My father’s brow furrowed into a pensive frown. “They’re new each time, as far as I know. But you could take a look at the records, if you’re interested. You’ll be adding to them yourself later on; part of the Arbiter’s job is to document the challenges for posterity, once the Gauntlet is done.”
“The Harlows always get stuck with the damn paperwork,” I muttered, and my dad chuckled in response, shrugging a shoulder.
“There are much worse things than documenting this town’s history, scoot. Being its voice, its quiet champion.”
I gave him a flat agree to disagree look. He stifled a sigh, but let it go.
“Where were we . . . ah, the second challenge. That one will take place at the Thorn orchards, a week after the first,” he went on. “And the final challenge is always held on Blackmoore grounds a week later—followed by the closing ball on Samhain Eve, also hosted by the Blackmoores at Tintagel, when the Victor is formally crowned.”
“Of course, so they can enjoy their victory lap,” I commented sourly. “So, three challenges, three combatants . . . what happens if there’s a tie?”
“Well, it never has happened,” he said, brows peaking at the prospect; my father had always managed to pack an impressive amount of emotion into his unruly eyebrows. “But in the very unlikely event that it does, the Grimoire will put forth a final tiebreaker challenge. And the Victor of that one will take home the wreath.”
We probably wouldn’t need to worry about that possibility this time around, either, if Gareth’s effortless reconstruction of my glass was any indication of things to come. But from what I remembered of him, Rowan wasn’t exactly a pushover—and given the general caliber of Avramovs’ abilities, Talia might very well be a powerhouse herself. With the two of them working together, who knew how things might unfold?
“So, those are the broad strokes,” my father said, flipping the Grimoire closed with the quasi-reverent care he reserved for books. “In the meantime, this Grimoire is at your disposal for the duration of the Gauntlet, should you need to refer to it for anything. I’d recommend reacquainting yourself with all the Gauntlet entries, to begin.”
I reached for the Grimoire, steeling myself for another overwhelming magical assault. I didn’t really want to touch it again at all, but at the very least, I’d want to read over the rules, make sure this version didn’t contain any prohibition on an alliance between two houses. As if it sensed my apprehension, the spellbook sat circumspect under my touch, buzzing pleasantly against my skin but nothing more. I found its restraint oddly reassuring, giving me just a little hope that I wasn’t in quite as far over my head as I suddenly felt.
Maybe arbitrating the Gauntlet in the town I thought I’d left behind for good, while I helped Linden and Talia scheme against Gareth Blackmoore, Prince of Bastards, would be manageable after all.
7
The Ring Effect
My got-this attitude soldiered on until the night of the opening ceremony, before summarily abandoning me.
I stood in the vast and unruly garden behind The Bitters, the Avramovs’ demesne, my high heels sinking into the soil beneath the overgrown grass. Wearing the pair of power Jimmy Choos I’d splurged on to celebrate my Enchantify promotion had probably been a bad call, but tonight I needed every shred of confidence I could muster. Deep night loomed above, the crescent moon glowing against it like some trickster’s impish smile. Behind me, an ornate wrought iron fence, twined with ivy and topped with wickedly sharp finials, guarded against the thick woods that hulked behind The Bitters.
And in front of me, the three hundred or so members of the founding families stood robed and gathered, waiting for me to declare the Gauntlet begun.
Firelight from the scattered braziers painted their features with writhing lines of light and shadow, stripping even well-known faces of their familiarity. I couldn’t even pick out my own mother, Nana Caro, or Delilah amid the hooded throng, much less Talia or Linden, though I knew they must all be here tonight; I’d forgotten just how many of us witches there were in this town.
I wasn’t usually one for stage fright, but with the expectant weight of all their eyes on me, the sense of being scrutinized by a host of sinister strangers instead of people I’d grown up with, my heart pounded in sickening lurches, my knees going watery and weak.
“Ready, scoot?” my father murmured into my ear. He’d come to stand behind me, the heavily embroidered purple velvet of the Arbiter’s mantle slung over his arm. The Grimoire sat waiting on the stone table in front of me, splayed open to the page of incantations, two fat pillar candles flickering on either side. The spellbook’s pages stirred in the breeze, and I could feel the eager swell of its magic lapping against me like a rising tide.