Chapter Sixteen
Adria’s bed is empty by the time I wake in the morning. Warming up already, I’m sure. It’s the qualifying day for the events we’re competing in, and I’m deeply, deeply regretting staying out so late last night.
Not just because I’m exhausted, physically and mentally, but because in getting the answer I wanted about Soren, I’ve only raised further questions.
The one that weighs the most heavily on my mind is how much of what Ronan said can I believe.
I need to speak to Larus. He’ll be able to help me sort out what’s going on here. That’s if he can get away from Felix long enough to have a real conversation.
But first, the tournament. I dress quickly, donning one of my rougher old tunics, my leather armor, and the new tan pants I bought in the market.
I keep my breakfast light in hopes of avoiding revisiting it later if I’m hit in the stomach.
Adria is waiting for me at the palace gates, where chariots have arrived to carry the competitors to the arena.
The palace’s competitors, at least. The common folk mostly walk.
“You were late last night,” she says, more curiosity in her voice than accusation this time. She’s wearing the pants I bought for her, so at least I have that going for me. “And you-know-who wasn’t at dinner. Did you manage to find each other?”
My thoughts race. I’d planned on telling Larus everything, but how much should I tell Adria? “I saw him when I returned from the market,” I say in a panic.
Alright, good start. That much is true. But do I tell her about Soren?
It’s important information about him. It would be good for her to know that he can disguise himself. There’s a chance he could do it and try to deceive us into revealing something about our plans.
So why don’t I want to tell her?
“Well? What happened?”
What happened? What happened? “He was returning from the market too. Some girls have gone missing. I’m not sure how he knew them, but they’re shadow-born like me.”
“I can guess how he knows them.” She makes a rude gesture with her hand and lowers her voice so it can’t be heard over the pounding of the horses’ hooves. “Can’t keep track of his whores?”
That’s really unfair of her to say. She doesn’t know anything about him—
Oh, fuck. What am I doing?
His little manipulation routine worked. The game he’s been playing, a game that he’s been aware of all along while I was left guessing. He’s gotten to me. I’m actually debating how much to tell my own sister.
“I did find out something very interesting,” I say. I gesture then to the chariot driver. It’s unlikely he’ll hear us, but it’s not worth the risk.
But I am going to tell her.
Later.
Adria raises her eyebrows and nods. Then she smiles broadly and pats my back, and I’m reminded of how good it feels to please her.
The chariot drops us outside of the arena, the track we took the first night now occupied by a variety of races. This time, we walk the darkened tunnel on foot.
By daylight, the arena is almost unrecognizable.
It’s half empty now; the qualifying events must not have the same draw as the opening ceremony, though perhaps that’s due to the royal box sitting empty more than anything else.
I breathe a sigh of relief at Ronan’s absence—that’s one less thing to worry about today.
With the crowd huddled largely in the shadows, avoiding the sections of sunlit stone, the scale of the arena is even more apparent.
It's impossible not to be awed by it, and yet I can’t help but think of the men and women who built it.
Slaves mostly, I’d guess, since the arena was built long before Selara ended slavery.
I wonder how many people toiled to dig the enormous stones out of the ground, how many of them broke their bodies dragging them here hundreds of years ago.
What did they think of what they made?
Adria snaps me from my reverie by pointing to the great torch, which had been dragged off to the side to accommodate the dozen events happening simultaneously on the arena floor.
“So much for that honor,” she snarks, taking a dig at Quinn, though I doubt the location of the torch has anything to do with her at all.
We’re shepherded by an official through the swirl of noise and action to a towering slate board propped against a pillar. The order of every trial and every individual competing is written on it in white chalk.
My archery trial will be first, along with Adria’s qualifying sword fight. The sword-fighting tournament is seven rounds of single elimination. Based on our placement in the bracket, we’ll only face each other in the semifinals, and the chances of me making it that far are slim to none.
I read through the other names until I finally find the one I’m looking for: Quinn of House Horatio. She’s on the other side of the bracket entirely. Neither of us will face her until the final, assuming any of us makes it that far; thank Sai for his mercy.
I wish Adria luck as I join a line of archers preparing to fire their qualifying shots.
The target is painted on a bale of hay at a distance of thirty paces, exactly as I practiced all those years in the castle courtyard.
The standard issue Selaran bow has a bit less give than I’m used to, but I quickly adjust to it during my practice shots.
“SYLVIE!” someone screams from the crowd.
My heart races as I look into the stands just to my left to see Larus, but it isn’t him yelling.
It’s Felix. “Sylvie! Over here!”
Oh, for fuck’s sake. The swashbuckling idiot is swaying on his feet and jumping haphazardly around, drunk before noon. He’s wearing another ridiculous maritime coat, this one in a bright yellow that makes him look like a dying canary as he flits around, waving like a lunatic.
I cover my face with my hand.
“Your husband?” asks the woman in black leather qualifying to my right. I don’t recognize the style of her armor or the way she wears her dark curly hair, piled onto her head with a strap holding it in place. Brakkari, maybe, or from somewhere beyond?
Wherever she’s from, they must spend a lot of time practicing archery. Her practice shots are nearly all bullseyes.
“Gods, no,” I say, watching Felix tumble into a man seated in front of him in the stands.
The woman laughs. “He’s a mess, but he’s handsome. Tell him to cheer for Calliope instead if you don’t want him.”
“Gladly.”
Despite Felix’s distraction, I manage to sail through my qualifying shots. I notice that Calliope does just as well as I do. Better, in fact. She splits one of her own arrows right in the bullseye.
“It will be a grand competition,” she says, pointing to my target where three arrows are grouped closely dead in the center. She holds out her hand to shake, her grip firm and unyielding.
“To victory,” I say. It’s a message of goodwill and good luck that I hope isn’t lost on her, assuming she isn’t from here.
“And to the victor,” she replies, the customary Selaran response.
By the time I meet Adria again at the sword-fighting ring, she’s already won her qualifying bout 5-0.
“Don’t get in your head,” she tells me as I take a blunted sword from the rack. “Most of these people have never had a day of training in their lives.”
“Most of them had five years of training during the war.”
“Just hope you get someone young, then,” she says, and she’s in such a good mood from her triumph, she gives me another rare smile.
I don’t get someone young.
What I do get is a man at least a foot taller than me and twice my weight, with a scarred bald head and arms the size of tree trunks.
“Fuck me,” I whisper as I step into the circle.
He’s a behemoth. One of the Seven Champions of Sai, legendary chosen warriors of the war god made flesh.
How the fuck am I supposed to fight this guy?
The monster of a man lunges at me the moment the bell is rung, his sword waving wildly in his massive hand.
It’s fucking terrifying, but it’s also a piss-poor tactic. He’s got so much momentum that he can’t change course easily, and it would be obvious to anyone who isn’t blind where he’s heading.
I lunge out of the way at the last moment, thrusting my own sword behind me into his back as he nearly falls to the ground.
“1-0!” yells the closest judge.
Was that…for me? It had to be, right?
Did I just score a point?
The man grunts as he rights himself. I offer him a hand, and he slaps it away.
“Nithyrian cunt,” he spits at me.
“He can’t do that!” yells Adria from the sidelines. “No contact outside of a fight.” Adria has little patience for the rules except for when they benefit her.
Or me, in this case. She’s on my side. Probably just making sure I don’t humiliate her, but I’ll take what I can get.
The slap would have been a point deduction if he had any points to begin with, but he doesn’t, so we go again.
I’m debating what tactic to use to keep him at a distance and parry anything incoming when he charges again.
And…it’s exactly the same as before. Like, exactly. Same angle, same momentum.
And I dodge in exactly the same way.
And it works.
“2-0!”
“Fuck!” he yells from the ground. He did get in an extra step this time, which nearly led him outside the circle. Which also would have lost him a point, if he’d had a point to lose.
Which he didn’t.
“Sylvie!” yells Felix again. They’ve followed me across the arena to spectate in the stands nearby. “Sylvie!”
Fuck it. I pump my fist in the air in his direction.
He lets out a primordial scream in response, stumbling over a step, and even Larus claps a little after he gets Felix back upright.
I’m winning. I’m winning, and Adria was right—it really is easy.
The bell rings, and I swear to Vayla if this man lunges again…but he doesn’t.
He stands there waiting unguarded. His sword arm is lax at his side.
A trap? Perhaps he’s trying to see what I can do.
I charge forward, preparing to adjust to whatever guard he takes, but I don’t reach him.
The ground beneath me moves.