Page 26 of The Court of Venus

“All is fair when you fight with love,” Roland taunted as he gently shut the cage on the bear. Immediately he sagged with relief. Inside the bars, the bear looked just as starved as before; now that Roland’s influence had abated, she was casting about for food again.

What a terrible contest this was.

I looked to the opposite stands. The king shook with laughter, a grape raised above his tongue by Cecily, and I saw quiet evil in his pale eyes. It was not evil as I’d imagined it as a girl: an invading army at the gates. This was one man already inside the gates, whose cruelty was encouraged by his entire court.

Roland’s eyes were trained on the royal awning too. He waited for the king’s acknowledgment, even as courtiers swarmed him like they did for Oliver, as he shook a hand through his hair and grinned. But Richard denied Roland entirely.

Wyatt dispersed the crowd, encouraging them to filter back into the stands. Roland stripped off his armor, tossing each piece to Edward. Beneath the plates, a billowing white shirt clung to the sweat on his chest.

He settled nearby in the first row, legs spread wide, hands clasped between his knees.

“The king announces Bianca Mortlake, formerly of the Stafford family, and Miranda Hayward of the Guildford family,” said Wyatt.

Miranda. That was her name.

She sat in the shade of a canopy with the Guildfords, and when she pushed her cloak back, her pointed chin was raised. She wore a gable hood and a plain, carmine gown with no fine filigree or brocade. A Mars pendant was cinched tight around her throat. In the daylight, I could now see a faint but jagged scar running across her face from brow to cupid’s bow.

I rose trembling, smoothing the folds of my gown.

Another beast was led into the yard, this time for me.

I’d never seen such a creature before, and had no name for it. The reptile had blade-sized teeth, four squat legs, jade scales as hard as leather. Whatever size she had been before Prospero made her even larger, I didn’t want to know. She was twenty-five feet long. At least.

I won’t hurt you, I thought toward the strange creature, sending a flare of calm toward her as she was untied from the post. I promise.

Across the way, Miranda’s hellish eyes narrowed as she surveyed me and the creature.

It took only seconds for the trumpet to sound, for Miranda to grapple for my mind, constricting my thoughts like air inside a windpipe, forcing them in only one direction.

I leapt toward the creature against my will, suddenly furious, seething at it for no logical reason at all. She whipped her tail in warning.

I charged again, and her teeth snapped inches away from my face. No—I was in danger. This was Miranda’s influence. My pulse was a war drum, so loud I thought I might never know peace.

Miranda’s eyes flashed. I cried out and fell into the dirt. My leg had been torn open to the bone. I gritted my teeth and tried to stand, but it wouldn’t hold my weight.

Her eyes shifted again: My arm opened up. She sliced again. My collarbone. Again. My hip. Again. Vaguely, I understood the crowd was laughing. I attempted to drag myself to my feet, to raise my hand in forfeit, but only stumbled.

I’d felt such pain before. In Cosmo’s head, only minutes earlier. When I’d learned of Prospero’s death. Hal’s death. It ripped clean through me and stole all thought.

The creature was somewhere on the other end of the tiltyard, shuffling toward the keeper’s bag of meat. I couldn’t hear the crowd anymore. There was only Miranda, and my body. What was it for except to receive pain? What was it for except for torment?

I had thought by studying, I might stand a chance. But she was exactly what Prospero had said: a walking sword. She had ignored the true task and gone after me instead, reveling in the opportunity to showcase her magic. What better moment did the Guildfords have than a rare tournament to unsheathe such a blade?

Her face swam above me. I saw the extension of her arm before she slapped my cheek with all of her might.

“So weak,” she hissed. “No fight in you, is there?”

Her cruel words returned me to the past. She was my birth father. She was Miranda. There was no difference.

She kicked my stomach hard, and I curled in on myself, grunting in agony.

The dirt crunched beneath her boots as she circled me. My eyes were covered in my own drying blood, but I could still hear her. I could hear the floorboards creaking in the inn where I was born. Could hear them groan as my father leaned over and called me worthless.

Miranda’s mouth was close to my ear. She breathed excitedly. Luxuriating in prolonging my misery. “Weak minded,” she said. “Weak little body.”

Then, she retreated mid-hiss. Inside her, I felt a conflicting presence. Another magician.

Roland was in her mind, too. It was almost as if he touched my hand there, in Miranda’s head, and told me to hold on.