CHAPTER FIFTEEN
THESE DEADLY GAMES
There isn’t a single empty seat in the arena. So many people. So many opportunities for this to fail spectacularly.
The domed roof is open for the first trial.
Light from the beacons illuminates the wide field.
Flynn Sixmen stands on a raised platform, flanked by Luc and Kaidren.
Before them is a sea of soldiers filling the field.
There are far more decurio here than there were for the opening ceremony.
I can’t see their wrists, but I know—these aren’t just the Opheran soldiers.
It makes my insides riot with fury, but rather than freeze it, I lean into that feeling. I have a Tournament to fix.
Luc stands with his feet apart, head high. He looks as bold and regal as I reminded him to be, over and over. His only flaw is his left boot. It taps nervously against the stage in a quick, irregular beat. I doubt anyone else notices, but I can’t look away from the crack in his facade.
Kaidren is on Flynn’s left. Like Luc, Kaidren’s head is high.
Unlike Luc, I can’t find any indicator that he’s anything less than wholly calm.
It bothers me that I can’t tell if it’s real.
Is his self-assurance as manufactured as his smile?
It must be. He came to me devastated just last night, but there’s no hint of that now.
The cheering crowd quiets as Flynn announces the rules of the first trial. On the stage before him is a large marble bowl full of slips of parchment, each with a name of an aikkari soldier.
When Flynn’s introduction ends, it’s Luc’s turn to select his team. His boot finally stops tapping as he reaches into the bowl.
Luc unfurls the first slip of parchment. “Dhavik Chambliss.” His voice is smooth and steady.
Dhavik shoves his way through the decurio. The audience twist in their seats and crane their heads, trying to get a better look at the first competitor. He’s tall and thick shouldered, with close-cropped hair, same as all the men in the decurio.
The first of ten. My fingers drum restlessly against my thigh. Luc draws more names. I examine each soldier called and their build, searching . . .
Luc calls the name of his seventh soldier, “Esi Dreylock,” and a girl approaches.
Her appearance is unremarkable and, under normal circumstances, wouldn’t draw the eye.
Except for her build. Out of everyone Luc’s called, hers most closely resembles my own.
She’s taller than me by a few hairs, and her arms have more muscle, but from a distance, covered in armor, I doubt anyone would notice.
I nudge Sef, but she’s already looking at me. “Her?”
“Unless you disagree?”
“No, she’s perfect,” Sef says. “I’ll take care of it.”
“Thank you.” I give her hand a firm squeeze and slip out of the arena benches.
In a few minutes, Sef will inconspicuously follow.
In the meantime, no one notices me duck into one of the rooms built into the base of the stands.
The wooden walls are bare, the only furniture is a small table, and there’s no floor—just grass.
Sef and I prepared this room ahead of time. My aikkari armor (a gift from Flynn during training) waits for me, neatly folded on the table.
Virdeian armor is a combination of leather, wool, and fur.
White wool shirts with flexible tan leather stitched along the sides and elbows for padding, leather caps covered in fur to protect the head, tan wool pants with leather at the kneecaps, and fur-lined boots.
They’re heavy enough to be protective and warm and are breathable enough to move in.
Over the face, soldiers wear cloth masks with mesh eyeholes to protect their vision from snowfall and keep them warm.
Practical, but a pain to put on. There’s no insulation in this room, so I’m freezing as I strip off my regular clothes. I’ve just finished putting on my uniform (leaving off the fur-lined gloves) when the door opens and Sef enters with Esi.
Esi is already wearing her armor, with her mask tucked under her arm. She frowns when she sees me. “What’s going on?”
I touch the tshira trinket at my bracelet and soak up the comforting warmth of the magic stored within. “Sorry about this,” I say. Before Esi can question my meaning, I press a hand to her forehead.
Heated magic releases, and I channel it into her mind, specifically her memories of the past fifteen minutes.
The confused furrow in her brow smoothens. Her eyelids droop with sudden exhaustion as her recent memories are wiped clean, and she slumps over.
I catch her before she falls. Sef and I brace our hands under her arms and guide her to lean against the wall. Dizziness is a common side effect of this brand of memory magic, but most only fall over if the memories affected are longer than a few minutes.
Esi will be fine, but by then, I’ll be gone, and she’ll have no recollection of being chosen to serve in the Praeceptor’s army for the first trial of the Tournament.
I tug on my gloves and mask, obscuring my face as I head off to find Luc.
He and Kaidren have fifteen minutes before the event to meet and strategize with their teams. If Luc is following my instructions, his first move was to ask each member of his team about their source, and by now, he’s moved on to recounting the details of the rest of my strategy.
We have ten soldiers at our disposal, and Kaidren has eleven.
We need to split ours up to be as efficient as possible.
Six soldiers on the front lines, forming a wall of protection.
Two will hover back, myself and another.
We’ll serve as Luc’s personal guards. If anyone manages to get past the screen of soldiers, we’re at his side to keep them from getting Luc into a death position.
The final two soldiers are attackers. Their job is to fight on the front lines when necessary, and to search for a breach in enemy lines to reach and defeat Kaidren.
Luc and the rest of the team are in one of the larger private rooms at the base of the stands. His foot is tapping again. There’s a table scattered with weapons, some crafted from tshira, some stone. Luc’s soldiers surround the table, picking through the weapons.
I sidle to my brother’s side. “What’s going on?” I ask lowly. If I can avoid it, I want to keep the other soldiers from hearing my voice, just in case any of them know Esi well enough to recognize the differences in the way we speak.
Luc brightens when he sees me. “Mira—I mean—” He darts a glance around, ensuring no one heard his blunder. “Esi.”
Stars in hell, he’s awful at this. “What did I miss?”
“We were given a choice between tshira and stone weapons. We chose tshira.”
Each soldier is allowed one weapon for the game. Luc’s team is arming themselves with tshira-hilted swords and daggers and weapons with blades crafted from the dark, banded material.
My pulse gathers speed. “You chose wrong.” I hold in a curse of frustration. If I’d known this was coming, I’d have prepared him for it.
“What do you mean? Tshira weapons are sharper, lighter, and easier to wield. They survive better in the cold, and they’re best for aikkari.”
He sounds like he’s reciting words from a damned course book. My eyes are hidden by my mask, so I let them roll. “Yes, but every single person on the other team is aikkari. If we use tshira, they’ll be able to manipulate all of our weapons. It’ll give them an advantage over us.”
Tshira weapons are great for enemies outside of Virdei.
Petruvia’s military is twice our size, but every member of our army has magic, while only a fraction of theirs does.
What we don’t have in numbers, we make up for in magic.
Using tshira weapons with enemy kingdoms gives us an advantage.
In this arena, however, Kaidren’s team has just as much magic as we do.
Tshira weapons are awful for dealing with other aikkari.
Luc’s foot taps faster. “Are you sure about this?”
“Positive. Kaidren’s going to select tshira for his team. Right as the game starts, we can disarm as many of his soldiers as possible. He has an extra team member; we need every bit of leverage we can get.”
Luc can’t see my face, but I read the uncertainty in his. We’re running out of time. He needs to make a decision now. I nudge my shoulder against him. “You trust me, don’t you?”
“With every lie I’ll ever tell.” Luc still doubts this will work—I can see it in his brow—but his faith in me outweighs his misgivings. He raises his voice to address the rest of the team. “Change of plans. We’re using the stone, not the tshira.”
I catch a few confused glances exchanged between soldiers, but they don’t argue. This challenge isn’t about aikkari thinking for themselves. It’s about which candidate has the winning strategy.
Five minutes later, there’s a rap on the door. The time for strategizing is over. The trial is starting.