Chapter Fourteen #2
Another footman greets us on the landing. He leads us down the corridor, a long stretch flanked by towering marble columns veined with gold, to a set of ornate doors. He pushes them open, bows low and gestures for us to go through.
The reception hall is an explosion of sound and light and colour. It’s swirling with competitors in the most opulent and garish attire – a staggering forty-six of them, all laughing and shrieking and greeting each other like old friends.
It’s an overwhelming sight, made worse by the mirrored walls, which reflect the room and everyone in it back to each other.
I hold my breath as I take it all in. My head is spinning. The colours are too bright, the chatter too loud, and there’s an undercurrent of forced merriment that serves as a reminder of our harsh reality. No one is here to make friends.
Taron subtly and pointedly nods to the far back of the hall, where I see, along with the competitors, clusters of diplomats and aristocrats have gathered. Jewels drip from their elaborate gowns and overcoats, their faces powdered and their hair glossy.
Among them, I notice two men wearing matching red velvet overcoats and flared trousers. It’s hard to miss them and even harder not to stare.
The men are tall and commanding, with sharp, angular jawlines and sparkling eyes framed by thick, dark lashes that give them an almost smouldering quality. They’re two sides of a coin – blond and chestnut, bronze and fair – but they’re beguiling in equal measure.
They laugh, and the guests around them all laugh along. One of the men speaks. I feel the urge to drift closer and listen in. My chest is hot. My palms are clammy. I’ve never seen two people more handsome, and I immediately know who they are.
They must be Fritz Perry and Harry Keegan, victors of the last Reckoning, who wished the world’s beauty upon themselves.
When two of this year’s competitors, a boy with cropped copper hair and a girl with a sleek black ponytail, approach the men with a copy of their memoir to be autographed, I can only roll my eyes.
“It’s such an honour,” the guy breathes. “We hoped you’d both be here tonight.”
“Do you mind?” The girl extends the memoir. “We’re, like, your biggest fans ever.”
“I’m sure you are, doll,” says Fritz. He retrieves a pen from the inside of his overcoat and signs the book with a haphazard scribble.
Harry repeats the process. Once he’s done signing, he takes the girl’s hand and gives it a peck. She giggles uncontrollably, unable to form a coherent thank you.
I exhale loudly, and Taron chuckles. “Having fun?”
“Not my kind of party.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” he says, swiping a few salmon cream pastries sprinkled with caviar off a silver tray. The tray glides through the air past us, one of many orbiting a passing server. “It could be worse.”
“If you say so,” I say. “What are we supposed to do now, anyway?”
“You mean apart from stuffing our faces with free food?”
“You’ll ruin your appetite.”
“Not likely.” Taron reaches for another canapé. “I don’t know … why don’t you mingle or something?”
“You mean, make polite conversation with a room full of people who all want to kill me?”
He offers a wry smile. “See, you get it.”
I sigh. The idea of making small talk in this artificial situation seems impossible.
“Hi, again,” says a voice behind me. “I totally love your dress.”
It’s Kara, the girl from the tavern. Her teammate, Savannah, stands by her side, their hands lovingly interlocked. They look stunning in tight, glittery jumpsuits: Kara in turquoise and Savannah in yellow.
“Thank you,” I say. “I, uh, you too. I mean, your jumpsuits.”
Taron says nothing, just watches.
“You’re those servers from the tavern, right?” Kara says. “I must say, you’re brave for going up against Cyrus like that.”
“Stupid is what I’d call it,” Savannah smirks. She’s a vision with her midnight-black hair artfully arranged in a series of buns atop her head, adorned with bejewelled strands that gracefully frame her face.
“We didn’t need your help,” Taron bites out. “We were handling it.”
“I’m sure you were,” Kara says, ignoring his rude tone. “But I know how Cyrus can be. We were at the Solarflare Institute together. He’s always wielding his father’s power like he’s the one in charge.”
“His father can’t help him where we’re going,” Savannah adds. “He’ll have a rude awakening once he realizes that.”
Kara laughs. “We never got your names, by the way.”
This is it. Time to get into character. “I’m Maeve,” I say, trying to make myself believe it. Taron remains silent, so I speak for him. “And this is Wren. Don’t mind him. He’s more of the silent, brooding type.”
Taron throws me a glare, sparking laughter from the girls across from us.
“Maeve and Wren,” Savannah says thoughtfully. “You’re from Moondance Haven, correct? Privately trained?”
“That’s us,” I say.
“Nice. I’ve never been that far north in Astraloria.” Kara’s blue-green irises twinkle as she leans forward, wrinkling her nose slightly. “Not to be insensitive, but why were you two working in a tavern? I thought privately trained students are meant to be loaded.”
“Oh, about that…” I recite our tale of being cut off financially. “So, it’s out of principle, you know? Sticking it to our parents or whatever.”
“Totally,” Savannah agrees.
“That makes sense,” Kara says. She leans in, voice hushed. “For a moment, I thought the Games Master changed the rules. Can you imagine if any random person were able to enter the tournament?”
Savannah shudders. “That would be the Constitution out of the window. It would make a mockery of the tournament itself.”
“Totally.” I force a tight-lipped smile.
“Anyway, I’d like to know what we’re going up against.” Kara rocks excitedly on her heels. “Tell us your talents. Rumour is you’re an Aqua and a Pyro.”
There are rumours about us? I resist chewing my bottom lip. This is exactly why I wanted to discuss our strategy in more depth. Does Taron want us to lay our cards on the table for everyone to see, or keep them closer to our chests?
“Actually, I’m an Emo,” I say, realizing I can’t exactly ignore Kara’s question. “Wren here is a Luna.”
“Interesting.” Kara folds her arms. “Good combination, I’m sure.”
“How about you?” I counter.
“I’m Kara, a Helio.” She looks lovingly at Savannah. “And this is Savannah, my girlfriend. She’s a Psam.”
“We know who you are,” says Taron gruffly.
“That’s nice.” Kara smiles, but that’s when I notice something – her smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes.
There’s the tiniest quiver in her upper lip, minuscule enough that most people wouldn’t notice.
But I’m not like most people. I’m an orphan.
I’ve been doled out more than enough artificial smiles over the years to recognize one when I see it.
An icy realization chills me to the bone – it’s all fake, they’re not friendly. Like everyone else, they’re here to win by any means necessary.
“What do you plan to wish for if you win?” I venture. There’s no point in my skirting around the subject. Especially now I’ve realized this isn’t a conversation any more than it’s an interrogation. I can do some digging of my own.
There’s a twitch between Savannah’s brows. A sort of defensiveness in the way she pulls Kara closer, fingers still woven together.
“That’s a little personal, don’t you think?” she asks.
“It’s OK, babe, they have the right to be curious.
” Kara places her palm over her chest and takes a steadying breath.
“My mother … she’s not been well, you see.
She’s been diagnosed with a degenerative condition that only affects Helio elementals.
When we win the tournament, we’ll wish for a cure.
A cure that could help other Helios, too.
We just want to help make the world a healthier place. ”
While also immortalizing yourselves as selfless heroes who risked their lives to help others, I think. And I immediately feel bad.
For all I know, their intentions are genuine. However, that doesn’t change the fact that their seemingly noble wish will come at the price of spilling blood.
“How about you?” Savannah asks. “What are the two of you wishing for?”
“Oh, uh…” I suck the inside of my cheek. It was a stupid question to ask, and now it’s come back to bite me. Taron remains silent, staring ahead. My blood boils. I might as well be by myself here.
A loud gong reverberates through the room.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” booms a voice, “please come through to the banquet hall, as dinner will be served shortly.”
Everyone turns to leave.
“Saved by the gong,” Taron whispers in my ear. “How about you rein in the questions for now, OK?”