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Grabbing her hand, I force her to look at me. “Max. I would never knowingly put you in danger.” I tilt her chin with the edge of my knife, ensuring she’s looking into my eyes. “You know that, right?”
Exhaling deeply, the tension melts from her shoulders. “I know, Vi. I… I just worry you’ll put a target on your back, and I will lose you.”
Chuckling, I store my knife in the leather strap around my thigh and shake my head. “I’ve had a target on my back since I was born. Or rather, my parents seemed to think so. I’ve adapted.”
A horn blares and I jump to my feet, the piercing sound carrying across the Summit through the air. Max’s face breaks into a wolfish grin. “Looks like it’s time to Race,” she says, bouncing excitedly on the balls of her feet.
The area of the Summit Max and I start at is covered in green, summer in full swing, and the flowers and weeds growing tall, covering our pants in their soft fuzz of pollen. The buzz of insects fills the air, and I cannot help but smile at how much this place reminds me of the hill my father used to take me to, where I encountered Link all those years ago.
He should be here with me.
“If we go at a good, steady pace, we should be able to reach the arena in nine days,” Max tells me, picking a flower and pushing it behind her ear.
I snap out of my memories. “If we don’t encounter any major issues,” I add, forcing a grin.
“Which we will.” Max laughs. “If we maintain a quick pace, hardly stopping for sleep, I think we can reach it in eight days.”
“Eight days it is, then. What was the average last year?”
Max sucks on her front teeth, thinking back. “The winner made it there in just over eight days, with all ten filing within another day. So… we have maybe seven and a half, eight days exactly. If we hope to get in the top this year.”
I nod, half listening and sweeping my eyes across the plain before me. I spot some feverfew growing a few paces ahead and jog forward to snatch it out of the ground. I drop to my knees, pull a bottle of alcohol out of my pack, and toss a handful of blooms in it.
“Oh, look at my little Witch,” Max laughs, ruffling my hair.
I smack her shin with the back of my hand. “We’ll see you making fun of me if you get a fever, bitch. I’m over here trying to take care of you.”
She grabs my elbow and hoists me up, and I quickly stow the bottle. We look ahead and see the first line of trees that will soon become our view for the next eight days - or less if I have my say in it. We link arms and head forward because back is not an option in Krillium.
Chapter 9
Zeph
“Whatthehellwasthat?” I demand, crowding Mace against the wall of the command center when he returns from the opening ceremonies. “You called out a Lowlander - by name. How did you even know who she was?”
Mace raises an eyebrow, his expression calm and collected. Ignoring my question, he replies, “She will assume the Coalition mentioned her, and it will soon fade from her memory. The Race is their primary concern.”
His flippant attitude and quick response grates on me.
The room falls into an uneasy silence as our advisors and the Patricians watch our confrontation unfold. I release a frustrated breath and run a hand through my hair, trying to compose myself. “If the Lowlanders realize they’re being observed, they might suspect our manipulation of the terrain,” I state firmly, keeping my voice steady. “We can’t afford that risk.”
Mace dismisses my concerns with a wave of his hand and moves to pour himself a glass of mead. “They’re not clever enough to make that connection,” he remarks casually, dangling the glass precariously between his fingers. “Now, let’s focus on the Race.”
I want to keep arguing, to push back on the idea that humans are not clever enough to figure out how manipulated they’ve been. I know the best thing I can do is keep my anger in check and not draw unnecessary attention, but that feels like a battle against my instincts.
Reluctantly, I take my seat next to him and turn my attention to the connection, which slowly rotates between groups of Racers, hours into the Race by this point. He hasn’t missed much, as his journey back to Ytopie is made quicker because he can enter the city by skirting the mountains and taking a well-worn path from Dalery. Once there, some of our best Bouclier, shielding fae under the Summer Seasonale, drop a small portion of the barrier and allow him passage. What takes the Racers eight or nine days, he can do in a matter of hours.
The Race’s early stages are uneventful, the participants making their way through the fields of the start and into the wooded area at the base of the Summit. The true test of their desperation and aggression is yet to come. And if it doesn’t, I’m sure Mace will ensure it does, one way or another.
We catch sight of the woman Mace called Miss Mistflow, gracefully navigating the tree roots as she enters the overgrown forest. She’s accompanied by a small, mouse-like woman with a pointed face and sharp hair. Mousy watches Mistflow with admiration as Mistflow appears to be demonstrating something to her.
“What’s she got there?” Nimh asks curiously.
“Looks like a spile,” Cirrha answers, a hint of admiration in her voice. She leans forward onto her deep brown hands, squinting for a better look.
“Impressive. Those are quite expensive to make or acquire.”
I barely notice their conversation; my attention is fixed on the connection. I see that Mace, too, seems intrigued by the duo, although he tries to conceal it behind an air of indifference.
