none of that power comes in raw form. The high magick in the Landmarks and the Relics is already crafted into spells and curses.”
“What if we buried a Relic, like we did with your rings?” Isobel suggested.
He paused to consider her question. “The raw high magick would seep out, but we wouldn’t be able to sense it. The only people who can sense it are the members of the winning tournament family, and until this tournament is over … that’s no one.”
Isobel’s heart sank. “So we can wield the high magick enchantments that have already been given to us, but we can’t make new ones.”
“Exactly.”
Without using raw high magick, it would be impossible to craft a Null and Void spell strong enough to fix her powers.
Isobel’s chest fluttered with panic, but she didn’t want to break down. Not here.
“Does your dragon’s lair come with a shower?” she asked coolly.
Alistair nodded at another hallway, his gaze fixed on his crossword. Isobel grabbed a clean set of clothes out of her duffel bag—sneaking as many spellstones as she could into the pants’ pockets—and followed the hallway to … not a bathroom, but a lake. The room was lined with torches, making shadows dance across the water’s surface. In the center was a small island with a pillar jutting up from it, just like the Champions Pillar Isobel had carved her name into less than twenty-four hours ago. Isobel warily inspected the murky water, as though a sea serpent or other foul creature might lurk beneath.
After determining the lake to be both clean and uninhabited—and double-checking that Alistair hadn’t followed her down the hallway—Isobel undressed and soaked away the accumulated mud and filth. She teased the knots out of her hair, trying to focus on the plan budding in her mind instead of her growing tidal wave of dread.
If what Alistair said about high magick was true, then she had no reason to stay with him. In fact, she needed to escape immediately. Alistair could change his mind about keeping her alive at any moment.
When she finished and dressed, Isobel slipped down the Cave toward the entrance, her heart pounding so loudly she feared Alistair could hear it. She doubted that any of the other champions had claimed the Crypt, and so she would go there, to her family’s favorite Landmark. It would be perilous, especially if she encountered another champion, but it was the best chance she had.
However, as she neared the Cave’s mouth, she slammed into something invisible and hard. She jolted back and rubbed her bruised forehead.
“Going somewhere?” Alistair purred from behind her.
She swore under her breath. He’d warded the entrance both ways—she couldn’t escape. “I wanted some air.”
“I can’t have you leaving and telling the other champions about my predicament. Besides, you’re still useful. You can help me craft new spells.” Alistair walked away, his footsteps echoing down the cavern.
Isobel remained there for several moments longer, cursing herself for yet another terrible mistake. She had willingly made herself his prisoner. And he would dispose of her the second she failed to be of use.
She pressed a hand over her mouth, stifling a sob. Her entire body trembled, and the wave of dread seemed to crash over her, dragging her under.
But no, she couldn’t let herself drown. She was a Macaslan. She was a survivor.
After collecting herself as best she could, she returned to the bedroom, where Alistair lay on the bed and scribbled something into his crossword.