Chapter 3 Tamsin
Tamsin
“This duel will cement our legacy as a family.”
I sprawl flat to the floor. “I know.” The telltale heat of arcane energy whooshes over the top of my head, barely missing my ponytail. “Which is why I intend to win.”
My father advances on me. His gaze bores into me while he tosses flickers of casually conjured sparks of magical energy between long white fingers.
Dad’s got eyes black as coal, and they give nothing away.
I’ve always hated the way he stares at me unblinkingly while we train.
Like I’m a clock he’d like to take apart, to see how I tick, without a care in the world for whether he could put me back together again.
“Intend?” The side of his mouth twitches—with derision or amusement, I’m not sure. I’m never sure, with him. “That sounds like you think you might lose.”
I drag my knees into my chest. With a grunt, I hop into a squat, my stance low. Strong base, strong magic—or so the saying goes. Exhaling, I shove a tendril of arcane energy right back at my second. “Overconfidence never did any duelist any favors.”
“There’s overconfidence, and then there’s a lack of confidence entirely.”
“I’m confident,” I don’t quite snap.
Dad catches my attack one-handed, chuckling, as the little orb of silver energy douses the sparks of power between his fingers. “Not bad, not bad.”
I hate the way two words of praise immediately mollify me. Even now, even after years of dealing with Dad’s ego, his mood swings, his narcissism, I’m still hungry for his praise.
And I hate that about myself.
“Even if you lose,” muses Dad, “you could still do wonders for our name. So long as you put on a show.”
I bite my lip. Our name. Like I’m not the one entering the arena to risk my neck against one of the most violent magicians of my generation. Like I’m not the only remaining Blackwood who actually takes the duels that keep my father’s name relevant in magical circles.
He’s still Master Mateus Blackwood, one of the greatest magicians ever to enter an arena.
People still get starstruck when they see him, ask for autographs, beg for selfies.
None of the other old masters from his generation get that kind of reception from a modern-day crowd—respect, sure, and name recognition.
But Dad is the only retired duelist of his age who still receives the same kind of adulation he did in the prime of his career.
And that’s because I’m still here, doing what he can’t anymore.
Keeping the Blackwood name alive. Keeping us both in the spotlight.
Of course, I’ve only had the chance to do what I do because of Dad’s old connections. So until I earn a major purse of my own, the two of us need each other. Father and daughter, a pair of codependent parasites. And the worst part is, we both know exactly what we are.
I dust off my knees without looking at my father. “You say that like you don’t believe I can win.”
“Oh, Tam. My sweet, hardworking girl. Of course I believe you can win. I just don’t want you to be disappointed.
It’s Lysander Rook, after all.” Dad’s voice, artificially gentle and thick with sympathy, is poisoned honey.
“And you said it yourself: even you’re not entirely confident you can beat him. ”
“That’s not what I said.”
Dad snorts. “You might as well have.”
“Then I misspoke.”
“I’ve found you an opportunity here, Tam,” says Dad. “Do you really think Lysander Rook’s second, Sally or Sarah or whatever her name is—”
“Samantha. Sam Chan.”
“Sure, Samantha. Do you really think that girl would have approached you if it hadn’t been for all the time I’ve spent building your brand? Advocating for your worth to every promoter I ever dueled for? Don’t squander that for the sake of pride.”
“I don’t intend to.” I keep my voice as steady as I can. “I accepted the duel, didn’t I?”
“Before you even cleared it with me, yes, how could I forget? Lucky thing that this Samantha girl was still smart enough to meet with me to finalize terms. There’s a reason every champion needs her second.
You show poor judgment when you ignore yours.
You’re better than that, Tamsin. I raised you better than that. ”
I flinch but ignore my father’s rebuke. Instead, I opt for flattery. “You raised a winner,” I tell him. “I’m not in the habit of accepting duels I don’t think I can win.”
“And maybe you could.” Dad’s voice is breezy, like he’s already dismissed the possibility. “All I’m saying is, we could build an entire career off holding our own against a boy like that.”
I reach for my water bottle. My movements are jerky with frustration. “Right.”
“You’re angry.”
“I’m not,” I lie.
“You think I don’t believe in you?”
“I think you’re my father—and more importantly, my second.” I take a long gulp of water, wishing it were wine. “So I think I should listen to your wisdom.”
“But you’d rather listen to your own, is that right?” He chuckles bitterly. “After all, what do I have on young up-and-coming star Tamsin Blackwood, aside from twenty years more experience in the arena?”
“Dad—”
“Aside from the fact that I raised you? Taught you? Trained you? Aside from the fact that you owe what you are to me?”
“Dad!” I don’t quite shout. Dad doesn’t abide shouting, but I come dangerously close to it. “I already told you, I’m here to listen. I…I need your guidance.”
Dad doesn’t look entirely convinced, but at least he quits ranting. “Have you looked at the betting odds on this duel?”
I bite back a sigh. “The matchup was just announced two days ago. I didn’t think oddsmakers would work this quickly.”
“Oh, oddsmakers work quickly all right, especially when a name like Blackwood is thrown in the mix against a boy like Lysander Rook.” A shadow of hesitation crosses my father’s face.
“I don’t know that I should tell you this, but if I don’t, I know you’ll just look it up yourself.
But Rook is, for the first time in his career since his debut, listed as the underdog. ”
My heart drops into the pit of my belly. “That’s impossible. That means that—”
“You are popularly favored to win the duel, yes.” Dad doesn’t look especially pleased, but I don’t have time to overanalyze that right now.
“That doesn’t make any sense,” I insist. “We’re both undefeated, but I’m a rookie on the senior circuit. Rook’s already destroyed five grown magicians in the prime of their careers.”
“But you’re my daughter.” A tiny, toothless smile plays across my father’s mouth.
“That typically works in our favor. It opens doors. It gets promoters to take chances on you that they wouldn’t on another rookie.
But it also gives you a certain…aura, shall we say.
A mystique. Magicians have always been a superstitious lot.
And no one wants to bet against a Blackwood.
Even if it means betting against Lysander Rook. ”
I close my eyes. “People think I can win. They think I can beat him.”
“Yes.” My father’s voice is silk soft. “Which is why we need you to lose.”
My eyes snap open. “Excuse me?”
“We need you to lose,” Dad repeats. I search his face for some sign of irony, some hint of a joke, but he’s dead serious. “Don’t worry, Tamsin. You won’t suffer the same fate as those five fools who let a child get into their heads and wreck their bodies. You’re going to make it look good.”
The world tilts before me. “You’re asking me to throw the duel.”
“I’m not asking you. I’m telling you.”
“The prize money—” I begin faintly.
“Oh, the prize money is spectacular,” Dad acknowledges in dismissive tones. “It would set you—us—up for life if you win it. But that’s quite the if.”
The world keeps tilting. “You don’t actually think I can win.” To my horror, heat pricks at the corners of my eyes. I haven’t cried in front of my father in years.
“Maybe you can.” Dad’s still speaking in that dismissive, singsong tone that means he doesn’t actually care one way or the other. “But it’s not exactly a sure thing, is it? You’ve never faced a magician of Lysander Rook’s caliber before. You’d be taking quite the risk.”
“Every duel is a risk.”
“But you want to take a smart risk, Tam. That’s what I’ve trained you to do, don’t you understand?
” He sighs. “Think of it this way. What sounds better to you? The possibility of losing this duel and possibly your career and health, hell, maybe even your life, with no cash prize to show for it? Or the guarantee of finishing this duel on your own terms with a respectable loss that preserves your body and spirit, leaves you healthy enough to fight another day, and still nets a financial reward?”
I go cold. “You’re going to rig the betting, aren’t you.
” It’s not a question. For years, I’ve ignored the shadier side of Dad’s career.
I’m not stupid. Dad threw around too much cash after his retirement for all of it to have come from legitimate, saved-up duelist’s prize money.
All you need to do is spend about five minutes on the average magicians fan forum to find all the old rumors about Master Mateus Blackwood’s alleged hand in unregistered underground duels.
Respectable magicians don’t talk about the underground scene.
The underground existed long before the modern—and, importantly, legal—dueling circuit existed.
Legislators seemed convinced that legalizing magic would stamp the underground out, which tells me that ordinary lawmakers don’t know human nature terribly well.