CHAPTER ELEVEN
PHANTOM PAIN
The corridors of Widow’s Hall are bustling with our newest arrivals from Petruvia’s shores. The chambers of Ambassador Taelon and Lorwen Night, however, are exceptionally quiet.
Why? Perhaps because Taelon Night spends his alone, while his wife lies with a member of Virdeian court. Someone should have warned the Nights that the corridors of Widow’s Hall have eyes—and they see all. As do I.
These halls are awhisper: the Nights have strange new bedfellows. Lorwen has taken up with a Virdeian lover, while Taelon has fallen out of bed and out of favor with King Pendrix.
Why? Well, whatever the reason, believe you me, if anyone is to find the truth, it’s a woman who lives enshadowed.
Fondly,
Shadow Queen
I spend my night listening in on our Petruvian guests so I can rattle them the way they did Luc. Even made sure to slip a copy of the Shadow Queen’s column under each of their doors this morning, so they can’t miss it.
The arena at Widow’s Hall is a dark gray-stoned structure formed into an elongated ring. The center is a large grassy field, its perimeter lined with wooden tiered benches. Since this space is mostly used for decurio training, there are rooms built into the base of the arena for equipment storage.
Usually, the arena is covered by a domed ceiling made of tshira. For today’s event, the roof has been retracted with magic, allowing the light from the beacons atop Widow’s Hall to illuminate the stage.
I sit on the edge of the same row as Mathson and Yelina, trying not to squirm. There’s no reason to be this nervous. The opening ceremony is painless. The decurio will perform a demonstration, Luc and Kaidren will each give a speech, and then we all go home. Easy.
Why, then, is my stomach so knotted?
Sef sits with me, looking far more at ease than I feel. I’m so busy watching the field, tensely awaiting the start of the ceremony, I don’t notice the approaching Petruvians until Yelina says loudly, “Why don’t you join us?”
I look up, startled.
It’s Taelon and his wife, Lorwen, in their indigo cloaks. Their heads are high and haughty, as though they don’t notice the reproachful looks they’re getting from the rest of the stands. Most people have already read the Shadow Queen’s column this morning.
“Sit with us.” Yelina pats the space around her. “My son is the Praeceptor. It would be an honor.” Her Petruvian accent slips out—her lips curl on her s’s, her t’s are sharpened, and her o’s are elongated.
Lorwen’s face lights up. “You sound Petruvian.”
“I am.” Mathson and Yelina Kyler’s marriage was never one of love, but rather one of political advantage.
Decades ago, Honorate Mathson Kyler was sent to one of Petruvia’s tournaments.
Yelina, the daughter of a high-ranked member of Petruvian court, was promised to him in marriage as one of the terms of the treaty.
Treaties are tenuous and can change depending on the regime—the whim of a fickle Petruvian king, or the shifting priorities of the ever-changing Virdeian Praeceptor—but a marriage treaty is permanently binding.
At Yelina’s invitation, Lorwen Night becomes a completely different person. Her frosty demeanor melts as she sits beside my stepmother. Taelon stands next to her, saying nothing. There isn’t room for him.
My stomach drops. I see what’s about to happen.
“Remira, you don’t mind giving up your seat for our guests, do you, dear?” Yelina asks me, voice dripping with false sweetness. “She’s Opheran,” she adds in an exaggerated whisper to the Petruvians. “She probably prefers standing anyway.”
I picture ripping her hair from her scalp. Then I force a smile. “Not at all.” I take a quick look around. I don’t see any open seats nearby.
Sef takes my hand and gently squeezes my fingers. “Don’t worry. I have a better spot in mind.” Without another word, we descend the bench steps to stand beneath them, watching between the legs of the rest of the audience.
Relegated to the shadows. As always.
At least this time I have Sef with me. Yelina chatters away above us. She takes quickly to Lorwen, who launches into a long-winded rant about the cold. Yelina offers her sympathies, sounding more genuinely sincere than I’ve ever heard her.
I scowl. “I could hardly stand Yelina before. What are we supposed to do now that there’s two of them?”
“We could always murder one and trade them between Virdei and Petruvia every few months. If we keep their faces covered, who would even notice the difference?” Sef muses.
I whack her on the arm, laughing. “You’re horrible.”
“You laughed.”
“Then we’re both horrible.”
We stop talking as the benches break out into cheers. Luc and Kaidren enter the arena together. Excited watchers stomp their feet, rattling the wooden stands and filling the air with shrill whistles.
Well, everyone except the Petruvians directly over us. They seem determined to appear as miserable as possible as the candidates for this year’s Tournament take their places on the stage at the edge of the field.
Footsteps pound from outside the metal gates that serve as entrance to the arena. The gate bursts open and Flynn strides in, followed by ten rows of soldiers marching in neat lines.
Acclaim surrounds Flynn like dense fog. The entire Republic went giddy when he revealed that the source of his magic is snow, one of the most readily available resources in Virdei.
He quickly rose to prominence in the decurio, and now he is known for his quick wit and skills with magic—a winning combination.
Snow swirls around Flynn as he glides toward the center of the arena. Flurries dance in thick spirals, first circling his head, then over the crowd, drawing incredulous gasps.
A plume of snow congeals, shaping into a large white butterfly. It flaps its massive wings and flies above the stands.
Heads crane to watch. Even the Petruvians can’t help but look awed by the display.
This level of control over one’s magic is practically unheard of—especially with a source like snow.
Flynn stops in the dead center of the field. He crouches, touching snow piled on the ground with bare hands.
When he rises, he extends his arms. Snow explodes into the air, forming more winged creatures that flutter over the shocked audience.
The soldiers marching behind him stop as one. In a practiced move, they each drop something dark to the ground. Tshira, leveled into flat boards.
The soldiers step onto the planes of tshira and draw up their arms in unison. Slowly, the tshira begins to rise, carrying the decurio with it.
The soldiers aren’t exactly floating—their movements are too jerky for that—but they rise to join the butterflies of snow in the air. They’re flying.
I’ve never seen anything like it. The crowd’s screeches of excitement reach a fever pitch.
Magic is almost always used for its utility. To see it create something beautiful is enough to make spectators lose their heads, myself included.
When it’s finished, Flynn takes a bow with a wide smile.
After magic, tshira is the most valuable resource in Virdei.
The Tournament of Thrones is about more than selecting the next Praeceptor; it’s about reminding our enemies how powerful we are and how foolish they would be to cross us.
Our Petruvian guests still aren’t smiling, but they look sufficiently impressed.
Flynn Sixmen takes his place on the stage. “Thank you all for that warm reception, and thank you to this great Republic.”
More cheers and whistles. Flynn waits patiently for the uproar to die down before he continues. “I have been graced with the honor of introducing our candidates for this year’s Tournament of Thrones. Please join me in welcoming Honorate Kaidren Vale and reigning Praeceptor Lucien Kyler.”
Kaidren gives his speech first, followed by Luc. My brother recites the words I wrote for him calmly. His delivery is a bit wooden (I make a mental note to coach him on this later), but all things considered, it’s a good performance.
Flynn claps with everyone else as Luc finishes speaking. “Let the Tournament of Thrones begin! We will commence with an opening challenge. The winning candidate will have an advantage in the first trial next week.”
Luc and Kaidren go rigid with shock. Gasps erupt throughout the stands. Sef and I look at each other, eyes wide.
I didn’t know this was coming. If the surprised excitement that fills the arena is any indication, no one did.
Sef looks stunned. “This can’t be right. The Tournament committee didn’t plan it.”
I’m annoyed, but not with her. I thought we were prepared. We got her a spot on the Tournament planning committee. She learned all about how the Tournament works—or so we thought. Clearly, there are still a few surprises awaiting us. I do not like surprises.
Flynn keeps going. “The opening challenge is quick. Each candidate will select one member of the decurio to represent them. Their soldiers will fight—to the death.”
The crowd rumbles as decurio spill into the arena. I squint, assessing them. There aren’t as many soldiers to choose from as I anticipated—just a few rows—and these soldiers are smaller and less physically impressive than those who just performed in the opening ceremony.
Luc chooses first. He points to the largest soldier. A good, safe choice named Erik. Kaidren’s pick is a spry-looking young man called Vellen.
Luc selects a sword for his soldier; Kaidren selects a long knife for his.
The two decurio stand in the center of the arena field, circling each other. I’m tense, clutching Sef’s sleeve for comfort.
Erik—Luc’s soldier—makes the first move. He brandishes his sword. Vellen lurches out of the way, but he’s a bit too slow. His thigh is caught by the blade. Red blooms on his uniform. A shallow cut, but it looks painful.
Watching them fight, I frown. They each lumber more than they lunge. Their reflexes are off, and they look more awkward with their weapons than they should. They’re slower than I thought decurio would be. Slower than the soldiers from the opening ceremony.
Vellen rushes forward, moves around Erik, and tries to stab him from behind.
Erik doesn’t turn quickly enough; the dagger lodges in his shoulder. He reaches to yank it out, and I see it—a flash of gold on his wrist.
He wrenches the knife from his back and throws it at Vellen. It misses, skidding over the ground behind them.
Vellen is now unarmed. This should be an easy win for Luc’s soldier. But he’s too slow, giving Vellen time to sprint for his knife.
Erik hacks at his opponent with his sword, trying to stop him. He misses. By a lot.
Why are they so slow?
As Vellen reaches for the knife in the ground, I see another glimpse of gold.
I frown. They’re both Opheran?
What are the odds of that? The decurio recruit from Virdei and Ophera alike, but far more aikkari are born in the Republic. Opherans comprise a very small portion of our soldiers. The likelihood of two Opheran soldiers being selected at random for this challenge are slim. Practically impossible.
As I watch Vellen seize the knife and hurl it at Erik, I’m left with the horrifying realization that there’s a reason these two appear poorly trained compared to the other soldiers: because they are.
The knife sinks into Erik’s chest. He stumbles before falling over, dead.
There’s a reason the pool of soldiers for this so-called game was noticeably small: They drew competitors from a selection of Opheran soldiers. Only Opheran soldiers.
After all, Opherans are expendable. They’re poorly trained, underprepared, and who cares if they fight each other to the death?
Erik is still. He lies in the snow, blood seeping from the wound in his chest. All the while, the audience is cheering, and Flynn is congratulating Kaidren on his victory. As if he did anything more than watch two insignificant Opherans try and kill each other.
I can’t look away from Erik’s body.
I recall Kaidren’s words, that he still has nightmares of his first Tournament. Of the first person he watched die.
The sight of the unsung soldier lying in the snow, dead and ignored, is seared into my brain. I fear Kaidren was right: I’ll never get the image out of my mind, not even in sleep.