Chapter Nine #2
The Astrals orchestrate the tournament as a testament to their unwavering commitment to the star, a vow etched in the constellations themselves.
Most people believe they’re the faces behind the Games Master, whose reports of the tournament routinely get delivered to doorsteps throughout the competition.
Others speculate the Games Master is a fabrication by the High Council to drive more public excitement around the tournament. I’m not sure what I believe, now more than ever.
“Well,” Taron says, “the Astrals conceived the Reckoning so no single person could wield total power. That’s why the wish needs to be unanimously decided upon by both teammates.”
“But that’s what I don’t understand. If we hand the wish to Madame Vera, she’d be one person deciding the outcome. That goes against everything the Astrals stand for. A unanimous wish from two people to fulfil their desires? Why would they allow it?”
“It’s a grey area.” Taron shrugs, a careless motion.
“If you think about it, surrendering the wish might just be the most unified decision of all … despite placing it in the hands of one person. I think the Astrals will allow it, because it’s unlikely.
After all, human nature leans towards selfishness.
Why would a team choose to relinquish their wish, if not for something bigger than themselves? ”
Maybe because they’re being blackmailed by an old crone. “Any other rules I need to know about?” I ask.
“Just the obvious ones.”
“Which are?”
“Your wish can’t extend to more wishes or undo the life of another. Which is ironic considering the lethal nature of the tournament, but there you go.”
A few nagging questions still gnaw at me. “We’re competing in teams. What happens if one of us fails, quits or is killed during the tournament? Even worse, what happens if we get caught as imposters?”
“Do you always ask this many questions?”
“Do you want me to be prepared or not?”
Taron sighs. “If one person in a team is incapacitated – injured too badly to continue, quits or dies – the team is out. Other competitors might try to target the weaker teammate because of this. You’ll have to be vigilant.”
“How dare you assume I’m the weaker teammate?” My lips pucker with annoyance, even though we both know he’s probably right. I’m only half an Emo, and I don’t even have a lick of training.
Taron disregards my retort. “As for what’ll happen if we’re caught as impostors, it’ll depend on who gets their hands on us first. The Principal Guard or Madame Vera. I’m guessing it’ll either be prison or death.”
My throat feels tight, the pressure of our situation settling in.
Then the watercraft halts, jerking me out of my thoughts. I sit up and stare, my mouth falling open. We’ve arrived at the entrance to Rava, the Astralorian capital.
Towering above us is an enormous stone arch, carved into the imposing wall that encircles the city. Deep grooves along its edges hint at the colossal gates that once stood here, likely during the Great Unrest, a time when the city needed fortification.
Beyond the arch, the waterway intertwines with long cobblestone streets paved with glistening mosaics. Shops, taverns and houses in soft pastel hues rise along the mountainside, climbing higher and higher until they converge at the royal palace.
Two soldiers from the Principal Guard, their black armour gleaming, march towards the watercraft where it skirts along a waterway leading into the city. They raise their hands in a halting gesture.
“What’s the hold-up?” Taron asks the helmsman.
“I’m not sure,” he replies, his tone uneasy. “Keep your fingers clear, the canopy is coming down.”
The helmsman pulls a lever, and the woven canopy covering the watercraft begins its slow descent. Vines and leaves unfurl like delicate fingers, revealing the sky above.
The guard nearest to the helmsman steps forward, his stare piercing. “State your business,” he demands.
Taron hands over the invitational scroll. “We’re here for the Reckoning. We’re competing in the tournament.”
The guard opens the scroll, studying the wax seal and the contents written inside. He narrows his eyes at us, as though that would help him validate our identities.
“Maeve Speck and Wren Hull from Moondance Haven?” he asks, looking between us, and we nod. “I’ll need to see your sigils.”
My heartbeat roars in my ears, a thundering rhythm. I reach into my boot for my shears, briefly fumbling to undo the bronze medallion attached to them.
I follow Taron’s lead in placing my fake sigil in the centre of my palm and extending it at the guard for inspection. The sigil immediately responds, glowing softly. My throat constricts when the guard leans closer, a frown creasing his forehead.
He knows, I think. But then, a moment later, he rolls the scroll back up and hands it over to us. “You may proceed.”
Seriously? I offer a weak smile as I tuck my shears back into my boot. He bought it. I can’t believe it. We stood before the guards, fed them a concoction of lies and, miraculously, passed ourselves off as competitors in the Reckoning.
As the watercraft glides beneath the arch and into the city of Rava, the guard bids us farewell with a parting wish.
“Good luck with the tournament,” he calls after us, his words echoing with amusement. “If you don’t win, at least try not to die!”