“Go to sleep,” he grumbled, calling off his shadow, which diminished into his natural one once more. “But no more tricks.”
When Isobel didn’t move, Alistair strode away himself. He slipped into bed, his back to her, and feigned sleep.
But he didn’t rest, not even when she finally, reluctantly, arranged a pile of her clothes on the floor and laid down on the ground. Now his shame tasted sharp and sour.
Even if Alistair was tired of twisting himself into something cruel, he didn’t know who he was otherwise. Goodness served no purpose in the tournament. And no matter what he felt for Isobel, she was still an opponent.
And it wasn’t as though Isobel actually returned those feelings, anyway.
He rolled over to glance at her, to apologize. But across the room, her eyes were closed and her breathing steady. She was asleep.
It must have been tiring, being afraid all the time.
He should know.
Alistair slipped out of bed and skulked to the grotto. He lay on his back at the lake’s edge, the way Hendry used to nap in the family graveyard. If Alistair had paid more attention to those tombstones or the portraits lining the estate’s walls, he might’ve realized the sinister truth behind his family’s success before it was too late.
But he hadn’t.
He hated himself.
His guilt told him to let Isobel go free. His grief told him it was a blessing he had someone here, that he’d never done well alone. And his heart warned him the only one of them in true danger of being hurt was him.
It was absurd to wish for Isobel’s powers back, because the moment she had them, they would become enemies once more.
I could still kill her, he assured himself. If she had her powers back, if she threatened me, I could still do it.
A red light broke through the darkness, a color Alistair instantly recognized as high magick. The pillar on the small island in the lake’s center glowed as one of its seven stars shone red, then fell across the stone, mimicking the way a real shooting star would course through the sky.
Another Relic was falling.
Alistair touched the spellstone on the side of the wall that would grant him a closer look, and a bridge unfurled across the lake, glowing red with high magick. He crossed it hastily, checking to make sure the star glowing was the one he’d thought.
It was the fourth star, the one Alistair knew from his studies signified the Cloak. The object protected the wearer from all spells and curses crafted with common magick, and it was imbued with enchantments for silencing footsteps and camouflage. It was the strongest defensive Relic of the tournament.
His wish—a much better, desperate wish—had been granted.
He didn’t need to kill Isobel. Not now … maybe not until the tournament’s end. So long as he managed this.
Careful not to wake her, Alistair crept back to the main cavern, slipped on a number of his newly crafted spellrings, slung Isobel’s empty duffel bag over his shoulder, and slunk out of his lair. An especially red star burned in the crimson night sky, a trail of light streaking behind it. Alistair sat atop his mountain and watched it fall.
He’d gotten lucky—the Relic was heading for the base of the mountain, where rocks met forest. Alistair descended and followed the path around the woods until he came upon a quarry. The Cloak glowed in a halo of red light at its rocky base, floating, waiting.
He heard a pop! Followed by another, and the telltale mist of common magick. Here to There spells. Alistair cursed as two other figures appeared at the opposite end of the quarry. He should’ve known other champions would come to claim the prize.
A curse whizzed across the night. Alistair threw up a Shark’s Skin shield to block it. Then he wasted no time starting down the steep hill to the quarry’s base.
And immediately slipped on a rock.
He fell, and he tumbled down the hill far faster than he could’ve run it. He came to a dizzy stop at the bottom, covered in bruises. He stifled a yelp of pain as he tried to push himself up. He’d injured his forearm badly, perhaps even broken it. So much attention had gone into preparing powerful spells and curses, yet he hadn’t bothered to craft ones that would make up for his clumsiness.
The Cloak now hovered fifteen meters away.
He got to his feet shakily in time to dodge another curse.
“Impressive,” said a voice from behind him. Alistair whipped around and faced the Blair champion’s Sword—he definitely hadn’t had that Relic the last time they’d run into each other. “Should we even bother killing you? Or will you fall down another cliff for us?”