Shadow's Claim (Immortals After Dark #13)(31)

At opposite ends of the ring were a grandstand and the entrance to the warriors’ sanctum, a series of catacomb-like tunnels. Running deep beneath the ring, the sanctum was like an underground bullpen for competitors to await their matches.

The grandstand was a large covered stage, swathed with precious silks. Bettina’s Sorceri sensibilities couldn’t help but thrill at the bold riot of colors. Sometimes Rune could be . . . bland.

Two long banquet tables stretched along either side. One table was filled with demon lords and ladies who bowed and scraped for Raum. Not so much for me.

They were all aware that she’d been attacked and physically defeated. Yet she was also the great Mathar’s only offspring. Her subjects didn’t quite know what to do with her.

Fitting. Folks, I don’t quite know what to do with me either.

The other table was peopled with masked Sorceri dignitaries who simpered before Morgana.

Again, not so much for me. They all knew she’d had her power taken. When Morgana wasn’t looking, they treated Bettina like an Inferi.

Not a real demon, not a real sorceress. Imposter . . .

In the center was another dais and a table for Bettina, Morgana, and Raum. Directly below them was the sign-in station, with weighty scrolls stacked like logs. Those contracts were thicker than one of Raum’s burly arms, enumerating what must be thousands of rules.

As each contestant—with his entourage of squires and delegates—finished his processional, he would file into this station to sign a scroll, entering into an unbreakable pact.

Beside the scrolls was a quill and a dagger, because the contestants signed these pacts in blood. Bettina was privy to few rules, but she knew that the only way out of the tournament was to win—or die.

It was all so wretchedly . . . medieval. Most of the Lore’s demonarchies were.

She picked up a schedule of events from her place setting. The first night’s contest was to be announced. The next several nights would involve individual bouts within the Iron Ring. Night seven was indeed lady’s choice—a mystery round. Even to the lady . . .

The semifinals would be held on night eight, with the final round and wedding occurring on night nine.

Bettina peered over the crowd, searching in vain for Cas, wanting him here with her. Instead she was flanked by Morgana on her right and Raum on her left, like bulwarks.

As the lengthy procession drew closer, her anxiety escalated. She turned to Raum. “Why are so many creatures entering? Abaddon’s rich, but not wildly so. Our climate is hard to get used to.”

He briefly buried his face in an oversize tankard of brew, then said, “Because your loveliness is legendary—”

“Raum. Please.”

He made a gruff sound, then said, “Some are glory hounds, but mostly it’s the Accession. War has routed many Loreans from their homes. Others are champions for an entire species, who hope to win the throne and give their peoples a place to live. Some are emissaries of a sort, looking for an alliance for their realms. Still others are pawns, controlled by powerful masters, who’ll merely cede the crown if they win.”

“You’d let a pawn win me?”

“We can’t exactly prove who’s a pawn until after the tournament.”

Bettina narrowed her eyes. “There’s more you aren’t telling me.”

“There’s a last class of competitor. . . .” He patted her hand, a consoling gesture. “The condemned.”

“Excuse me?”

“They were sentenced to die for various crimes in their home planes. Their only option is to compete in this, win, then turn over the crown to the ruling power.”

Bettina was aghast.

“All that matters naught!” Raum assured her with the gentlest tap on her shoulder (when he would’ve whaled someone else on the back). “I still have hope that Caspion will enter and defeat them all.”

Hope? He and Morgana both seemed to have pinned all their hopes on, well, hope. Bettina wanted something more concrete, thank you very much. Besides, Caspion had no intention of entering.

“I’ve seen the way you look at him,” Raum said. “That lad’s the one you want, isn’t he?”

He doesn’t want me back.

Under his breath, he said, “Morgana fought me on him, said she saw you with someone ‘more exotic.’ But if Caspion enters, she can’t say anything.” Raum gazed around. “Where is he anyway?”

“I haven’t seen him all day.”

“There are still a couple of hours left until the entry deadline.”

Morgana jabbed her with an elbow. “Here comes the first contestant. Now remember, don’t bow your head too deeply. Even if your subjects are mere demons, you still have royal blood. . . .”

One by one, squires and delegates introduced their champions. Morgana provided continual—and scathing—commentary, as regular as a laugh track.

Most were representatives from the various demonarchies, which pleased Raum. Several storm, ice, stone, rage, and fire demons were in attendance. Even a winged Volar demon entered. Not to mention the excretorian, who left a trail of pus on the sign-in desk.

A few contestants stood out. A snarling Lykae, with his ripped shirt and wild eyes, was surely a pawn. His three cloaked “squires” manhandled him to the sign-in station, then collared him away.