Chapter 5 #2
Quickly, I begin to braid my hair in its usual style, adding the pins, then open the door to find Kira, hand lifted as if she was about to knock again. Her hair is tied up now too. She must have realized the liability it posed, after what happened with Waldron.
Her stomach grumbles. Mine echoes the sound.
She sighs. “Finally.” She takes my hand and all but drags me from the room. “Let’s meet the king.”
Long tables fill a room larger than the entire Nightfell square.
Swords are hung along the walls like decoration. Silver swords, enough to arm a battalion.
It’s a testament to the current peace between sides that they aren’t being used right now. It’s all thanks to the gates. Thanks to the agreement that the immortals would allow fifty of us to pass through them every fifty years to try to get some magic of our own.
I’m not the only one staring at the swords. The man next to me looks up at them with unadulterated longing. His cheekbones are visible. He doesn’t fit his new clothes; the fabric is rolled at his hips.
During the Culling and the Questral, our weapons will be the difference between life and death. Only a handful in this room have swords that compare to the ones shimmering just above, just out of reach, as if they’re mocking us.
We remain standing, crowded against the back wall. No one wants to be the first person to sit.
The thin man begins to fidget as attendants bring in silver trays of food. Through gaps in the group, I see piles of potatoes. Meats. Fish, even, which is perplexing, given how far we are from the coast.
On my other side, Kira swallows. “I don’t know which one I want more. That sword or that turkey leg.”
Her stomach growls.
“Definitely the turkey leg,” she says, just as the doors across the room swing open. There’s a moment of stillness, of anticipation.
Then in walks the king.
“He’s shorter than I thought he would be,” Kira whispers, and I dig my elbow into her arm.
She’s right, though. He is far shorter than he looks in the propaganda his guards occasionally leave throughout the villages, which I collect and use for kindling.
His skin is smooth, youthful, even, but with a waxy sheen. His smile doesn’t reach his eyes. He wears a crown of pure silver, with points sharp enough to draw blood.
He could be considered handsome, I suppose, but not by me. I wonder for a moment how this man has been able to keep us all under his thumb for so long.
The king of Stormside is legendary for his ability to survive countless obstacles. Stellan used to call him a roach. He’s said to be more than two hundred years old—impossible for anyone on this side … without magic.
He claims his youthfulness and unnatural lifespan is gods-given. He uses it as proof that he should rule.
Seeing him now, it all makes sense.
His people are dying, yet here he is hoarding magic.
My hands curl into fists. The gods might be to blame for keeping magic on one side, but the king has clearly kept much of what comes through for himself.
For the first time, I wonder if more challengers returned than we knew about … that never made it past the king.
Is that what happened to Stellan’s cup? Did the king … take it?
A single drop of magic from Starside can make a field fertile for a century. It can revitalize a village. It can heal the sick.
It can also extend a life.
At once, the challengers in front of me start to bow, and I would rather die, but Kira pulls me down beside her. “What are you doing?” she snaps at me, and I don’t know. I shouldn’t care about the king. He’s just a step toward my fate. I’ll never see him again.
Still, kneeling before him feels wrong. Especially now that I wonder if the Questral is truly meant to serve our people …
Or him.
“Please, rise,” he says, his voice easygoing. We do. “Sit.”
We do that too, each of us shuffling toward a chair. Kira drags me toward the two right in front of the plate of turkey legs.
Once we’re all seated, the king’s eyes roam over us, and they are not casual at all. No, now they are calculating.
The king is no fool. I can see it in the way his eyes immediately linger on who I’ve already marked as my greatest competition.
Cadoc, if only because he seems to have endless resources and his friends under his thumb. He might not have guards anymore, but he has a handful of challengers willing to kill for him. Two of them are archers. I wonder what he’s promised them.
The Enders, who look like a mountain range, sit side by side at the same table.
They have weapons forged from shreds of Starside steel.
I never thought that such a small quantity could be dangerous, but I was wrong.
Whoever made that chain was ingenious in how they got so much out of so little.
Their swords are all bronze, the lowest of the high metals, but strong, all the same.
Valen. The archer I watched kill dozens in the forest with her bow and iron-tipped arrows. Her tan skin is covered in glimmering chain mail. It’s iron too, a lesser metal, but any type of armor is costly. Her dark hair is cut short. She turns sharply to look at me, and I glance away.
Then, of course, there is Harlan Raker, who sits at the end of the last table, as far from the king as physically possible.
The king nods at the head of his guard. Raker gives the slightest tilt of his head in return.
He does not lower his hood or mask, even inside. Even at a feast. Even in front of the king. I wonder if he’ll be ordered to.
But the king doesn’t say a word. Is he afraid? Has he ever seen beneath Raker’s famous mask or his battle helmet?
For the first time, I realize Raker must be making the quest on the king’s orders. Of course. It’s the only way the king would allow someone so valuable to take the risk.
Why? To get the king more magic?
Is the king finally after immortality?
If so … chances are good he’ll get the opportunity to make the Turn. If any of us is making it back with a full cup of magic, it’s Harlan Raker.
The king continues speaking. “You have already survived several obstacles to be here. The platform. The journey. You have been culled from two hundred and twenty-six to just one hundred and fifty.” His gaze sweeps over us once again.
“Tonight, you will know peace for perhaps the last time. Killing is forbidden. You may wander these halls as you please. You may eat your fill. You may sleep soundly. And sleep you should.” His eyes glisten with amusement.
“Because tomorrow, the Culling begins in earnest.”
Next to me, Kira swallows.
The king looks around at us, brown eyes lingering on each challenger. “You each have a reason for leaving your lives behind and going on this deadly quest.” He lifts his chin. “But the Questral is not just about individuals … The magic you bring back helps us all.”
Him especially, it seems.
“Some of you have survived by pure luck. But luck won’t get you through Starside. Neither will alliances. Every day on that side will test you, and you alone must be strong enough to fight, if you are to take one of the coveted fifty spots. Bravery is admirable. But skill is better.
“You can only survive a quest across ancient, unforgiving lands by being resourceful and ruthless. The Culling is simple. At sunrise, you will leave this castle and race to the gates. The first fifty through them will embark on the quest.”
I blink. That’s it?
I just have to beat most of the other challengers there. It seems almost simple.
As if sensing relief from most of us, the king frowns. “The way to the gates is laden with challenges.” Of course it is.
He stands dramatically. The food in front of us is going cold. He doesn’t seem to care. Kira’s stomach growls again.
“Now … a choice.” He looks at the walls.
“These swords were sired by my own legendary blade, Maverick.” He pulls the sword from its scabbard, and a gasp spreads through the group.
It’s thick—made of several sheets of pure silver.
Perhaps even several swords blended together.
He sheaths it just as quickly. “I will offer you a chance to claim one of my swords …”
Kira perks up next to me. Her own sword is of far lesser metal—nickel, the most common across Stormside.
“… in exchange for an oath. You will swear on your sword that should you survive and return with magic, you will give half to me.”
There. The confirmation I was waiting for. He is taking some of the magic.
Half wouldn’t be so bad, if the king planned to disperse the magic across his lands, but the current state of Stormside is proof he hasn’t. No, he’s keeping it.
So this is how he has kept himself alive all this time.
The thin man stands. “I’ll do it,” he says, practically wobbling with exhaustion.
The king looks at him as if he’s dirt. Still, he reaches up—and one of the swords flies into his awaiting palm. Just like Raker was able to call his own blade.
Gasps fill the room.
Sword-magic. Can all swords be called, with skill, or only ones made from high metals? Could Stellan do it?
“Come here, boy,” the king says, and the man slowly shuffles forward. His hands tremble as he reaches toward the blade. The king shakes his head. “This blade would never have accepted you, to be sure, but I am bestowing it upon you. Do not disappoint me.”
The man is practically in tears as he says, “I won’t. Thank you, King.” He bows before him and then happily returns to his seat.
“Anyone else?”
Almost everybody else. It isn’t a surprise that nearly the entire group takes the king up on his offer. Over and over, I watch him call the metal down. Kira tries to tug me forward, but I stay seated, even though my own blade is several steps down from silver.
I don’t trust the king. If these swords were made from shreds of his own … could he control them? No, I have no business making any oaths. Not when I don’t plan on returning anyway.
And I certainly have no business making any oaths on my sword to a king I would rather see dead at the end of it.