“Sure, you could do that. And condemn your father to pain, disfigurement, and an eternity of humiliating, silent servitude.” Butterfly buzzed around my head.
“Shut up, Butterfly.” I looked around for something I could use as a flyswatter.
“Whatever happens, you’ll fail. Your father is counting on you, but you’ll let him down. Again.”
There, in the chest, was a satin shoe with a jeweled buckle. That could work. I stood, holding the shoe behind my back, and located the Eidolon where it perched, black wings pulsing, on the bed frame.
Slam!
I checked the bottom of the shoe. Nothing. Then a slash of pain as Butterfly’s fangs took a chunk out of the back of my neck. I slapped the spot, only to bruise myself with the stupid shoe.
“Butterflies don’t move that fast,” I griped, dropping the shoe back into the chest. “They flit. They flutter. What they don’t do is rocket. Anyway, this situation isn’t my fault. I didn’t challenge Rhudda. He challenged me, and gave me no choice but to accept.”
“Of course it’s your fault. It’s always your fault—haven’t you realized that yet? Take a step back. Your father wouldn’t even be in the Darklands if it weren’t for you.”
“Shut up.”
“And Pryce wouldn’t be here either if you’d gotten it right at the Devil’s Coffin.”
“I said, shut up.”
“And—”
A knock sounded on the door. Butterfly soared up to the ceiling and dive-bombed me, slamming back inside my gut.
Damn, that hurt.
Half bent over and clutching my abdomen, I hobbled to the door. I couldn’t get a breath to ask who was there, so I pulled it open.
Dad strode into the room, looking like a medieval nobleman on his way to a banquet. He wore a burgundy velvet tunic and royal blue leggings, along with a short cape made of a rich brocade—but no beards. In the two seconds since I opened the door, the colors darkened. The magic was turning them black.
“You’re not dressed yet? Hurry up, Vic, we don’t want to keep Rhudda waiting.”
“We don’t? What I want is to get the hell out of here and keep that damn giant waiting forever.” I kicked at the pile of silks by the bed. “I’m not dressing up. I don’t see why I should sit at a table loaded with food I can’t eat just so that stupid giant can taunt us.” I grabbed my father’s hand. “Dad, what if I shifted? I’ve been thinking about it. We could go back to the archery range, where there’s room. I’ll change into a pterodactyl and carry you over the wall and—”
Dad’s expression cut me off, and my hopes of escape faded. “It wouldn’t work here. The magic is wrong. Out in the Ordinary, you shift by building up energy until it blasts out and forces the change. Remember what I said about magic being substance here? I could work with that magic to change my form—any shade can—but it’s a difficult process and the results are unstable. The magic wants to shape itself to our spiritual energy, our personality, really. That’s why shades look like they did in the Ordinary.”
Scratch that idea. I hadn’t held much hope for it, anyway. In the Black, I’d tried to shift into a bird and failed. No reason it would work deeper inside the Darklands.
“We need to be at Rhudda’s feast, Vic. Our best chance at surviving is to exploit his arrogance. Think about it. The guy surrounds himself with his vanquished foes. He constantly wears a cloak that never stops telling him how great and powerful and mighty he is. If there’s a formula for hubris, that’s got to be it.”
He picked up a gown from the pile and inspected it. He tossed it aside and chose another. This one was emerald green with gold accents; it had a slim cut and bell sleeves. He held it out to me.
“Humor him, Vic. If Rhudda is going to make a mistake, he’ll make it through overconfidence. Our task is to inflate that overconfidence—”
“Until it blows up in his ugly face.” It was worth a try, I supposed. Sighing, I took the gown, and Dad went to wait outside while I put it on. His own outfit was completely black now.
Inflate Rhudda’s overconfidence. Sharp butterfly wings sawed at my gut as I pictured the arrows that had littered the ground around my target. Yeah, I was good at that.
23
RHUDDA’S MASSIVE BANQUET HALL WAS AT LEAST AS BIG AS his archery range, big enough for a couple of pro football teams to start up an impromptu game. The walls were hung with twenty-foot-tall tapestries depicting—what else?—scenes from Rhudda’s life. Tables were positioned around the walls, and servants scurried back and forth carrying platters of food and pitchers of ale. In the center, acrobats and jugglers performed, and dogs fought each other for bones tossed by the diners. At the far end of the hall, a long table perched on a platform. Rhudda sat in the middle, parked on a gilded throne. Hubris, definitely. The guy was swimming in it.
“Another pottle of ale!” shouted Rhudda. He waved a huge mug that looked like it held at least half a gallon. So that was a pottle. Tomorrow it would be filled to the rim with my blood.
I made my way across the room, tripping over the hem of my now-white dress. I was required to sit at the high table, but I took the farthest seat from Rhudda. I plopped myself down and propped my chin on my fist, watching everyone else eat. My stomach grumbled, and not from Butterfly’s constant irritation. I was hungry, and the food smelled good. Worse, I was thirsty. It felt like my tongue and throat were coated with sand.
I’d steeled myself to make it through this journey without food or drink. But part of me thought, “Why the hell not?” I wasn’t going to become an expert archer overnight. After I lost tomorrow, Rhudda would drain my blood into his huge mug, and my physical body would die. I’d be stuck in the Darklands—until it was time for my spirit to be recycled into a new body.
A servant set down a platter of potatoes fried with onions, still sizzling hot, right in front of me. Their scent made my stomach rumble again. No one else reached for the golden-brown morsels. They sat there, smelling like heaven. I pushed the plate away.
Dad, who was sitting beside our host, didn’t look like he was having any trouble enjoying himself. His ale mug wasn’t as big as Rhudda’s, but since I’d come in he’d already drained it twice and was joining Rhudda in calling for a refill. He banged his mug on the table with one hand and threw his other arm around Rhudda’s shoulders. When he saw me watching them, he waved me over.
“Hey, Vic, c’mere!” His cap sat crooked on his head, falling over one eye. Never, in all my life, had I ever seen my father drunk. Until now.
That was it. I pushed back my chair and got up to leave. Tonight, of all nights, I did not want to see Dad drunk and sloppy and yukking it up with the giant who wanted to destroy us both. I stepped down from the dais.
“Victory.” The edge in my father’s voice, as hard and sharp as a sword, made me stop and turn around. Dad had taken off his cockeyed cap, and his eyes burned in a face that was both sober and dead serious. He nodded, a quick, sharp gesture. Then he slapped his squashed cap back on his head and let his face relax back into slackness. He picked up his mug, sloshing ale over the side, and guffawed at something Rhudda had said.
Lifting the hem of my skirt so I wouldn’t trip over the damn thing for the fifteenth time, I went over to see what he wanted.
“Ah, here’s my little archer!” Dad’s words ran together in a blurred stream of sound. “Vic, don’t be so glum. Whatever happens tomorrow, happens. Let’s enjoy ourselves while we can. Right, Rhudda?”
He slapped the giant on the back. Rhudda and one of the beards of his cloak burped simultaneously.
Rhudda eyed me critically, his look just short of a leer. “I see you found a gown that fits,” he said. “It almost makes you look like a proper wench.”
Wench? Did he really say “wench”? God, I was trapped in the Renaissance faire from hell.
“Now, here’s a proper wench.” Rhudda grabbed the busty woman who was trying to refill his mug and pulled her onto his lap. Ale sprayed up in a fountain as she squealed and giggled and pushed ineffectually at his arm. In the part of the cloak closest to her, lips pursed and tongues flicked out, trying to touch her. She laughed, but disgust showed in her eyes.
Rhudda let her up and swatted her ass as she bent over to pick up the flagon. She let out a hiss that sounded like pure rage to me, but the giant didn’t notice. He called after her as she hurried away, promising her a place in his bed tonight. What more could a wench possibly hope for?
I stepped back to make sure I was out of reach.
“Vic,” said Dad, putting a hand on my arm, “our host is in a generous mood tonight.”
“Indeed, I am,” belched Rhudda. “Your father is an excellent storyteller. Perhaps I’ll delay clipping his beard until I’ve heard all he has to tell.”
Was that why Dad had called me over, to let me know he was pulling a Scheherazade, fascinating his enemy with stories to extend his life? If so, he’d given up on me.
Then Rhudda roared with laughter, as though he’d just made the funniest joke ever. “There’s only one story I’ll be wanting to hear from that beard,” he said, wiping spittle from his lips.
For a moment, Dad looked stricken, like Rhudda had punched him hard in the gut. But then he picked up his tankard and joined the giant in his laughter.
“You haven’t won yet,” I said.
My comment sent Rhudda into fresh fits of laughter. He leaned over, pounding the table, as his beard straggled into his food. For one happy moment, I thought he was choking. But that’s not how my luck was running.
“I have, I have,” he said. “As surely as Sir Evan here has a beard…now…I’ve already won.” He leaned back. “Two of my archers spied on your practice. They told me what kind of competitor to expect. But even if you were the reincarnation of Robin Hood himself, you could not beat me. None can.”
