Chapter 10
T he wind pulls my hair in front of my eyes and I tug it back, tying it up to keep my face clear. Pyromey hadn’t been joking about the height. Gordmoor is one of the Unseelie Kingdom’s tallest peaks and the bastet grounds are literally carved into the side of it. The unobscured view doesn’t do anything for my rising nerves, as large High Fae file past onto the flat stretch of playing ground in front of me.
I stare across the huge plateau, my throat dry. Vaccia talked about getting the ball out of the circle, which is represented by a red line painted onto the stone ground, but what she didn’t mention was that on one side of that circle there’s a hundred-foot drop, just a few feet from the painted line. At opposite ends there’s pairs of stone pillars, one decorated with animal skulls and the other with bones. I hope those are also from animals, but I have no way of knowing.
I scan the crowds gathering in the stands fixed to the rock face above the plateau. It’s easy to spot Destan in his colorful clothes, though I have a sneaking suspicion he’s going to watch most of this game through his fingers. I would too, if I wasn’t playing in the damn thing. Jagged rock lines the sides of the arena, with several dark stains splashed across their surfaces. I don’t need to ask anyone to guess what they are.
I can’t see Ruskin, which is at least one thing to be glad about. Destan and I argued with him about it this morning, telling him that if he was going to be present, he had to be inconspicuous. Otherwise, there was too much risk the Unseelie would try to goad him into participating in some way or another. I reach down the bond and feel a familiar tug. He’s here somewhere, nearby. I just don’t know where.
The size of the Unseelie beginning to collect on the plateau seem to vary from large to huge. I watch from the sidelines as they’re divided into teams, marked with a colorful band around their wrists: green or yellow.
“Here,” Pyromey says, striding over and handing me a green band. “You’re on our team.”
“I am?”
“Jasand and Wistal got you into this. In the cold light of day, they feel responsible.” I don’t miss the unspoken implication: ‘responsible for what happens to you . ’
“How dangerous does this game get, exactly?” I ask.
She flashes her snake eyes at me. “You didn’t think to ask that yesterday before you said you’d join in?”
I shrug, though I don’t think the nonchalance fools her.
“No,” she says knowingly. “You were too busy thinking about that spot on the king’s council.”
“Because it’s too important to pass up,” I say honestly. “I don’t think you realize how important.”
She shakes her head. “I understand it very well. All season, I’ve heard the stories of Turis whispering poison in the king’s ear about how Seelie and Unseelie don’t mix, about the superiority of a few select members of our court. It’s one of the reasons King Lisinder won’t give your prince what he wants. He might not hate the Seelie like Turis, but Turis and his cronies have the king convinced that the rest of the court would never support a risky alliance with a half-Seelie.”
“Then I’m in the right place,” I say. “Regardless of the danger. But…” I hesitate. “I’m just curious. Has anyone actually died playing this?”
She smirks. “Not for a long time. Though there’s usually some nasty injuries.” She points up to familiar robed figures waiting at the end of the stands. “The healers are on standby, but be warned. If you use them, that’s it—you’ve tapped out, and you’re out of the game. And only those who are still on the field all the way to the end are eligible for the king’s council. So if you get hurt, try to stick it out, if you can.” She seems to reconsider her own words. “But also keep in mind, the delay in healing sometimes means that injuries go past the point of no return. And either way, some injuries just aren’t fixable. Someone lost an eye playing last year. They got a spell to the face and the thing popped like a grape. There’s not much anyone could do about that.”
“You’re not just telling me this to scare me, are you?” I say with dreadful realization.
She looks at me, confused. “No, of course not. I’m telling you so you’ll be prepared. Protect your face and vital organs and you’ll probably not get anything they can’t patch up…eventually.”
Wistal and Vaccia stomp towards us. I notice Vaccia is in a thick set of riding leathers, like many other players.
“Should I be wearing something like that?” I ask. Destan’s servant friend, Dreidana, had assured me everything I needed would be provided on arrival at the arena, but now I feel woefully unprepared.
“Yes,” Pyromey says. “Me too. And you’ll need to choose an ursinian. Come with me.” She leads me to one of the jagged stones lining the edge of the arena, revealing that there’s a passage tucked behind the rock. Steps lead up to a chamber filled with leathers in different shapes and sizes hanging on hooks. Pyromey pulls a set down and heads towards some smaller chambers next door.
“Pick one and change,” she says before going to do the same herself.
I find a set I think is about my size—not easy when most of the clothes look like they were made for giants—and start pulling it on. There’s a rustle of air behind me and I spin round?—
“Ruskin!” I give him a playful tap. “You scared the life out of me.”
“You told me to stay out of sight,” he murmurs.
“True.” I’m glad I’m getting to see him again before I go into the circle. Just being near him makes me feel safer, more grounded. I find myself watching his mouth as he talks, thinking about the things it did to me last night. If I concentrate on that pleasure— on the want that still smolders for him right now—then perhaps I won’t have room to be so afraid.
“I found a spot I can watch from,” he says. “The moment it gets too much, I’ll?—”
I place a hand on his chest, feeling the hard muscle beneath my fingers.
“No. I know you want to keep me from getting hurt, but if you take me off the field early, this whole thing is pointless. I have to be standing with my team at the end of the match in order to get that spot on the king’s council. I can’t leave, not even for healing. I’ll probably have to take a few hits, but that’s necessary anyway if they’re going to respect me. So no interference unless it’s an absolute emergency, agreed?” I search his face, wondering if this Ruskin will be able to control himself.
He nods slowly. “I will try to hold back as long as possible—but if it seems your life is in imminent danger?—”
“Then you have my permission to do something,” I say wryly. “But Pyromey says no one’s died for years,” I tell him, even though a little voice in the back of my mind tells me there’s always a time to break that streak. Ruskin looks similarly skeptical.
“Is there nothing else I can do?” he asks, his hand going to cradle my jaw. I lean into his caress.
“We’re allowed to use magic,” I say, remembering Pyromey’s comment about a spell injuring a player. “So maybe you can channel yours to me through the bond like you did in the court trial. I’ll just give you a signal if I need it.”
I show him the wristband, telling him I’ll twist it three times to the left if I need him to start sharing his power. Then I finish pulling on my game gear, noting Ruskin’s appreciative gaze lingering on my ass.
“Yes, I know you have a thing for this kind of look,” I say, feeling strangely comforted that this, out of everything, hasn’t changed about him.
“Correction. You in this look,” he says, tugging me closer and planting a bruising kiss on me.
A cough echoes through the chamber and we pull apart like naughty teenagers. Pyromey is there, watching us.
“He’s not staying,” I say. “He just?—”
Pyromey waves her hand. “I don’t care why you don’t want to be seen here, Lord Dawnsong, but I’m good at forgetting things. After you leave this room, for example, I’ll put it out of my head.”
“Thank you,” he says.
“Now come on, Lady Thorn. We need to get you a steed.”
Pyromey explains more of the rules of bastet to me as we take more stairs, descending this time. It seems the gist is generally that there aren’t many rules. Players on ursinian are given basket-like scoops used to catch and throw the ball. The other team will try to get it off you and over the line, past the point of their opposing team’s pillars. You can do just about anything to achieve your goal.
“Except no external weapons—blades or things like that. Only what you were born with,” she says, smiling and holding up her long, talon-like nails.
“And magic?”
“Always an option, but in some matches it’s not used much. Most people prefer to play by getting their hands dirty. Casting can take too long when the game moves so fast. Still, it can be a smart strategic move when push comes to shove.”
We come out onto an open-air enclosure where the distant chatter of the arena crowd is drowned out by the snuffles and grumbling of the animals in front of us—and I finally learn what an ursinian is.
A bear. A bear with antlers, to be precise.
Their bodies are broad, with russet-red fur hiding what’s clearly a wall of muscle. At first, I think they’re a smaller version of the creature Ruskin fought in Interra—though “small” is a poor way to describe their hulking bodies. But they all sport a pair of wide-set antlers, and when the nearest one lifts its head, I’m pleased to see it has intelligent, mammalian eyes. Nothing like the beast from Interra—more like a bear from back home. But then the ursinian yawns, and its teeth make me rethink my assessment. There definitely seems to be more of them than you’d expect.
“You want me to ride one of those?” I ask stupidly.
“Most of us do,” she says, unlocking the paddock gate and gesturing for me to enter. Which has me wondering what the rest of the players do.
I step cautiously up to the gate, but I don’t go in. A normal reaction to being faced with a pit of bears, I think.
“It’s safe,” she says. “The leathers let them know you’re not prey. You don’t smell right. Unless—you don’t have any food on you, do you?” she asks.
I shake my head.
“Good. Now, get in, walk around. Wait until one makes eye contact with you, then climb up onto its back. It’ll fight for a moment, but hold the antlers tight and eventually it will accept you.”
I blink at the list of instructions. “So I have to convince it to let me ride it?”
“Yes. Otherwise, it will choose the option of goring you to death,” she says impatiently. “Now hurry, it’s not long until the game starts.”
“What about you?”
“Mine’s already in there. She’ll come to me on her own when they open the paddock.”
Before I can spend any more time thinking about it, I step through the gate.
The musk of fifty pelts of thick fur fills my nostrils, along with the distinct meaty breath of carnivores. I move slowly, pushing my way gently past the bears, who are busy sniffing the ground and each other. My heart skitters in my chest, but most of them, to my relief, pay me no attention. Every now and again I need to duck and dodge an ursinian swinging its head—sharp antlers and all—towards me, but it seems to mostly be the result of trying to remove a fly or make space in the crowd.
After a few minutes, relief turns to worry.
“What if none of them make eye contact with me?” I ask Pyromey.
“Then you’re probably an unworthy coward who shouldn’t set foot in the bastet arena,” Pyromey says, examining her nails. There’s a hint of irony there, but her bluntness still reminds me comfortingly of Halima. I try to channel my friend now, putting my shoulders back and staring down the animals, waiting for one to stare back.
Finally, a pair of hazel eyes glare at me.
He’s a decent size—not the biggest, but I was naturally looking around at the smaller ursinian. And even if others are larger, this one has plenty of heft to him. I grimace, thinking of how much I’ve hated every experience riding. Then I step forward, holding his gaze like my eyelids are glued open.
“Hello there,” I murmur, slowly raising my hands.
The ursinian snorts and backs up a few feet.
I try shushing it, but that seems to annoy it more. It makes a rough, huffing sound, on the verge of a roar.
“Now!” Pyromey shouts. “On its back!”
I take a running leap, trying to move too fast for the animal to react. To my surprise, my legs carry me quicker and further than I expect, allowing me to swing one leg up onto the ursinian. But before I can right myself, it makes a noise of guttural rage and starts to rear, shaking its huge antlered head. I risk getting pierced, reaching up to grab hold of one of the spurs. Once my fist is wrapped around one, it’s easier to grab the other side and use what little arm strength I have to haul my body up onto the animal’s back.
It's two front paws hit the earth with a thud, the long claws gouging channels out of the earth. He roars in earnest, but I close my eyes and hold on, waiting for the bucking and rearing to stop.
And it does. Almost as quickly as it started, the ursinian’s noises of rage die down into a curious snuffle. I risk opening my eyes to see the furred head in front of me down to ground, sniffing for something. Food, probably. I tentatively put a hand to its crown, in between where the two antlers sprout. The creature lifts its head for a moment, gives a little shiver, then continues on its business.
“Good,” Pyromey says, indicating for me to climb down.
My ursinian pays me no mind when I dismount, so I take a second to admire the power and build of him.
“There we go, Parsley,” I say, patting his thick haunch. “We’re going to get through this, you and I.”
“Parsley?” Pyromey asks in disbelief as I exit the paddock and she closes the gate behind me.
I shrug. “It’s after another brave steed I know,” I say, letting her lead me back to the arena. One day, I’ll be able to tell my friend Sanna how I named a ferocious fae bear after her family donkey. But until then, I have a game to survive.
It looks like we’re still in good time when we return to the arena. The players are only just taking their positions on either side of the circle. Vaccia waves us over and I look around for the other members of our team that I know—Jasand and Wistal. They’re a little way away from us, at the edge of the circle, crouching down. I squint, thinking their positions look odd.
Then they start to change. Their arms and faces elongate, their legs lengthen, and I squeeze my eyes shut and open them again, trying to make sense of it. They’re getting bigger, much bigger , as Jasand’s brown skin sprouts long, shaggy fur, while Wistal’s turns black, with a fine down of shiny hair. He keeps his horns, still protruding proudly from his head, only now he has a snout and cow-like eyes. He looks like a bull, except taller and more muscled than any cattle I’ve ever seen. Meanwhile, Jasand shakes out his fur and stretches, now a lean, yellow-eyed wolf with the same kind of sharp teeth and claws as his human form.
I jerk my head round to look at Pyromey for explanation, only to see a couple of players on the other team has also taken animal forms. They bear vague resemblances to creatures from back home—a mountain lion and a stag, but like the others they’re much larger, stranger variations.
“How do they do that?” I ask Pyromey. I’ve seen magic achieve amazing things, but so far nothing like this.
She glances at the players with disinterest. “It’s a power carried by some of the king’s bloodline. Rare enough. Not all of us have it.” She smirks at Vaccia. “I have a theory that the more of an animal you are on the inside, the more likely you’ll be able to transform.”
Vaccia nods and laughs like she’s heard this joke before. “That certainly applies to those two.”
She nods at Wistal and Jasand as they trot over and I stare up, awed, as they pass me, the musk of hot animal breath and fur putting me back in the ursinian paddock.
“I thought we had to play this game on the ursinian’s backs?” I say.
Pyromey shakes her head. “Most of us do. But there’s no rule that says you can’t play transformed.”
Of course there isn’t. It sounds like this game barely has any rules.
“Not to ask stupid questions, but won’t they need their hands to er…move the ball?”
“If transformed they’re allowed to use any body part to direct it. But the transformed are mostly there to be our defense—to get other players out of the way for those of us with the ball.”
I stare across the plateau at our opponents. The mountain lion naturally looks ferocious, but even the stag has mean eyes and antlers far too sharp for a normal animal. I catch a flash of silver and bronze hair, confirming Turis and Climent’s presence. They’re talking to an orange-haired female and a male large enough to rival Wistal, with teeth that curve down past his bottom lip, almost past his chin. As if he senses me watching them, Turis turns and meets my gaze, his cold eyes examining me from across the arena. He goaded me into joining this game, and he’s probably hoping I’ll walk away from it worse for wear—or not at all. He seems to say something about me to Climent, who also turns to watch me, a nasty grin on his face.
The moment is interrupted by a horn blaring and the sound of a small stampede drifting over the rocky sides of the arena. The rumbling grows as a slice of mountain stone is dragged open, and ursinian come thundering into the circle. Their lowing and grunting bounces off the walls, and I flinch as the army of bears rushes straight at us. I try to remember that they’re just looking for their riders, but my survival instincts still have me breaking out into a cold sweat as they stream past.
A snout snuffles at my hand, making me nearly jump out of my skin.
“Parsley,” I say, and the bear-like creature grunts in greeting, nearly taking my eye out with an antler as he lifts his head. To my relief, he’s been fitted with some sort of saddle in the last few minutes, and I follow the cues of the other riders, shoving my foot into one of the stirrups.
Parsley doesn’t fight me this time but waits patiently as I step up and get adjusted on the seat. Pyromey rides over on her own ursinian and hands me a cradle—the tightly woven basket with a handle that I’m supposed to use to catch and throw the ball.
The ball in question has been placed right in the center of the circle—its polished surface makes it shine, clearly visible even from where we stand. Still, it looks ridiculously small in comparison to the size of the arena, not to mention the players who will be fighting for it. I swallow, the dryness in my throat returning, as the wind throws a gust of cold air across the space, reminding us of the brutal drop off one side of the circle.
Remember, you need this team to win.
Simple enough, I think wryly. But right now, my body is shouting at me to forget about playing well and just try to survive. Yet there are bigger things at stake here than bragging rights. Pyromey said it herself—Turis’s victory here is the reason we don’t have Lisinder’s support. It’s up to me to change that however I can.
By now the players are all poised to begin, ursinian and transformed Unseelie alike, straining to be released onto the circle. I can see it will be a race to get to the center, and I look around for what might be a possible opening I can steer Parsley towards—one further away from the bigger players. I can’t help my team if I’m crushed to a pulp, after all.
The horn blares again—twice in quick succession—and the players unleash themselves, the ursinian and transformed fae sprinting towards the center in a storm of motion. Despite my strategizing about a smart direction to approach from, my steed, Parsley, has other ideas. He releases an excited growl and bolts forward in a straight line, directly for the center of the scrum. I tug on the reins, but it’s no use, and he throws himself into the fray as the clash of colliding bodies echoes across the arena.