Thread of Ash and Fire

Ch. 48: My Game, My Rules

"Wait," Tristan said.

His heart raced. He was dimly aware of the creak of cages, the delighted hisses of the courtiers echoing throughout the throne room, but none of it mattered. He was intensely aware of Talulla shifting on her throne. The sickly-sweet vanilla perfume that she wore.

The princess smiled. "Yes?"

"I want to negotiate the terms," Tristan said hoarsely.

Like hell was he about to agree to this game. Like hell. Sure, Owain might be a lying faerie arsehole with a vested interest in helping Lucia, Tristan thought, but that didn't mean he was about to gamble with his life.

No.

Not happening.

"It's my game," Talulla said. "My terms." Her striped nails drummed the armrest. "You either choose to play, or you don't."

"It's okay," Owain said. "I'll do it."

The faerie prince shrugged off his cloak. Owain wore a thin white tunic underneath, and he shivered slightly, moving as if to rub at his arms before he remembered that he was handcuffed. Tristan's chest constricted.

"Owain," Tristan said tightly.

For the first time, Owain met his gaze. There was something burning in his blue eyes. Something fierce and hot as flame. "You want proof that I'm on your side? Here it is. You need the army. So play."

Tristan shook his head. "You can't mean that."

"Do I look like I'm joking?"

"You know what happens if I lose," Tristan said flatly.

Owain gave him the ghost of a smile. "You'd better win, then."

Princess Talulla pouted, shaking her hand; her golden bracelets jangled together. "Don't be boring, buttercup. Play with me."

Owain raised his chin. "He accepts the terms."

No. He bloody well didn't. Tristan's heart sped up, and he was about to protest again when Talulla clapped her hands.

"Goody." The princess beamed. "You have ten minutes to solve the riddle, or you lose. If you give a wrong answer, you lose." She waggled a finger, as if Tristan was a naughty schoolchild. "I'd think very carefully. Here's your riddle."

Her voice echoed around the court.

I live the moment that I die,

I am eternal as years go by;

I change hands like mortal coin;

Some say I divide, but others, join.

Talulla stopped, looking at him expectantly.

Shit.

Tristan's mouth felt dry. He swallowed, tasting dust and sand. Think, he told himself, but it was useless. He wasn't Camille, the human encyclopedia, or Ryne, who thought through things like a chess game. He was just Tristan Beauchamp.

Tristan fiddled with the explosive in his pocket, tracing the copper wires with shaking fingers. He knew how to fix things. Not how to unravel them.

"Clock is ticking!" Talulla said cheerfully.

Tristan closed his eyes. Okay. She'd said something about hands. Like the hands of a mortal clock? Did the riddle have to do with time?

"Nine minutes left." The princess turned. "Faolan. You know what to do."