Chapter 14
FAR WEST OF THE PALACE, in a stretch of open ground, stands the arena.
The immense stone structure is a feat of engineering. Its outer walls curve up and in, the center hollowed out, exposed to the elements. Below, a great field marks the heart of the stadium, tier after tier of stands rising gradually higher to surround its grassy center.
My pulse kicks hard, provoked by the bellow of a hundred thousand spectators. The roar is both declaration and promise. Today, blood will be spilled. It will soak the grassy field. It will splatter the walls and streak flesh.
Gripping the railing in front of me, I lean forward on the bench, scanning the hundred-plus competitors spaced equidistantly around the field’s perimeter.
There is every color and shape of immortal: elegant denizens, hybrids of beast and man, some that look no older than children, though I assume they are as ancient as the rest. On the far side of the arena, the red-headed trio stands as a single unit, armed to the teeth.
Another goddess with pin-straight, midnight hair and light brown skin shields herself behind a veil of deepest night, while a many-headed creature of serpentine appearance stretches their legs.
I don’t see Eurus anywhere. We parted ways at the arena entrance without so much as a Good luck.
Four levels above me, shaded beneath a white tent, sits the Council of Gods. I recognize the lightning god, never far from his basket of lightning bolts. Two fair-haired deities, one male, one female, chatter idly with one another, the latter restringing a beautifully ornate bow.
Another god slouches in his cushioned chair, goblet in hand, peering down at the field through weighted eyelids.
My brows creep upward in surprise. Of those present at the welcome banquet, he was the most disruptive, having consumed multiple flagons of wine before the second course had been served.
I would never have guessed he was a member of the council.
Lastly, seated at the far end, almost like an afterthought, is a scrawny, disfigured man, his face etched in soot. Two of the dozen chairs are empty.
As someone settles onto the bench beside me, I glance over, then stare. “Demi?” I blink. “What are you doing here? Aren’t you competing?”
The goddess eases back with a snort, legs crossed, curves adorned in an elaborate violet gown more appropriate for a musical recital than bloodshed. “Gods, no. I know my strengths, though there’s nothing quite like watching the other deities have their entrails ripped out.”
This last comment she voices with great relish. I shift uncomfortably on the bench. “Surely you don’t mean that?”
Demi continues to monitor the field. “Why wouldn’t I? A little bloodshed never hurt anyone.”
What did I expect? We come from two separate realms, Demi and I. We may as well be fish and bird, stone and tree, sky and earth.
“I’ve already placed my bets,” she goes on, unaware of my internal turmoil. “My money’s on the Fates.”
“The who?”
She points to the red-headed trio. “Extremely vicious. They would be more than happy to hack up the competition. I do worry about some of the weaker participants though. Unfortunately, some will pay a steep price.”
Her ominous tone draws the hair along my arms to fine points. “What do you mean?”
“Only fifty contestants will make it to the next round. And I suspect a great many of those who don’t will die in the attempt.”
I knew the tournament could be deadly, but it sounds far more horrifying uttered aloud. “And you enjoy this?”
A half-hearted shrug, and she turns, leveling me with those pale, yellow eyes.
“Something you should know, Min from Marles. The divine grow bored quite easily. What better way to entertain ourselves—and increase the stakes for those participating—than to demand immortals fight for their lives, as mortals do?”
I shy away, if only to mask the repulsion twisting my features. The East Wind warned me of the gods. I elected not to listen. Moving forward, I must take care with who I interact with and in what capacity. Eurus was right. None can be trusted.
“I just…” My voice softens. “I didn’t think…”
“Well, what can you expect of those who live forever? We have seen all there is to see, accomplished all there is to accomplish. We are worshiped and adored, but even that loses its luster, in time.” Demi gestures toward the Council of Gods seated in the stands.
“Some enjoy the tournament more than others. Take Apollo, for example.” She points to the blond man seated beside the equally blonde woman.
“He does not savor the violence, but his twin sister loves it. Then again, she is a huntress.”
“Two of the chairs are vacant,” I observe.
She offers a vague hum of assent. “One of the council members is currently investigating the mortal everyone’s been talking about: Prince Balior.”
I straighten to attention. “What about him?”
“Well,” she says, foot bouncing as it hangs, “it seems that his power is somehow linked to the beast he travels with. Some worry he might be able to cross into the City of Gods. We haven’t much information, aside from that.”
“And—” I lick my lips. “Is this of concern to you?” Has Lady Clarisse involved herself in something far more insidious than I first believed?
“At the moment, no. But change is constant. First, we must see what this Prince Balior wants. There’s no point in dwelling on it until we receive more information. The investigation is ongoing. Thankfully,” she adds, gesturing to the field, “we have the tournament to keep ourselves occupied.”
Right. The tournament. As I scan the field for Eurus, Demi expounds on what the first trial will entail.
Open battle. Its purpose? To establish hierarchy.
Here, participants will divide the weak from the strong.
In the end, only fifty will move on to the second trial. The rest will be disgraced, or dead.
“I don’t see Eurus,” I say.
“Far right, love.”
There—a set of scaled wings. They expand and contract a few times, as if he is stretching the muscles in his back.
“How will he fare against the others?” I ask Demi, thinking this is a good opportunity to gather information.
One corner of her mouth slants into her cheek. “Don’t tell me you’re worried about him.”
I am less worried for his wellbeing and more concerned about going home. “I’m curious. Most of the participants carry weapons, but he carries none.”
“Eurus has his rage. That will fuel him. A banished god has much to prove.”
True—but she didn’t exactly answer my question. “Who do you think will be most difficult for Eurus to beat?”
The goddess purses her lips, considering each of the contenders. “The Fates—and Arin.”
Of all the immortals, Arin is one of the slightest, and one I have admittedly overlooked.
“Why Arin?” Even as I speak, I spot him below, positioned between two hulking brutes, each armed with no less than ten blades, their monstrous hands tipped with frightening claws.
Arin appears downright diminutive in comparison.
“He may be a lesser god, but do not underestimate him.” Her eyes flick to mine. “Arin will do anything to win.”
I understand that desperation, though I wonder what, exactly, is at stake for him. “What powers does he hold?”
“He has an affinity for the healing arts. That staff of his? It can heal all manner of illnesses. But it also has the power to draw the strength from one’s body, or even to insert an ailment into the bloodstream, though I have not witnessed it myself.”
“That’s…”
“Thrilling?” Demi’s eyes brighten with excitement. “I do love an underdog.”
As the lightning god pushes to his feet, a hush sweeps the stadium.
Demi, seemingly unconcerned, waves over a food vendor from one row behind and purchases two bags of roasted chestnuts—one for me, one for her.
I accept mine without complaint, too nauseated over the impending battle to rebuff her offer.
“One hundred and ten of you have gathered to make your stand,” the lightning god bellows, his voice booming throughout the arena. “Unfortunately, only fifty will move on to the next trial.”
At this, the audience stirs, an unease slinking through the creaking of benches and crunching of food concessions.
“Your objective,” he continues, lifting one of his crackling lightning bolts, “is to outlast the other competitors, who will fall by blade or power, weakness or blood loss, surrender or grievous wound. When we are satisfied that enough blood has been shed, we will open the door at the center of the arena and allow fifty of those still standing to pass through.”
As the announcement takes hold, I observe the participants checking and rechecking weapons, scanning those foes nearest to them.
Eurus assesses the Fates across the field.
The shortest of the trio wields a scythe.
The tallest brandishes a gleaming black whip.
The last bears no weapon, but brown leather wraps her knuckles, and her fiery hair has been braided in a crown across her skull.
With a sinking sensation in my gut, I realize that they, too, possess wings.
“You fight to claim something for yourself,” the lightning god roars, feeding the crowd’s growing frenzy. “You fight,” he says, “to win.”
A thunderous assent shakes the arena.
“Competitors, take your marks.”
As the Fates glide to the far side of the field, a short, stumpy god with a dented breastplate hobbles after them. An old injury in the leg? Already, he is at a disadvantage.
“Who are you betting on?” Demi asks eagerly.
I continue to watch Eurus, the bag of chestnuts crumpled inside my sweaty palms. They are all predators in the ring, but the East Wind’s lack of motion is particularly eerie, a stillness amongst the impatient and the keen.
He needs me—but I need him, too. He is both protector and captor, my only means of returning home. “Eurus, I guess.”
“A reliable choice.”