22. Rorax
“Move over.”
Jia eyed Rorax with a raised eyebrow as Rorax climbed the arena steps to where Jia sat.
Jia slid down the row a few inches, and Rorax plopped down next to her, stretching her bare legs out in front of her as Jia looked to the floor of the arena—to the empty chair next to the Guardian and other Contestars that Rorax was meant to sit in—and raised her other eyebrow. “Aren’t you supposed to be down there, on display with the rest of the Contestars?”
Rorax just shrugged, leaning back to rest on the row behind her. “This spot has a better view.”
Which was true.
From here Rorax could see over the whole arena, but still hear what was being said. She could watch from here but wouldn’t be watched.
A perfect place to scout.
And the seat meant for Rorax down below was situated between Isgra and the Guardian.
Rorax would rather sit in a pit of hungry rats than spend the next two hours in the middle of those two. After Rorax’s fight with Isgra, and then her encounter with the Healer yesterday, she felt drained.
Her arms still throbbed painfully, and she just didn’t have it in her to be on the receiving end of any more glares or snide remarks.
Rorax had picked out a simple black dress to wear to the arena.
It was the first dress she ever had that trulybelonged to her, and she’d spent nearly ten minutes staring at herself in the mirror after slipping it on. She felt different, a little awkward and a little . . . wrong in it, but she also didn’t feel quite the same.
More like just a girl, less like the Pup.
The dress covered the burns Isgra had inflicted on her arms, but she’d asked Jia to go to the Healers Hall to steal another bottle of numbing salve. Now she could barely feel the burns at all.
The only shoes she had were her favorite pair of leather boots and the high heels Hella had given her to wear to the Emissary Ball tonight. She’d been scared to scuff the heels, out of fear Hella could cut the fabric out of her dresses, maybe around the ass, so she’d opted for her boots. Jia “borrowed” a short black dress she’d found on a maid’s rack in a corridor to wear.
The sound of cheering and bellows brought Ror back to the present. It felt like everyone in the Realms was crammed in here.
People of every House who had the means to travel so far gleefully pushed inside the arena, stuffing themselves into tight nooks and crannies all the way down the stone bleachers lining the long walls of the arena. People had filled in on the stairs next to her, and some grabbed onto the fence at the top of the arena, standing and straining their necks to see the ground floor. Rorax even saw Radashan down there. The little man was squeezing his way into a front row seat.
“Have you been to a Choosing before?” Rorax asked Jia, keeping her eyes on the people streaming in through the arena entrance.
“No, but my mother got to watch the Guardian win her Choosing. From the stories she told, this is relatively tame,” Jia muttered, as they watched two men roll over people already sitting in the stands as they wrestled for a spot.
The Guardian sat on a throne, which had been placed at the opposite end of the arena from the entrance, and lazily watched the wrestling and arguing as people continued to flow in.
At least four more fights broke out, but only when people stopped streaming in did the Guardian’s soldiers intervene.
When the crowd had mostly quieted down, the Guardian stood, and even Rorax, who was mostly insensitive to the magick around her, felt her hair stand on end as the Guardian’s power prickled over her.
“Tonight, we are excited to welcome all the emissaries and their Houses back to the Northern Castle for another Tournament of Houses, and the Choosing.”
Her voice was clear, even up to the highest bleachers, and Rorax grinned. The Guardian must be using her House of Air abilities to amplify the sound.
“One Contestar . . . has chosen to sit out.” There were angry and surprised mutters that broke out from all around them, but Rorax stayed focused on the Guardian. “But the rest are ready for their introductions,” she said, waving her hand over the ten Contestars seated to her left.
The five Highborns stood up, proud and tall, all wearing beautiful dresses or intricate pantsuits.
“Our five Highborns, who come from noble families and already held large quantities of magick in their blood.”
The crowd raved until the Highborns were seated once more; the cheering almost blocking out the names of the Contestars.
The Guardian introduced the Lowborns next, but Rorax had no trouble hearing their names called over the crowd this time.
With the Contestar introductions out of the way, the crowd’s energy spiked again. This is what they had all traveled so far to see. The Tournament of Houses.
“Now, please help me welcome our Houses and the noble warriors who will be fighting for you and for their realm in the Tournament of Houses!”
The crowd was deafening, overwhelming as everyone in the stadium pushed to their feet and started to cheer.
“Our first house to welcome is the House of Light.”
Approximately thirty people entered through the double doors at the opposite end from where the Guardian stood. They wore long, white kaftans with the golden yellow sun sigil of the House of Light stitched on the front.
The emissary strode forward, giving the Guardian a half bow when he reached her. “Guardian. Thank you for hosting us.”
“Welcome, Gerald.” The Guardian gave him a swift nod before gesturing to the women on the bleachers to her left. “The Contestars.”
“Ladies.” He bowed again to the Contestars. “House Light is looking to represent a Highborn woman with grace and dignity, who can be a diplomat as well as a warrior during these terrible times.”
The five Lowborn Contestars all looked at each other awkwardly, while the five Highborns remained smug.
Gerald bowed once more, before the members of the House of Light left the way they came. Rorax gripped her fists so tightly, her nails left little crescent moons in her palms.
There was an awkward silence as another thirty people from a different House filtered in, their clothes colored in scarlet and gold.
Murmurs surfaced in the crowd, as some of the people noticed that Volla, the Torch, was not among the Fire Emissary’s group. She had won the last two Tournament of Houses, but had not come to defend her title? How unlike her.
Jia pointedly ignored the whispers and nudged Ror with her elbow. “Rorax, this is one of the houses.”
Rorax squinted, looking over the scarlet and gold cloaks they wore as they streamed through the arena. “The House of Fire?”
“One of the houses that Kiniera recommended to you.”
Rorax scrunched her nose in distaste.
The emissary bowed to the Guardian. “Thank you for all of your generosity, Guardian.”
The Guardian actually smiled at this man, warm and beaming.
His voice was strong and kind as he turned to the Contestars and bowed to them. “Hello, Contestars. The House of Fire is looking for a Contestar who has the spine to lead us into any potential conflict with the Lyondreans. We want to help develop either a High or Lowborn. We will support whomever we feel will be the most stalwart in that goal.”
The man bowed again and turned to leave, oblivious to some people in the crowd staring holes into his back.
The houses that came next, Foliage, Animal, and Weather stated they wanted to sponsor Highborns.
The House of Ice was next. They easily had the most manpower thus far, packing the arena with their silver and light blue uniforms and cloaks. Rorax’s eyes worked furiously to take in each face, recognizing some of them, but none of Raengar and Isolde’s best men or women were among their ranks.
“Holy Mother of K??n. It’s Kiniera,” Jia whispered. “She’s been sending me Blood Hawks back and forth, demanding updates on you and on what happened. But she didn’t say that she would be here.”
Rorax’s eyes snapped to the woman leading the group. Kiniera was a slight woman with bony limbs who reached up and lifted a silver and white hood off her head. Rorax immediately had the urge to be both sick over the side of the railing and sit up straight as possible.
As always, Kiniera Kulltoug looked like a ghost. Even from the stands, the dark purple bruise-like bags under her eyes stood out from her chalky white skin, and the bones in her face protruded sharply.
Kiniera swiped her dead eyes over the Contestars, lingering over Isgra for a moment. She bowed, lower than the emissaries before her, and in her raspy voice simply offered, “Thank you for having us, Guardian.”
The Guardian’s lips pinched, but she gave Kiniera a tight nod. Kiniera turned to the Contestars, searching. Rorax felt the same small urge to be sick again.
It wasn’t Kiniera’s fault that the very sight of her made Rorax want to pound the nearest bottle of moonshine, but it didn’t change the facts. Volla had invented the nickname Ghost Girl for Kiniera not because of the greyish hue of her skin, but because of the way she had haunted them both.
Gods, she missed Volla.
“House Ice . . . is looking for someone to lead us through the impending war,” Kiniera drawled. “We would be interested in either a High or Low born.”
There were loud murmurs in the crowd. Everyone had expected Ice to be solely interested in a Highborn. They were the favorites to win the Tournament and were expected to have their pick of the litter, especially with the Torch so obviously missing from House of Fire’s ranks.
Kiniera bowed again to the Guardian before slinking back out of the arena.
“I hate to admit it,” Jia muttered, “but I can’t think of anyone else who would be better at training a Contestar than Kiniera.”
Rorax rolled her jaw, thinking of the brutal training Kiniera had put them all through while they were Heilstorms. “Me neither.”
The next Houses, Dark, Light, Alloy, and Energy all claimed to want to exclusively train Highborns.
By the time the final House entered the hall, Rorax’s body was stiff, and her stomach growled so loudly people four aisles away turned to gape at her. She just stared them down and shrugged.
“Only Death left.” Jia rolled her neck. “Thank the gods.”
The House of Death were dressed head to toe in black and red. They were silent and eerie, and the vibes coming off them were deadly.
“Ror,” Jia elbowed her again. “This is the House of Death. Kiniera’s number two recommendation. Though that man might be a distraction.”
A tall, handsome, pale man with impeccable posture and dark hair stepped up and bowed to the Guardian.
Rorax eyed him. “He is handsome.”
Jia grabbed Rorax’s chin to turn her head. “No Rorax. Him.”
Rorax sucked in a breath. The man stood at the back of the pack; his arms folded across his chest. This was a man Rorax really would have a hard time keeping her hands off of. He had light skin that was deeply bronzed, buzzed black hair, and matching dark scruff. He stood taller than the others around him, and that face. He had a prominent eyebrow bone, and a straight jaw as sharp as her knife’s edge.
His armor covered his chest all the way up to his throat, similar to how Rorax preferred to wear hers now that she had the Choosing’s mark on the back of her neck.
Rorax hummed her approval before peeling her eyes away to focus on the House Death Emissary.
“Guardian, how could we ever repay you for such extravagant generosity?”
The Guardian smirked, “Prince Sumavari, I do not think you are your House’s emissary this year.”
The crowd murmured excitedly around them.
“Holy shit,” Jia whispered. “An actual Death Prince?”
House of Death’s royal family had been hunted after the Sumavari’s War in 9,431 AR, and since then the family had almost never socialized. The only one that was in public was the Queen of Death; no one even knew how many Death siblings there were. Rorax had met one . . . on the night of the Siege of Surmalinn. That brother had been blonde like his sister the queen.
To see a Sumavari out in society was like seeing an exotic animal, or like an eclipse that only came around once every thousand years, and the crowd was starstruck with him.
“I wanted to take this opportunity to thank you in person; you always throw the best parties.” The prince grinned and winked at the Guardian, and the crowd loved it.
The Guardian’s smirk bloomed into a smile.
A tall woman standing behind the prince with proud shoulders, long wine-red hair, and matching red lips stepped up next to him and addressed the Contestars. “Ladies,” she purred, assessing each one of them individually. “House Death is looking to be a patron for the one who will fight for our country, and every single soul in it.” The woman’s declaration was more nebulous, yet more direct than any of the Houses before them. The crowd remained silent at the declaration.
As the House of Death left the arena, the Guardian stood up and clapped her hands together. “Welcome everyone to the Choosing. We have one week until the Tournament of Houses begins, so until then, let the gods bless you with fortune.”