CHAPTER TWENTY
PULLING HIS STRINGS
The Republic of Virdei takes honor and tradition seriously. Especially when we’re being observed by outsiders who hate us and want nothing more than to take our land and resources.
Which is why the General of the decurio insisted we use ceremonial robes for Eteria, to be tailor-made for Kaidren Vale by the official seamstress of Widow’s Hall.
I’ve never met the woman, but Sef is skilled at making friends.
The hall leading to her work chambers is wide, quiet, and empty. Clearly, she doesn’t get many visitors. Sef and I peer around the open door into her room.
It’s huge, with jagged stone walls and clothes everywhere. Some are hanging on wooden racks, some are folded, and some are draped over wooden figurines molded into the shape of human bodies.
Kaidren’s robes for Eteria are proudly displayed in the middle of the room, laid out over a stone table. They’re impossible to miss. Black with shimmering gold-threaded trim, an emerald green lining, and a sash of the same color around the middle.
The seamstress flits about the room, not watching the door. She’s a short and solidly built woman. Her hair is in locs that fall to her hips. The hair at the base of her skull is dark brown, and the ends are dyed silver and studded with dark blue beads.
She wears a pin cushion dotted with needles attached to a thick leather bracelet, and at least two pins stuck in her hair.
Sef enters the room with a cheery smile. “Hey, Novi.”
The seamstress looks up in surprise that swiftly melts into happiness. “Sef!” She moves in for a hug, taking care to hold the arm with the pin cushion bracelet out and away. “What are you doing here? You haven’t come to see me in weeks.”
“I know, I know,” Sef says sheepishly. “You know my mistress. She keeps me busy.” She and Novi fall easily into conversation. Sef is a natural at this. Effortlessly charming, casual, and cheery.
As she and Novi talk, Sef slowly shuffles to the side. Novi turns with her, not breaking their conversation or even noticing the subtle shift. In a few moments, she’s facing away from Kaidren’s robe, and her back is to the door.
My eyes narrow on the robes. I rise on my tiptoes and slink across the room.
Sef raises her voice, just barely, to mask any noises I hope I’m not making as I grab one of the robe’s sleeves.
My fingers work quickly, pinning a rectangular scrap of fabric to the inside lining.
I pin it on three sides, leaving one open.
The end result is a makeshift interior pocket.
Into it, I slide a hollow tube made of tshira.
I lift the sleeve, ensuring the tube doesn’t fall out. It stays.
Perfect.
I’m back out the door before Novi the seamstress knows I’m there.
Every single seat in the arena is filled and every single person is screaming at the top of their lungs. I feel the reverberations of their cheers and the tangible excitement of it all as I enter the spectator stands.
My eyes immediately find Luc. He’s hard to miss.
His seat is in the front row and it’s built into a throne, complete with plush cushions and armrests.
Most of the benches are already filled, but there’s a gap right next to him.
He saved me a spot. He said he would, but it’s not until he catches my eye and waves that I believe him.
I can’t help smiling. I push my way through the stands toward him. A foot slams into the bench, right where I was planning to sit.
I trace the shoe up to its owner. Yelina. She’s dressed in yellow and black furs and wears a short black wig. She gives a smile, sickly sweet enough to make me ill. “Remira, dear, I am so sorry, but there isn’t space for you.”
My eyes narrow. I glance at Luc, but the cheerful expression he gave before has fled, and he’s no longer making eye contact.
I bite the inside of my cheek to fight a scowl. “Luc saved this seat for me.”
“Yes, he told me. But unfortunately, Mrs. Night needs this spot. Her husband is already seated. You wouldn’t want to separate a husband and wife, would you, dear?”
Lorwen Night despises the mountain air. I’ve been eavesdropping on her since she first arrived, and I’ve heard every rant about her hatred of Virdei, listened to her complain about how she hasn’t felt warm in weeks, and heard her whine endlessly that she didn’t even want to come to Eteria.
“I was under the impression Mrs. Night wouldn’t be attending. ”
“She wasn’t, but there’s been a change in plans. I think it was her husband who changed her mind.”
I’m warmed with a lie, confirmed by Yelina’s tiny smirk.
Taelon didn’t persuade his wife to attend—Yelina did. She wants me to know it without her having to say it aloud in front of witnesses.
Steel and ice. I’m made of steel and ice.
I bare my teeth into a smile. “Of course. If Mrs. Night needs a seat, I’m happy to give her mine.” I don’t even bother glancing at Luc again. There’s no point. I already know he’s silently watching his feet, like always.
I keep my head high as I pick a new spot, this one close to a set of stairs that leads out from the arena.
It’s better. It’ll make it easier to sneak out without detection or having to come up with an excuse when the time comes. No matter how many times I remind myself of this fact, I can’t settle my roiling fury.
I’m fuming up until the start of the demonstration.
The arena gate flings open, and Flynn enters to thunderous applause.
It’s to be expected for an aikkari whose source is snow.
Most aikkari with physical sources either carry around bits of it for easy access or keep tshira stored with magic somewhere on their person.
For Flynn, it isn’t necessary. He’s never far from his source, making him a formidable opponent.
It’s no secret that he’s being groomed to take over as General of the decurio when General Fain retires.
Flynn raises his arms, waving at the adoring crowd. Ten contenders trail after him. Only five are decurio soldiers, but they’re all dressed the part.
From my new seat, I have a perfect view of Luc and his entourage—they’re the only ones in the arena not cheering. Luc smiles and claps when appropriate, but his parents are stone-faced, and the Petruvians—especially Lorwen Night—look actively bored.
The ten contenders get into place as Flynn finishes explaining the rules.
They each stand behind a burlap sack. For the aikkari, the bags before them contain their sources, ready for the demonstrations.
For the civilians, the bags contain a large rock for show.
No one in the stands knows which—or how many—of the contenders are aikkari, and which are not.
Well, no one except for me.
The air buzzes as Flynn cues Kaidren’s entrance.
Kaidren emerges from one of the rooms at the base of the stands. He struts confidently into the center of the arena, head high in his black and gold robes, shoulders back. There isn’t a trace of nerves, not a hint of indecision.
He walks as though he’s already won. I can’t tell how much of his confidence is a screen and how much of it is real. My guess is it’s mostly fake. Kaidren strikes me as the kind of person who’s always acting. Always putting on a show.
Flynn motions to the first contender. “Gavin Tassim. Tell us, Honorate Vale, is this man aikkari?”
Kaidren places a hand on Gavin’s forehead. His head bows, eyes slip closed. After a pause, he opens them. “He’s aikkari. His source is cerulean blue.”
The entire arena seems to lean forward, eager to see if he’s correct.
“Step aside, Honorate Vale.” Flynn guides Kaidren out of the way before pulling a cord. It runs across the arena, under the stands. There, hidden from the audience, is a massive crossbow. And Flynn just pulled the trigger.
A spear of tshira launches through the air, hurtling right toward Gavin.
The audience catches their breath.
Gavin doesn’t hesitate. He reaches into his bag and pulls out a cerulean blue tile.
He throws a hand up, palm out.
The tshira spear is only a few breaths away from piercing his stomach, but its trajectory suddenly shifts, as though met with a great burst of wind. It sails to the side, where it embeds itself harmlessly in the ground.
The audience erupts into raucous cheers. But the demonstration isn’t over yet.
Three members of the decurio rush into the field from a room at the base, each carrying bows loaded with a tshira arrow. As one, they release their bowstrings.
Gavin springs into action. His dropped tile shatters against the ground, but he ignores it and raises his arms. All three arrows move together, away from him, away from danger, and land in the snow.
Even I’m impressed. I don’t have nearly so much control of my magic.
The crowd screams even louder, and Kaidren’s smile is wider than I’ve ever seen. He’s correctly identified the first contender and their source.
My eyes follow the trail of the cord Flynn pulled to launch the tshira. I make a mental note of where it ends, beneath the stands on the other side of the arena.
Flynn announces the name of the next contender. “Reyna Halifore.”
Kaidren lays a hand on her forehead. This time, he doesn’t bother with any of his previous theatrics. He shakes his head. “She’s not aikkari.” He doesn’t wait for a prompt from Flynn before moving aside.
Again, Flynn pulls the cord, and again, a tshira spear launches at the girl. She shrieks, hands flying to cover her face, as though expecting the spear to hit her.
Flynn swiftly holds out his arms, sending the bolt gliding off to the side.
Kaidren’s grinning again. “You can look now, Reyna.”
She peeks open one eye, then the other, breathing a sigh of relief when she sees she’s still alive.
There are eight contenders left. Kaidren works down the line. He correctly identifies the next seven. Four are aikkari, three are not.