Then, the High Elves had brought us to the Citadel as guests of honor. Once inside, we’d been given a few hours to bathe and put on fresh clothes. After that, we had been led to an enormous mead hall.
The Citadel kitchens must have been working overtime, because when we arrived, the mead hall was filled with tables, enough to seat every elf in the Winnowing, including the Vanir. Ivory tablecloths, gilded place settings, and crystal wine glasses were laid out in neat rows. Above us, candles flickered in gilded chandeliers.
We were arranged by tribe in three long rows—the High Elves in the middle and the Vanir and Night Elves on either side. At one end of the hall was a low stage. I sat with the Night Elf leadership just in front, squeezed between Thyra and Ilvis. I would have liked to think this was an honor, but I suspected instead that they were keeping a close eye on me.
I didn’t see any signs of Gorm or the rest of the High Elf royalty. Probably for the best. I wasn’t sure what I would do if I had to eat dinner ten feet from Galin.
“Ali, are you alright?” Thyra asked.
“I’m fine,” I said. “Just really tired.”
That much was true. I was exhausted. Not only had I fought in a battle, I’d been up for nearly twenty-four hours, much of it spent shivering in the snow. My body ached.
Thyra touched my shoulder gently. “You did well out there.”
I looked down at my empty plate. The Shadow Lord was kinder than I’d expected. She wouldn’t be kind if she knew I’d had a chance to kill Galin and thrown it away. I felt like I’d thrown something else away, too, but I couldn’t quite piece my feelings together into anything coherent.
I wanted to change the subject. “How long do you suppose it will be before they feed us?”
The faintest hint of a smile wrinkled the Shadow Lord’s face. “Who knows? I don’t think the High Elves expected this many guests.”
“And they will house us?”
“Yes, the contract states that the High Elves are to house and feed all participating elves until the Winnowing is complete.”
I let out a low whistle. “Fancy.”
Last time I’d visited the Citadel, King Gorm had tried to have me killed, and I’d nearly been thrown down the Well of Wyrd. Now, I was about to be served a feast in their main hall as a guest of honor.
“Excuse me?” A golden-haired elf appeared between us. Dressed in a black and white servant’s outfit, she held a large pitcher of golden liquid. “Shall I fill your cup?”
Thyra shook her head.
“And you, miss?” she asked me. “Would you care for some mead?”
After today’s events, there was no way I was going to say no to free booze. “Hel yes. Please.”
The server filled my glass with the golden liquid. It smelled herbal and faintly sweet, and I eagerly took a sip. Crisp and dry, with only the faintest taste of honey. Gods, I could get used to this. We don’t have this sort of thing underground.
When a trumpet suddenly sounded, I jumped, nearly spilling the mead across my plate. Seemed I was still a little tense from the battle.
A herald dressed in golden stockings, a cream doublet, and a gold embroidered coat stood in the center of the stage. He pressed a calf’s horn to his lips and blew a long note until the hall was silent, then he spoke. “Announcing his Royal Majesty, Ruler of Midgard, Leader of the High Elves, King Gorm, accompanied by his family: Princes Galin and Sune, and lovely Princess Revna.”
So much for a Galin-free dinner.
From a side door, King Gorm appeared and strode onto the stage, chest puffed. He wore gold velvet and a white fur mantle, which certainly lent him a regal appearance. Behind him followed Revna, Sune, and Galin. Like their father, Revna and Sune wore golden outfits.
Galin, however, wore a tailored indigo suit, so dark it might have been black. Atop his head rested the Helm of Awe.
“Thank you all for coming,” said King Gorm. His voice seemed strained, not the usual bold, melodious tones he’d used when I’d seen him previously.
I could guess why. This was supposed to be his time to gloat. If the melee had gone as he’d intended, there would only have been a few dozen Night Elves left alive. In that scenario, he’d have played the part of a benevolent ruler generously serving a huge feast to his captives, using the dinner to demoralize us with a grand show of the High Elves’ wealth. Reminding us that we’d soon die.
Instead, the High Elves had been caught off guard and soundly beaten. He’d had to scramble to find room for all of us.
Gorm took a seat in the center of the table, with Revna and Sune on one side and Galin on the other. Galin sipped his mead, and it seemed he had no interest whatsoever in looking in my direction.
The servers began to hurry around, placing steaming trays of venison, salmon, and turkey on the tables. My stomach growled when they brought out the side dishes. Platters of potatoes slathered in butter, bowls full of asparagus and broccoli, and great boules of fresh bread.
I filled my plate, then turned to Thyra. “So, what’s the plan now that the Vanir have joined in?”
“The Winnowing is always the same, each tribe chooses a contest.”
“So”—I did some quick math in my head—“we stop when there are only one hundred and thirteen elves left.”
“Correct.”
“Is it true that you’ve done this before?”
Thyra nodded. “Before Ragnarok, the High Elves and Night Elves fought in a Winnowing to end centuries of battle.”
“What happened then?”
“Lots of elves died, but it ended in a truce. Until Ragnarok, when they defeated us completely,” said Thyra in an unusually quiet voice. I got the impression she didn’t enjoy this topic of conversation. She speared a piece of salmon and popped it in her mouth, chewing thoughtfully. “But now, we feast, and in the next round, we choose the contest.”
That was good news. “Have you decided what it will be?”
“No, not yet.”
But an idea was starting to form in my mind, a seedling of a plan blooming larger.
Chapter 17
Galin
Next to me, my father cut into his turkey, alternating his ravenous eating with gulps of mead. Strange. A normal man wouldn’t have an appetite after what had happened. He’d been ranting on the battlefield, but now that there was a plate of food in front of him, all was forgotten. And that made me wonder what the fuck he was up to.
Worry quelled my appetite. Ali was less than twenty feet away, sitting between a pair of Shadow Lords. She looked thinner than when I’d last seen her, starving as she wolfed down her meal.
And worst of all, as soon as Gorm recognized her, he would know the truth. She was a high value target, one he never should have given up. And that would provoke his rage, directed at me.
I’d tried to keep Gorm away from the feast. I’d told him that he would look weak parading the royal family across the stage, especially after we’d just come in last place. But his desire for adulation was too much, and he’d insisted on making an appearance.
I needed a plan. The reality was that Gorm was going to find out who Ali was. Either he’d recognize her himself, or Revna would tell him. Even though Ali wanted to kill me, I would find a way to warn her. Her life was in grave danger, and whether she loathed me or not, I wanted her alive.