Chapter Eleven
The beginning of the Festival of Sport comes with all of the over-the-top pomp and ceremony that I could have asked for.
The Sacred Flame of Sai is borne down from his temple near the northern wall of Faros to the great arena across the river by fire-born runners, with chariots of the courtiers trailing behind.
Our chariot is at the back of the procession, but I don’t mind. It gives me a chance to see the entire parade as it moves down the hill in front of us.
The trail of flame is striking against the city at night. Ronan’s chariot is just behind it, but it turns off course just outside the arena. Then it circles around the streets and behind us so that he’s the last to enter.
The arena is a great oval of the same reddish-tan stone that the palace is built from, only the entire structure is about the height of the palace’s highest towers.
We enter through a dark tunnel underneath it, the stomping of thousands of feet over us sending vibrations into the stone walls.
I fear for a moment that the whole thing will come crashing down on top of us, but soon we’re inside, and I let out a gasp at the sight.
The entire city of Faros must be here. I thought the market was overwhelming, but this. This is insane.
“One hundred thousand people,” says Larus. I can barely hear him over the noise. “It’s the largest arena in the world.”
The rows of people stretch all the way into the sky, so high I have to bend my head back to see them all. I had no idea there were this many people here. I had no idea there were this many people anywhere.
I don’t know where Seth is going to round up enough people to take this city. There are dozens of villages in the mountains, more people than we can feed, but I can’t imagine that we have this many prepared to fight.
I stop the thought—although Ronan has already figured out that I’d like to murder him, he certainly doesn’t know about the rest of our plan yet, and I’d rather he didn’t find out. Though I’m not certain how “planning to start a war” would even feel to him.
Our chariot circles around to join the others as we wait for his grand entrance. I hear the thunder of the horse’s hooves before I see him. A hush comes over the crowd. This is what they came to see.
Ronan’s chariot rises from the tunnel with the final fire-born flame bearer at his side.
It’s fucking Quinn.
Adria’s hand goes for her sword reflexively even though she’s no threat to us at the moment. The chariot passes us and continues to circle the arena to allow all to see Sai’s Sacred Flame, now held suspended above Quinn’s bare hand, go by.
The chariot halts before an enormous golden cauldron at the center of the arena.
Quinn, wearing red ceremonial robes, ascends the steps to the edge of the cauldron and waits as Ronan follows behind her.
It’s much too loud in the arena for his voice to be heard even if he yells, but that problem is resolved when the last member of their chariot slowly ascends the steps at Ronan’s side.
It's Queen Claudia, almost unrecognizable in her own deep red robes and coronet. She takes her place beside Ronan, laying her hand on his shoulder.
“Welcome, Selarans, friends, and honored guests, to the Great Festival of the Gods!”
Ronan’s voice is magically amplified, filling the arena and rising over all the screaming voices.
Queen Claudia must be wind-born. She did seem like a bit of a talker in the baths, as the wind-born tend to be.
“Today we begin the Festival of Sport to honor Sai, the great and terrible God of War, the Hunt, and the Forge.” A priestess exits a different chariot and joins him on the stage. Claudia moves her hand to the priestess’s shoulder as she leads a prayer to Sai.
“Most holy Sai, King of the Warriors, we ask you to bless us as we honor you with the gifts you have given us. We ask that you select your Champions wisely, lending them your strength so that they may protect us this day and in all battles to come. For Sai, victorious!”
The priestess climbs the stairs near the cauldron and cuts her hand, spilling her blood into it.
Sai’s devoted are the most dramatic, I swear. Even Ronan cringes a little at the sight.
“We will see many wonderful competitions in the coming days. But though we honor the God of War, we do so in a time of peace. We come together in unity, and in the spirit that all who participate in the tournament to come are worthy of Sai’s blessings, no matter the outcome.”
“Sure, Ronan. We’re all winners here,” I mutter to Larus.
He chuckles. “Are you not inspired to go easy on your opponents? Do you not feel the grace and love of the king and his desire for peace and harmony?”
“Not even a little,” I reply.
There’s no chance anyone can hear us with all the noise, and if Ronan can feel our disdain, it can’t be a surprise to him at this point.
“General Quinn, daughter of our most noble Grand Vizier Lord Cyrus of House Horatio, will do the honors of lighting the ceremonial cauldron of Sai. General?”
General Quinn? I guess that explains her and Adria’s animosity towards each other.
Quinn, who has been holding onto the flame above her bare hand the entire time, ascends the final steps to the side of the cauldron to its top. Once she’s there, she dips her hand to the rim, and the flame ignites it, racing around the edge of the cauldron.
It’s fine, I guess. It’s like the torches in the temple, only bigger. The crowd loves it, though. They cheer and stomp their feet so loud I bet they can hear them in Nithyria.
“Then, with Sai’s blessing, let the games begin!”
On Ronan’s final word, he raises his hand, and an enormous ball of light like a tiny sun flies out from it and into the sky above the arena. A hush comes over the crowd as it rises higher and higher, heading for the stars.
Then it bursts into a thousand smaller lights in every color in the rainbow, each of them flickering and falling into the crowd, vanishing before they touch the ground.
It’s amazing, I hate to admit. I’ve never seen anything even remotely like it. The crowd gasps at the wonder of it. And then they cheer even louder than before.
Ronan locks eyes with me as I stare at him. I hope my face isn’t too filled with awe. It’s not like his ego needs the boost.
He looks so good up there, and he knows it. He’s everything a king is meant to be. Tall, handsome, proud. An effortless leader. To the eyes of the public, he’s perfect.
Only we know the truth. And we won’t let him forget it.
The tournament begins the day following the opening ceremony, but our qualifying events aren’t until the end of the week, leaving us a few days to practice.
Adria had been baffled to learn I joined the sword-fighting competition, but it has given her an opportunity to do what she loves to do best: look down on me for being worse than her at something.
She and I find a spot in a secluded cloister near one of the palace’s many courtyards with boundaries nearly the same size as those in the arena.
The tournament will be scored in what I’m told is a typical fashion: points for each strike landed on the opponent and a loss of points for stepping outside of the boundaries.
I face Adria in our matching leathers. We’ve been given blunted swords to use for the entirety of the tournament, so we aren’t in danger of hurting each other too much, but a blunted blade can still leave a nasty bruise.
And we can’t have me looking black and blue if I’m meant to be seducing the king.
I’m coming around to the idea, I realize. It could be fun to get him hot and bothered, desperate to be with me, and then to drop him on his face.
To drop him to the ground. And then in the ground.
Adria begins pacing in front of me, meaning we’ve begun.
The sword in my hand is different than the one I usually carry. That sword is long and thin, with a deadly point made for thrusting, but it’s fairly useless against someone wearing chainmail. This sword is a battlefield weapon: broader with a much longer handle meant for wielding it two-handed.
I’m able to parry Adria’s opening series of thrusts far better than I can with our own blades: left, right, and then a low cut that leaves us bound.
My blunted steel meets hers with surprising accuracy.
Adria’s moves are almost indetectable with her usual weapon, which is very similar to mine, but with this longsword, I can see her coming from a mile away.
She breaks the bind by charging forward, the strong part of her sword near the handle meeting the weak end of my blade near the point, sending my blade to my right and leaving my chest open for her to strike with a quick attack.
“Not bad,” she says as we break. She didn’t get me on the first attack, which is a pretty good performance for me. I beam at the weak praise. “Of course, this damned thing has all the liveliness of a child’s stick sword.”
Of course she would blame the sword.
It’s my turn to attack now. She’s had me on the defensive for so much of our lives, I’m not sure if I even can remember how to attack her. I try taking a high guard, but I move forward too early, and she parries my point and quickly comes around my back to strike while I’m still off-balance.
“Again,” she says after she makes contact.
I’m breathing heavier now. I may not be able to beat her, but at least I’m going to get in a good workout.
She comes at me with two quick cuts. I misjudge my parry, and as I dodge backwards from the blow she’s about to land on my stomach, I lose my footing and fall on my ass.
“Again,” says Adria, not bothering to see if I’m okay.
I hear footsteps approaching as I pick myself up.
“She always feints left, you know,” says a familiar voice.
Adria bows as King Ronan rounds the corner, and I do the same.
“Does she?” I ask. I wonder how long he’s been watching us.