Keep it together, Harlow. No one wants to see a giant puke.
Then the disorientation passed—and I plunged through the closed doors just in time to see the combatants enter a gigantic admitting room that was probably called a Great Hall, or Ye Kingly Foyer; the place where tourists were first funneled to take pictures with the members of the “court” before continuing on their way to the shopping, food, and shows.
There, they came to a skidding halt, as a massive, clanking suit of armor stepped out to block their way. The Gauntlet token paused right behind it, glimmering above one of its shoulders like a taunt.
“Shoots from stone,” the suit of armor demanded in a metallic wheeze, spreading its arms expectantly.
The combatants exchanged looks with one another, clearly baffled by what it wanted from them. Gareth decided to play it tricky and feinted to one side, presumably to see if maybe that’s what the Grimoire had meant by wit. Juking sideways in a flash, the empty knight hauled off and whacked Gareth upside the head—hard enough for the clank of impact to ricochet all around the hall, apparently more for effect than to inflict any actual damage. Gareth took a stumbling step back, rubbing petulantly at his head, looking more annoyed than hurt.
“Shoots . . . from . . . stone,” the suit said again, more belabored this time, as if it was coaching not particularly bright children.
“Shoots from stone,” Rowan repeated to himself, face clearing, and I could see the glinting moment the penny dropped. “Shoots from stone, wait . . . The Verdant Awakening Charm! That’s it, right? That’s what you want?”
The suit tipped its head to the side encouragingly, then whistled the lilting notes of a melody, naggingly familiar. For some reason, it reminded me of the last line of the challenge. Consider them query and answer both . . .
“What the fuck?” Gareth muttered beside Rowan. “I still don’t get it.”
Rowan stood in confusion for a moment, then let out a whooping laugh, slapping his thighs. “Wow, really? Okay, I guess, why not. What is the Verdant Awakening Charm?”
“Grimoire Jeopardy!” Talia exclaimed, as she got it, too. “It’s playing magical Jeopardy! with us!”
But the answering question wasn’t enough by itself, I realized, as the suit of armor gestured at Rowan again; it wanted him to cast the actual spell. This challenge was about testing the combatants’ knowledge and recollection of the Grimoire, but also their proficiency at casting the spells themselves.
And of course it would have been Rowan who remembered this one first; it was a green spell, falling squarely in the Thorn domain. But the Thorns also made a habit of studying the Grimoire’s hundreds of spells more extensively than most Avramovs and Blackmoores ever bothered to do. The two stronger families could usually realize their magical intent by brute force, without bothering with specificity and finesse.
Unlike them, the Thorns tended to do their homework, and here that effort counted.
Grinning broadly, Rowan cast Verdant Awakening, drawing shoots of green from the cracks between the floor’s stone blocks, polished smooth as river rock by hordes of tourist feet. His ivy sprouted quickly and easily, climbing into the air as if searching for a trellis, and the suit of armor clasped its gauntlets together, then beckoned Rowan through.
When Gareth tried to race after him in pursuit, the empty knight bore down on him, reaching for the scabbarded sword slung around its waist.
“Shoots from stone,” it demanded, threat and a hint of exasperation coloring its rusty tone.
“Are you serious?” Gareth snapped. “Thorn already told you! Or asked you, whatever.”
“We have to cast, too, numbnuts,” Talia muttered, gritting her teeth as she spread her hands in preparation. Though this was probably the easiest plant spell in the book, one she could certainly do—shit, even I could pull off Verdant Awakening, given enough time—as an Avramov, it wouldn’t come as easily to her. “Welcome to the fucking competition.”
“Do you seriously have to be so nasty all the time, Talia?” Gareth complained with a curled lip, affronted. “You’re the one who’s cheating, I haven’t even done anything to—”
“Oh, eat my shorts, Blackmoore, why don’t you.”
As the two of them began casting, still sniping at each other, I sped off after Rowan, who was hurtling down a long hallway decorated with tapestries of fox hunts and medieval battles, gargoyles clinging to the interstices between the high ceiling and the walls. One of them abruptly came to life, with an awful grinding sound like a trash disposal trying to chew up a stray fork. It uttered a shrill caw, before dropping down into the hallway with a crash that seemed to shake the castle down to its fundaments, spreading its wings to block Rowan’s approach.