Twenty-Eight
It’s dark and quiet, or as close to either as it gets in the Heap. I snuggle a little closer to Somi, threading his fingers through mine.
“Above the forest, high in the sky, rose the great white moon.” Fara’s voice is far from melodious, left with a permanent rasp from a childhood illness.
It is still, to me, the most comforting thing in the world.
“The moon shone down on the trees and the blanket of snow, and painted them a dazzling white. It shone down on the animals as they came out to play. First the rabbits, soft-tailed and long-eared, then the foxes with their bright eyes, then the deer with their antlers and even the bear cubs, tumbling and laughing with one another. And then—”
“Is the moon brighter than the sun?” Somi interrupts.
“I don’t think so,” Fara says. “The moon only comes out at night.”
“With the stars,” Somi says. “Is the moon brighter than the stars?”
“The moon is a big circle,” I say. “The stars are just little dots.”
Somi chews his lip. “But there’s a lot of stars. More than a hundred.”
“Someday you’ll have to go and see for yourself,” Fara says with a smile.
“Only if you an’ Taj come with me,” Somi says seriously. “I’d be scared otherwise.”
“I’ll come,” I offer. “I’m not scared of stars.”
“What about bears?”
“Bears aren’t scarier than Twisted.”
“Yes, they are.”
“Are not. Nothing’s scarier than Twisted.”
“I bet a bear could pick up a Twisted and eat it right up.”
“No way.” I turn to Fara, who is already raising her hands in self-defense.
“Don’t ask me! I’ve never met a bear.”
She gets up from our bed, putting Little Forest Stories carefully on the table. Somi and I give simultaneous groans.
“I know, I know,” Fara says. “There’ll be more tomorrow. But I’ve got to go, all right? You know what to do if anything happens?”
“Out the back door,” Somi says.
“And right to Arnold’s place,” I finish.
“Good.” She kisses us each once on the forehead. “I’ll see you in the morning.”
We wait while her footsteps fade away. When the front door closes with a screech, we know she’s gone. I close my eyes, feeling Somi’s fingers twitching slightly in mine.
“Are you asleep?” he says.
“Not yet.”
“She’s been going out at night more often.”
“She needs to work.” I don’t understand what she’s doing, exactly, but it’s not something she likes. I see the hollow look in her eyes when she comes back, and sometimes there are bruises on her arms. Once she had a black eye. “We need money for food.”
“What if she doesn’t come back?”
“She’ll come back. She always comes back.”
“But what if she doesn’t?” His hand curls very tight around mine.
“Then I’ll take care of you.”
“You promise?”
“I promise.”
He doesn’t know that I’ve been talking to a scavenger crew. They have kids younger than me along, though they only get quarter shares. Fara hasn’t agreed to it, but I don’t plan on telling her. I’m not going to sit around useless forever.
After a while, Somi’s breathing gentles. I lie there in the semi-darkness, staring at the ceiling, imagining that I can see through it to the tiered city above. And then through that, up into the stars.
I open my eyes and look up at the ceiling.
If I could see through the carved and decorated roof of Ky’s house, there would be a mass of blue, with lamps so bright it hurts to look at them.
Infinitely more pleasant than the dim work-lights and the Asshole down below, but still fake.
When night falls, there’s no moon, no stars, only darkness.
We live in a bubble, Heapers and Hod citizens alike.
A sealed tomb of metal and rock, where nobody gets in or out.
With one exception. And today I’m going to meet him.
Four days have passed, and it’s possible I’ve never worked harder in my life.
It feels like a dream, a fugue state, broken only by spectacular meals I barely taste and a few extended periods of unconsciousness.
What Ky does during that time I can’t say, but I see her only occasionally when she comes to check on my progress.
I wish she wouldn’t. I’ve always been able to throw myself into my work, so that nothing seems to exist apart from me, the sigils, and the metal.
Down below in the Heap I’d never been able to make that feeling last for very long, because there were always distractions.
Family, hunting, or the sheer inadequacy of my tools and materials.
Here, though, everything I need appears as if by magic.
Like in a dream, every problem has an easy solution, as fast as thought.
It’s all I can do not to tear Star apart entirely and begin again.
I started the Mark 6 back in the Heap, with the limitations of my workshop there.
I’m certain I could do a better job here, but there’s no time.
I do the best I can, layering our hoard of sigils to strengthen Star’s limbs and toughen his armor.
A variety of nasty tricks are concealed in his carapace, where they will hopefully surprise his opponents.
Ky says that keeping some cards in reserve is always a key to victory.
Star himself makes suggestions and (more often) sarcastic comments. If he’s nervous at all about the upcoming match, I can’t sense it. For my part I’m not sure what to think. Just being here seems like part of the dream. And in a few hours—
—I’m going to wake up.
We ride in the runic carriage again, inward and a bit clockwise.
There’s a vast open courtyard, tiled in stone, which Ky says is usually used for market fairs or holiday celebrations.
Today it’s occupied by a large wooden construction ringed by a wall three meters high.
All I can see of the inside is a few simple towers connected by bridges; what purpose it serves, I have no idea.
Carriages are everywhere, the edges of the square so thick with vehicles that our progress slows to a crawl.
Eventually we break through to a checkpoint, manned by a line of watchful Arbiters.
Ky leans out the window to show our registration, and we’re allowed to proceed to a smaller carriage park.
A couple dozen vehicles are already waiting.
Some are elegant like ours, while others look like cargo haulers.
“Okay,” Ky says as we draw to a halt. Her thumbs are pressed against her eyelids. “Okay okay okay. Here we go, Taj. No backing out now.”
“Nobody’s backing out,” I say, trying for confidence to steady her nerves. Truth be told I could also use a little reassurance.
“Right.” She breathes out. “Right.”
We disembark, Star trailing behind us. Along one side of the wooden construction is a bank of seats, raised so spectators can see over the wall.
In front of these is a platform with several chairs on it, which I’m guessing is for the judge.
What really makes my pulse race is the crowd in between the platform and the arena wall; little knots of people standing around their runics. These have to be my competitors.
There are more of them than I imagined, perhaps two dozen runics in all.
I can’t tell which are the masters and which are the sponsors, but my attention is on the runics themselves.
They’re uniformly big, most at least twice the size of Star, and they come in a bewildering variety of shapes and forms. Many are clad in colorful plates of thin metal, which seems to be entirely for aesthetic purposes; it makes them look like animals or fanciful beasts.
I recognize Vripiai at once; it has new plating that gives it a beguiling blue-and-green pattern around a row of red diamonds.
Quech’s height and build make him easy to pick out amid a small group of well-dressed men in the serpent’s shadow.
He wears the same long leather coat as when I’d last seen him, his head freshly shaved down to stubble.
I nod in his direction to Ky, and her lips thin.
“That’s Devon Dreikin with him,” she mutters, indicating a fat man with shoulder-length hair separated into braids by colorful bejeweled rings. “The Dreikins must be his sponsors.”
“Do you know him?”
“Only by reputation. He always hated Father. I’d have said he was the one pulling Gestian’s strings, but I don’t think he has the balls for an actual assassination.”
Beside Vripiai, another runic shaped and colored like a massive tiger rests its head on its paws in a remarkably catlike pose.
An old woman stands beside it, lecturing a young woman with startlingly green hair and a cocky stance, one fist on her hip.
Before I can ask Ky about her or any of the other contestants, a bell chimes loudly and everyone turns to face the platform.
The stands are filling with a crowd of colorful peacocks in every possible variation of clothing and fabric.
On the platform itself is a short, balding man, his jowly face already sheathed in sweat, tugging at the ends of an unfortunate mustache.
He holds a tiny bell in one hand and taps it again, producing a deep tone all out of proportion to the thing’s size.
Sigwork, obviously. Is everything sigwork here?
“Ahem,” he says, voice amplified by one of those sound constructs. “Citizens of Hod. Competitors in the Ascent. I bid you welcome on behalf of the Council and our honored guest! I am Hisham Avaro, as, um, most of you already know.”
“Secretary of the Council,” Ky whispers. “Mostly a ceremonial job nobody wants. The Avaros are the least of the Council families, but they’ve been around a long time.”
“I could not be prouder to be here today,” Hisham goes on. “As you all know, the, um, Ascent is a tradition that stretches back into the mists of time. Today we forge another link in the chain of, um, ages, and—”
There’s a noise like someone clearing their throat very loudly. Hisham stops speaking, swallows, and looks behind him. Fresh sweat beads on his brow.
“Of course nobody wants to hear me ramble on, ha ha,” he says with a profound lack of humor.
“It is my most humble pleasure and deepest honor to introduce the judge for the Ascent. Most, um, honorable Hesed Knight Alzimyth, be welcome to Hod, and accept our deepest gratitude for your, um, presence.”
A new figure stalks onto the platform.
At first glance, he’s nothing too out of the ordinary. Tall and whip-thin, with blond hair swept back in an elegant wave and piercing blue eyes, high cheekbones, and heavy brows that seem made for a glower. He wears a white uniform of unfamiliar cut, with blue edgings and sparkling silver chasing.
But I feel something, the same tug on my spirit I get when reaching for a sigil.
I can see faint colored spots patterned into the white, along his sleeves and across his chest. They look like sigils, but tiny, no bigger than my pinky nail.
His fingers bear several rings, and there are hints of color here, too, like gemstones that shine from within.
He’s wearing a construct, so subtle and precise it’s almost unnoticeable.
I would give two fingers off my right hand to get a close look at it; no sigworker in the Heap could replicate that, not in a thousand years.
“In the name of the Keter Apex, I declare this Ascent begun,” he says.
His voice booms out effortlessly, but his tone is bored.
“The first round will be a free-for-all. You will each be assigned an entrance to the arena. Once within, each runic disabled will earn you one point. The top eight scorers will proceed to the next round. Ties will be broken by a system too dull for me to explain.” He looks us over, and seems to be stifling a yawn.
“Combatants may yield verbally at any time and be removed from the tournament. If a master is unable to continue, their runic will be judged disabled. Fight well and bring glory to the Apex.”
Without further fanfare, he turns on his heel and throws himself into one of the chairs, his lean, long-limbed form folding up like a dead bug. Hisham steps forward again, mopping his brow.
“Thank you, um, honored knight. At this time the, um, sponsors should return to the stands. Contestants, you will be guided to your assigned doorways. Best of luck to all of you!”
My head is spinning with questions—what in the name of the stars is a Keter Apex?—but Ky grabs my hand and brings me back to the moment.
“Taj!”
I blink and shake my head. “I’m fine. Just thinking. Did you say something?”
“I said I didn’t expect this. A free-for-all. Are you going to be okay?”
“I’ll have to be, won’t I?” I force a grin. “Doesn’t really change much. The basics are still the same.”
“Right.” She smooths the front of her coat. “Okay. Remember, use as few tricks as you can get away with. Anything you do here everybody is going to know about in the next round.”
“We still have to make it to the next round.” I squeeze her hand. “I’ll manage.”
She gives a tight nod and hurries off with the other sponsors. A squad of liveried servants fans out, one to each master, pointing them around the wall of the arena. Mine is a girl about my age, who gives Star a speculative look before bowing slightly to me.
“Master Fara.” It takes a second for me to remember my hastily assumed family name. “Please come this way.”