The Glass Queen (The Forest of Good and Evil #2) - Gena Showalter Page 0,74

kind, and he isn’t cruel,

but if you prick his temper, you’re a fool.

SAXON

As the first hint of morning sunlight filtered into my tent, I jackknifed to my feet. For most of the night, I’d listened to my mother and sister rage about Leonora. They’d listed reasons I must kill Ashleigh. Reasons I’d pondered for years, seething. They didn’t care that her death would solve my problem but endanger future generations.

After I’d kicked out my family, I’d tried to sleep. I’d ended up tossing and turning, Ashleigh’s face unwavering in my mind. How fragile she’d appeared before my soldier flew her away. Broken, even.

Why? What had happened?

After cleaning up, I prepared for battle, then stepped out into a seemingly abandoned camp. The masses had journeyed to the coliseum to witness the test of wits, where I should be.

I’d given my soldiers the day off so they could watch the festivities. All but Adriel. He should be here, keeping guard, but there was no sign of him.

So. The day after a punishment he’d decided to disobey a direct order. Very well. I would punish him harder, lest any of my other soldiers decided they could do the same.

I fumed as I flew to the bustling coliseum. Landing on the battlefield, in the midst of the combatants, I took my place in line. About forty of the fifty others had opted in. We stood shoulder to shoulder.

Roth had a spot at the end. Milo did, too.

I adopted a battle stance, my feet braced apart, my knees slightly bent. The warlock had stood too close to Ashleigh last night. Had peered at her as if she were his next meal.

He turned his head toward me, and our gazes met. He scowled; I glared.

He was going to die by my hand very soon.

Once again, the stands overflowed with cheering spectators, many of whom waved sticks with ribbons or rang cowbells. Even as the sun brightened, a chill coated the air, yesterday’s warmth no more.

Gaze slitted, I searched the royal dais, ensuring Ashleigh had obeyed my command to remain at the palace. I spotted the master of ceremonies, Ophelia, Noel, the king, and Dior.

Good. That was good. I was relieved.

I was disappointed.

I was...screwed.

“Welcome one and all.” Just as before, the master used a magical horn to make his voice carry, causing a hush to fall over the crowd. “Let our test of wits begin. Here’s how the game goes. I will tell our combatants a riddle, and they will each have sixty seconds to respond. Those with a correct answer will be allowed a weapon in the next battle, while everyone else has zero.” He took a breath. “Combatants, you were each given a piece of parchment. Once I relay the riddle, you will write your answer on that parchment, in blood, and throw it into the fire. Understood?”

Murmurs from the combatants. “Parchment?” someone shouted. “What parchment?”

Someone else demanded, “What fire?”

The master pinched the bridge of his nose and muttered, “Witch! You’re ruining my event.”

Ophelia, who remained seated on the royal dais, waved her hand in our direction. A piece of parchment materialized in my hand—in everyone’s hand—and a firepit appeared in front of our line.

The magic prompted laughter from the stands.

“Now, then. Who’s ready to begin?” the master asked, the question met with thunderous applause. “Here goes. I have towns, but no homes. I have kingdoms but no kings. I have water, but none to share. What am I?”

Murmurs from the crowd blended with murmurs from the combatants as the master counted down the seconds. Each man sliced a fingertip and wrote his question on his parchment.

Embers sparked every time a new paper met flame, a wind rushing in to collect the ash and toss it into the air. Words formed in that ash.

Goblin.

Stars.

Desert.

Some answers were repeated by multiple combatants. I’d lived at a crossroads since meeting Ashleigh.

After I cut my fingertip, I wrote, “Map.” I’d studied them most of my first and second lives, choosing which territories to conquer first.

A horn blew soon after my paper became ash.

“We have winners!” the master called, eliciting more cheers. He listed names I didn’t care about. I nodded when he said, “Blaze the fae.” Relaxed when he called, “Saxon the avian.” And scowled when I heard, “Milo the warlock.”

A young fawn-shifter with big, droopy ears rushed to the field to lead us off and make room for the entertainment.

“Don’t go anywhere,” the master told the spectators. “We have a special treat for you. Singers. Dancers. Magical practitioners.