“I will curse you,” Elionor snapped, but she sounded more annoyed than angry. “And you should stop worrying about your casting abilities. Finley and I promised to protect you.”
Briony felt a rush of horror as she thought of what Finley had admitted to during their conversation. That these people, whom he treated as friends, were the ones he’d decided were easiest to kill. But would she have been any less ruthless in this tournament if her family had chosen her? She knew the answer, knew her own strategy well. Take the Tower. Ally with Isobel, if she could manage it. Corner and destroy the others, one by one.
And then stab her former best friend in the back. The thought had always felt distant to her, an inconvenient truth she kept tucked away. Now it made her sick just to think about it.
If Finley noticed her pointed stare, he purposefully ignored it.
“I agree that we miscalculated,” Finley said. “We can’t afford for our opponents to claim any more Relics. We need to be more aggressive. The next time one falls, we’ll all go to claim it.”
“I think we should act now,” Elionor countered. “We’ve been waiting around for a week, and we already have a Relic. Gavin doesn’t. We could take him out.”
Finley gave Briony a look. Briony understood—on the way back, they’d discussed a need to prove what was going on before taking their theory to the rest of their alliance. But to do so, they’d need another Relic, and they’d need to know which Landmark to pair it with. Briony couldn’t unite the Sword with the Cave while Alistair lurked inside. And neither of them wanted anyone to die unnecessarily in the meantime.
Elionor, in particular, would want proof of her theory. So Briony would be patient, no matter how much it killed her to wait. Until the next Relic fell. Until Elionor learned to trust her more.
“Gavin almost beat all four of us on our own turf,” Briony said hastily. “I don’t care that he’s a Grieve. We need to take him seriously as a threat, and that means waiting and sticking to the plan.”
“I’m okay with that,” Carbry said.
“So three of us are voting for this plan?” Briony asked.
Elionor frowned at all of them. “We came here to fight. We have to remember that.”
“We do,” Finley said quickly. “And you know I value that about you. But I bet Carbry’s research says that nobody’s won this tournament by just charging in without thinking about it.”
“Um, actually, there was a Thorburn a hundred and sixty years ago…”
Finley frowned at Carbry, who quieted. He reminded Briony so much of Innes in that moment, from all the times Briony would cut her off when she got overexcited about her research. It made her heart hurt.
“It’s settled,” Finley said firmly.
Briony was surprised by how much she liked the idea of the four of them fixing the tournament together. She already had Finley on her side. Maybe it wouldn’t be so hard to convince the others to join her.
If I can get them to tell me their stories, if we can recover another Relic, we can test this theory for real, Briony thought, looking around at the allies she’d found. I just need more time.
An image rushed into her head of Innes lying on the ground, unconscious. Of the way her sister’s severed finger had felt in her hand, the bone glinting at the edge as she yanked off the champion’s ring. She would make that sacrifice worth it. She had to.
ISOBEL MACASLAN
Just like the Landmarks, the Relics come with unique pros and cons. For example, the Cloak allows its wearer to be shielded from all harm, but it makes it more difficult to cast offensive magic.
A Tradition of Tragedy
Isobel was woken in the middle of the night by Alistair looming over her.
She shrieked and yanked up a fistful of the T-shirt she’d used as a blanket, as though it would be enough to protect her from a gruesome death.
But rather than kill her, Alistair tossed her duffel bag onto her lap. “It’s yours. Take it.” He was pale—paler than usual. And he held his left arm limply at his side, bruised purple.
Isobel suspiciously unzipped the bag, certain this was some sort of trick. Inside was something soft, silky, and white, but it wasn’t until she pulled it out that she realized what it was.
“The Cloak?” she asked, stricken. She didn’t understand.
“The one and only,” he said dryly. “It’s invincible. And it’s yours.” He stalked over to his desk, where he rummaged through the loose crystals for a particular spellstone. Then he leaned against the wall, his lips a thin line, and began to heal his arm. Isobel realized it was broken.