Thread of Ash and Fire

Ch. 33: Palace of Brutal Games

Tristan stared at the porcupine in his hand and fervently wished he was anywhere else.

The Salvatorian palace gardens were full of people today. Women poured cups of steaming jasmine tea, sheltering under lacy white parasols; men smoked cigars in the shade of a striped tent, croquet mallets slung over their shoulders. Tables groaned under pistachio-and-rosewater eclairs, caramel almond cakes and macadamia cream.

And the animals.

There were so many animals.

Graceful peacocks, pumas with sharp claws, white-bellied hawks... Tristan had observed that most shapeshifters preferred to be in their human form, shifting only when they needed better eyesight or when they wanted to make it clear that they were done talking to you. Which, you know. Fair enough.

He looked at the porcupine in his hand. His stomach rolled.

"I can't do it," Tristan said.

Owain swirled his champagne. "You have to."

"I can't," Tristan protested.

The youngest faerie prince sighed. Owain was dressed in white silk today, his copper hair gleaming under the afternoon sunshine. They stood in the middle of a lawn ringed by rolling hills. Twelve bowling pins gleamed like teeth.

Owain shook his head. "You're going to have to throw it."

"Maybe I can pretend to pull a muscle," Tristan said hopefully. "That should do the trick."

Owain sighed. "How is this any worse than any of the other games?"

That was a good point. Over the last few weeks, they'd played knives, and archery (in which the target was a person), and — once — a truly appalling game of "Sling the Monkey," where someone was tied to a tree and had to defend themselves as everyone smacked them with planks of wood. Tristan still had bruises from his turn on the tree.

"It just is," Tristan hissed. "I don't even know who this is."

Tristan raised the hedgehog, who was trembling. Owain pursed his lips. "Probably a palace servant."

His stomach twisted. "If that was your attempt to make me feel better, then it really isn't working."

"Tristan!" a voice sing-songed. "It's your turn. Throw the ball, pet."

Talulla sat in a flowery throne, her delicate ankles crossed. The princess wore a white tutu today, along with a feathery headpiece that flared out like swan wings. Several of the other players turned to stare at him, hedgehogs in hand. Scratch that, Tristan thought, his heart speeding up; everyone was staring.

"One moment!" Tristan called.

He bent down, pretending to tie his shoe. The crowd groaned.

Tristan glanced up at Owain. "How'd you get out of this, anyway?"

The faerie prince shrugged. "I always win. Talulla doesn't let me play anymore."

"So you've played before," Tristan said.

A stone sunk to the pit of his stomach. He should have expected that, Tristan thought; after all, he'd watched Owain sink a sword into someone's back without hesitation. But for just a second, he'd hoped...

Owain's face tightened. "Stop looking at me like that. That's how the Salvatorian court works; it's a brutal palace full of brutal games. You either participate, or you become the game." He took a swig of champagne. "I'd rather be a player than a pawn."