Chapter 6
CHAPTER SIX
“Because I said so.”
His words echo inside my head, and that arrogant, amused smirk haunts my thoughts.
It shouldn’t. None of that matters. I’m here for a reason, and it’s not to stare at pretty, arrogant fae commanders.
A fae commander who saved your life , a snarky little voice quips at the back of my mind. Who told the guards to let you stay on the barge.
It doesn’t matter , I repeat to myself. Don’t get distracted. It meant nothing. Just because he did the decent thing and rescued you doesn’t mean he likes you. Remember how he dismissed you the first time he saw you. Tru was the one who saved you, not Athdara.
The drak with its rider follows us, circling, then falling back and returning. More draks fly around the Pillar in colorful waves. I think I see Great Dara circle higher up, glinting metal scales and wings. The water around the Pillar’s base, where it sinks its roots deep into the sea, seems to boil and bubble.
The Pillar draws magical beings to it.
It draws all magic. All power.
And once a year, it draws half the world’s population for this bloodthirsty festival.
More boats and ships have appeared, coming down various rivers to the Central Sea, converging on Sea Palace Island where the king and his retinue are waiting, not to mention the High Priest, a telchin who lives on Temple Island here. It makes sense that he’d be living close to the World Pillar, the nexus of power.
The punters and guards in all those other boats hail one another across streams, canals, and stretches of swampy water, over the flat delta of the river slowly pouring into the sea. Even from a distance, I can make out fae lords and ladies in fancy headwear and colorful clothes seated or standing on the decks.
No wonder Arkin found my claims of being a lady funny. I look nothing like a fae lady, and even before being dragged through muddy water and shredded by reeds, my white, lacy gown had to look cheap and boring to a noble fae’s eye.
Clothes don’t make a lady, isn’t that what they say? Is that true, though? Scales sure make a dragon.
Everyone wants to attend the Games. The faefolk, and especially the fae nobility, are leaving their castles, manors, and estates to come here, dressed in their best finery and displaying their great Houses’ coats of arms on their boats and sails, shields, and mantles.
They come to bask in the glory of their king and the light-giving Pillar. The Houses of Onyx, Amber, Amethyst, Beryl, Ruby, Sapphire, Opal, Topaz, Emerald, Jade, and more, each connected to their chosen earth element and the coloring of the drak squadron they support, all represented in the annual Pillar Festival.
Earth and air, though most fae are solidly of the earth. The power of the air is rarer and much coveted among them.
Humanfolk are also coming, but only the nobility may be invited to enter the Sea Palace, a rare event. The only real chance for a human to enter the palace is to enter the trials in the sea, in a specially designed flooded arena, and win. For every game won—that is, survived —the human will stay in the palace for a few days, until the next game begins, and so on until the end.
Three games, almost three weeks of entertainment, taking into consideration the final celebrations.
What hopes of survival do the humans in the cages have? They know they will face all sorts of monsters, that they will be used as fodder, sacrificed to the gods of the fae and the Pillar.
When you start your journey without hope, how can you ever win?
Long glistening bodies undulate in the frothy water as we approach the river mouth giving into the sea, the water color slowly changing from murky yellow-brown to green-blue: juvenile sea serpents, big as logs and yet small compared to the average adult specimen.
They leave us in peace, more interested in hunting prey and lazing in the Pillar’s light. I’ve never seen so many together before.
The guards remain on alert, but nothing attacks us as the luxurious boats carrying the fae nobles, arriving from other tributaries of the river, approach us.
That could be the reason we aren’t under attack. Watersprights aren’t good at attacking en masse . They prefer easy targets, lone journeymen and children gone astray, even the occasional boat.
Though let’s not forget we had a sea drak attack us on the river. An unusual event. And let’s also not forget the nokke that tried to drag me into the water.
But they couldn’t have come after me. What would they want with me? Don’t they know who I am?
It’s possible that the faster rotation of the Pillar has affected them, drawing them out. It is the time of the year when the Pillar draws the Eosphors wandering on the firmament close, as well as the dragons, the sylphs, and all the eldritch in existence.
We’re approaching the longest night, the most dangerous time to be near the center of the world.
The other boats hail us, and more greetings fly back and forth. Unlike our unadorned flat barges, only marked by the gleaming cages and the length of our convoy, the other visitors to the festival travel in ornate longboats, their sides high and carved into filigree panels. The fae aristocrats sit on throne-like chairs on the decks, wearing tall headdresses and brightly-colored robes, some even fake wings, in the fashion of their kind.
We’re a flotilla descending from the rivers into the sea, a smena , as the fae call it. A “boat swarm” which describes us perfectly.
The boats rock and sway as we ride the upswell, the sea waves rolling over the river’s placid waters, the currents from the swirling center of the sea disturbing the bottom.
“Hold on tight!” Arkin calls out, and the guards plant their feet and their spears on the deck, swaying with the barge.
On either side of us, the tall filigree boats row in close. Power in numbers , I think, and though I’m surprised the fae nobles allow their vessels close to the human prisoners, I suppose they believe in the cause of sacrificing humans to appease the monsters of the deep and please the Pillar.
Let it drink blood and not let another Reversal upend and destroy the worlds.
As we finally push through the oncoming waves and enter the sea, a cheer rises from the guards, as well as the other boats. Reaching the sea is a feat not everyone starting on the pilgrimage will experience, like the unfortunate guard taken by the mermaids.
Gusts of wind hit us as we finally sail away from the land, the water expanse already widening around us, the shore receding to the distance.
And I was right. No more outposts exist on our way to the Sea Palace. The seashore behind us is empty; too dangerous for any settlement, and we still need to cross an expanse of open water to reach the island.
The punters lay their poles inside the hold of the barge and take their seats on the benches, pushing out the oars. A drum starts at the back of the barge, setting the rhythm, and the lurch of the boat now depends on the rowers. They push the boat fast over the sea—a good choice, since, at this time of the year, the winds turning with the Pillar could rip our sails and sink us.
Seabirds fly low over the sea, rock gulls and peretrels, terns and bladebills. Among them, I catch a bigger shape.
A darakin, I realize, its colorings white and gray, blending in with the seabirds.
I watch the little dragon fight with the flock, probably over a fish, my mouth twitching a little. Darakins are rarely seen flying so low, and to find one as we journey toward the palace feels like a sign.
Okay, so a darakin fighting with squawking gulls and terns over fish may not be the best of signs, but I’ll take what I can.
Patting the dagger and pouch at my side, I gather my knees in and loop my arms around them. My feet burn, and I rub the soles over the deck, seeking relief. I need to learn to ignore the sensation. It’s part of the spell that’s hiding my magic and my true nature.
The guards are talking, some of them pointing at the distance where the spires of the Sea Palace rise, white and iridescent like mother-of-pearl. The bridge connecting it to the second island arches high, and now I realize there are more islands, if they can be called that, not much more than bare rock teeth rising from the sea.
They form a semi-circle in front of the palace, the maw of a monster waiting to swallow it. Small white structures gleam on them like old bones.
“The arena,” the guards are saying, pointing. “That’s the arena.”
“Where?” The female guard—Varna—shades her eyes with her hand. “Where’s the arena?”
“In the water in front of the anaktor ,” Arkin says. “Didn’t you know?”
“Not all of us come from the capital and know things,” she grumbles.
The games take place in the infested water. Here is what I know:
Every year, various boats and floating platforms are placed inside the semi-circle of tiny islands, and various feats are devised for the human victims to attempt, giving them the illusion they might make it.
But the water is why the humans thrown inside the arena have never made it out. Not to the end of the third game, at any rate. Luck and skill may get you through rounds one and two, but eventually monsters and exhaustion always win out.
“I’m not from the capital,” Arkin scoffs, “and everyone knows how the games work.”
“Not me,” she replies, “and if you— shit .”
A hush falls, and I know without turning my head who has boarded the barge and is walking across the deck.
Athdara strides past me to stand on the prow, the wind toying with his black hair. He bows his head and plants his feet apart on the deck, gauntleted hands curling into fists at his sides. He’s all in black as usual, the absence of color lending him an austere elegance, and the shadows curl around his boots like eager, hungry snakes, entwining around his calves and muscular thighs.
Our barge rushes forward, slicing through the sea, the fae aristocrats’ tall boats keeping pace, so that we seem to be moving inside a tunnel, the spray of water coating my lips with salt.
He lifts one hand as if in greeting at some point, and I see the white and gray darakin somersault overhead as if greeting him back.
Impossible, right? The dragonkin and other races have never been friends, even the fae drak riders don’t actually communicate with them, apart from giving certain commands.
Then again, he speaks to dragons, right? Why is it so hard to believe the dragons… don’t hate him? Maybe they see him as kin. How does one become a dragon summoner? How did he gain such a power?
The darakin flies away as the sea starts to heave, the boats rocking on the sudden waves. The movement isn’t natural. Some big creature moving under the sea is causing it.
Another sea drak?
Athdara doesn’t move, though, so I suppose it’s nothing worrisome? He lowers his hand, and I frown when I see dark liquid dripping from his fingers.
Wait… is that blood?
It’s seeping through his black gauntlet and splashing from his fingertips onto the deck.
When did he get injured?
Tru joins him, though he keeps a few feet away from him. “Is it contained, Athdara?”
The dark head gives a slight nod. The fist at his side clenches, unclenches. More blood drips.
What is he talking about? Contain what? Are they keeping some monster in the hold?
“We will be at the palace by nightfall,” Tru says, “and if you would like to see the healer, I’ll arrange?—”
“Hold your tongue, or I’ll cut it,” Athdara barks.
Tru’s head bows. “Of course. But if you?—”
With lightning speed, Athdara pulls his bleeding fist back and smashes it into Tru’s jaw, snapping his head to the side and sending him stumbling back a few paces.
Holy shit! What is he doing?
Over the booming of my heart, I can faintly hear Athdara snarling words I don’t understand—what language is that?—and the shadows swirl tighter and darker around him, twining around his muscular legs and up his torso.
Tru takes a few more steps away, shaking his head as if to clear it. The guards… they turn to watch, hefting their spears, frowns on their faces.
What are they going to do? Attack their own commander?
And what is going on with Athdara? Why did he get so angry? Why did he attack his friend?
Finally, Athdara falls quiet, and Tru sighs and stalks off, heading to the hold, his back rigid and steps heavy. Everyone parts to let him through.
He doesn’t seem to have noticed the blood still dripping from Athdara’s hand.
Nobody has.
Athdara stands there for several long, thunderous beats while we all watch, then turns on his heel and marches back across the deck. He slows down in front of me, and I flinch at the look in his stormy eyes.
So bleak.
So… empty.
I’m unsure if he recognizes me or even sees me before he marches off, too.