Chapter 93: The Game
Galadriel stared at Azriel's hands. He was sharpening Truth Teller, though he rarely used the dagger enough to warrant the need. He'd come into her and Rhysand's room about twenty minutes ago, her mate having left for an early council meeting. Azriel's hazel eyes flickered from the steel to her face. They were just as she remembered, bright and gold, like the golden hour before the sun set below the city streets. "You're staring," he said, going back to his knife. He sat in front of the small seat before the window, the hazy white curtains diluting the sunlight pouring in, casting him in a soft halo.
"You're in my room," Galadriel said, finally pulling herself away from looking at his hands. Shifting from the middle of the mattress where Rhys had only half-willingly let her take over during the night, she sat on the edge of the bed, letting her toes tease the cool rug beneath. "You don't usually come in here."
Azriel did what he always did whenever he was amused—tilted the corner of his lip but said nothing. Sliding from the bed completely, Galadriel wandered towards him, taking in the still breathtaking sight of his glorious Illyrian wings. He let her come near without response until her chest was practically brushing his wide shoulder. "Do you need something?" he asked.
"You're in my room," she repeated with a bit more mirth. "Do you need something, Shadowsinger?"
He looked at her for a long moment, then shook his head, going back to his dagger. "No."
Huffing lightly, Galadriel angled her head to watch him deftly smoothen the stone across the blade, the metal ringing at a constant pitch. Her eyes traced up along his arm, the hills of muscle clear even beneath the thick leather, to his shoulder all the way up to his wings again. The light made the veins within the membrane glow.
"Cassian told me you learned to fly late," she mused.
Azriel regarded the observation and then nodded. "I did. It took me longer to pick up."
"You have scars," she said, eyeing the white markings that looked like the sharp claws of pissed-off cats had a go at him. Were they always like that? "Do any of them still hurt?"
Azriel put Truth Teller back in its sheath at his leg, the stone balanced on the arm of the chair. "Not anymore."
Slowly, but not hesitantly, Galadriel lifted her hand and reached for the closest one. The wing twitched as she dusted her fingertips over the membrane, and Azriel paused his work on the blade to focus on her. She took stock of his face, the way he set his shoulders low as if to open himself a little more. Placing her palm completely on his wing, she smoothed her hand across its length, right up to the large tendon that even Rhys only let her touch when he was already close to letting himself go.
Like he intended to make the exchange a mutual one, a scarred hand came to rest on her hip. His fingers curled around the fabric of her skirt, slowly rolling it into his palm, edging the hem higher.
Galadriel tore herself away.
"No."
Her hands fisted. She slammed them against the wall next to Azriel's head. "No! No no no!"
He grabbed at her, trying to pull her away but she did not relent thrashing, kicking and punching and biting whatever she could reach. She screamed, ripped at her hair, yanked at his wing—
Galadriel sucked in a lungful of air but did not lift her head. It was dark again, just as she remembered it had been in her last moments of consciousness. Her throat felt like a desert and the emptiness in her stomach...She'd been in there longer than she had before. More than hours.
She lifted her gaze enough to spy Atticus sitting in the corner, his face stern and low, eyes nearly black with tire. There was nothing to say, so she didn't, letting her head hang down again, arms chained above. He knew there was something off about his rendition of Illyrian wings. It would take more of these dreams for him to figure it out. Whether it was the texture, the size or Azriel's response to her touch. Once he learned it was touch, then he'd spend another week manipulating and adjusting Azriel's reaction until he could tell Galadriel suspected nothing amiss.
Then they would repeat, finding something new that he needed to fix and eventually hope that she would take a damned step out of the town house and strip her mind of what there was to see.
Atticus left without a word. The guards came in after him, unchaining her but leaving the cuffs on, taking her back to the cell she now called home.
Three things.
Galadriel.
High Lord.
Night Court.
~
The entire court was looking at her.
Even Rhys had risen from the chair near the dais. Helion, just in the corner of her eye she could see looking at her with an open mouth. Even Atticus had paled, seeming close to saying something but glancing around like he wasn't sure who, exactly, he could say anything to.
Galadriel took a step forward. The guards escorting her allowed it. She had her back to the audience—the size of one close to the entire Mountain population—and for some reason, that had her more afraid than the declaration she had just made. As if a stray arrow shot from within the bodies was a more frightening thing than the death sentence she'd volunteered for.
Amarantha let out an airy, single-note laugh. "You wish to be a tribute in my Games?"
Galadriel nodded. "I volunteer. I want to compete for one wish to be granted." Amarantha had never forbidden anyone from entering before. But she never had a prized prisoner put themselves forward in the first place. Not that they didn't want to, but she was the only one who was taken from her cell to watch them. It was only to taunt Rhysand with her presence. "I volunteer."
Murmurs rose like the chilling beginning of a choir mourning song. Perhaps it was a mourning song. Chances were, she would die today, and rather ungracefully at that. Four males and one other female stood off to the side to compete. Considering the Game that awaited them, they didn't look too disappointed to have another player in the midst.
Amarantha leaned forward on her throne, contemplating hard. Galadriel could wish for her freedom, and by the law of her own word, would have to grant it. But maybe that went against her rule—the one where the wish must not unseat her power in any way. Galadriel was valuable enough purely for her connection to Rhysand for Amarantha to claim that she could not grant such a thing.
But Galadriel knew what she wanted and she was willing to die for it. She was going to die anyway, may as well make it for something she wanted. Her collarbones poked from her skin, as did her ribs. She was pale and gangly with matted hair and broken lips. Her voice was coarse from years of endless screaming and her fingers were permanently crooked. She knew what people thought. What the likely outcome was.
A splash sounded behind her and even the faeries in the furthest seats shifted back.
"Very well."
Bowing her head, Galadriel turned and went to join the other competitors. As she did, walking slowly past the dais, she looked at her arena.
A deep pool of water so dark that it looked black. They were in a part of the mountain they rarely went through, simply because of the ancient pool and what resided within. It must be hundreds of feet deep, with tunnels branching off to rivers and streams throughout the Middle and to the seas on either side of Prythian.
There was another splash, or rather silver ripples that rose from something moving beneath the surface. Nobody had ever seen the creature in its entirety, but Galadriel had been here the last time Amarantha used the pool for her games. The creature's body was a slick grey with barbed hooks on its multiple tentacles. It never reared its head above the water, but from the lack of corpses last time, she didn't doubt that it could devour her whole.
A glance back up to the dais revealed Rhysand by Amarantha's side. He spoke into her ear though Amarantha hadn't moved her gaze from her arena. When he finished, she lifted her dark-painted nails with a small flick between them. Rhysand stared at her for a moment, then straightened. Turning, he went back to his seat, eyes finding Galadriel as he walked. They locked on to one another. He almost seemed to be...angry with her. Angry in a way that she had never been the reason for.
There was a strange wriggling in the back of her head as she took her place at the end of the line, like something was trying to worm its way into her skull. She ignored it.
Galadriel watched the smooth surface of the dark pool intently. The Game had already been explained. There was a treasure within. All they had to do was retrieve it. Amarantha didn't bother telling them how deep, if the treasure sunk right to the bottom or was caught on a nook in the rocky walls. But there had to be a chance or Amarantha wouldn't bother. That was what made it so thrilling for her—the chance that was a wisp away from impossible.
Red sparks burst overhead.
The other competitors hesitantly wandered forward, leaning and peering over the edge of the pool. Galadriel knelt, feeling along the ground until she found a sharp rock the size of her palm. She used the jagged end to cut where the fabric of her dress skirt had already worn down then yanked on the fabric until the slit went from her ankle to her thigh, doing the same on the other side. It wouldn't do her well to have her legs get tangled in heavy, water-clogged fabric. A perfect time to test whether she could stay afloat.
Barefooted, she joined the others by the pool. Two had already jumped in, ducking their heads below the surface, the other three slowly lowering themselves. Galadriel took a minute to watch the water, searching for anything amiss on the surface that would indicate the creature's location. There was nothing—it had to have descended deep below.
She took another step forward, the water a mere foot away. The eyes of the audience were on her, but none of them were heavier than Rhysand and Amarantha's. Her heart thumper erratically against her ribs, a storm of acid and her measly breakfast rumbling in her stomach.
Bending down, she ran her fingers through the water.
Ice cold.
Bumps swathed her skin and a painful sting like a bolt of lightning shot down her spine. Galadriel wavered slightly, closing her eyes as images of that frozen lake flashed through her mind. It made her joints lock up, her muscles tense, her blood freeze. But she had a wish and she wanted it granted.