Chapter 16
I’m not getting kicked out of the tournament over a fingerprint.
When I return to the reception, I manage to endure forced conversations with a dozen others. And other than being awkwardly embraced without warning by one and snubbed by two others, the rest were decent. I snagged half of their fingerprints. By the time lunch is served, I’m still short four.
We’re moved from the indoor reception to a palace courtyard where there are simple games set up and more drinks. These are a deep purple color and very bitter. I set mine aside and link up with Mae.
“How many do you have left?” I ask her.
“I’m done.”
“What? How?”
She shows me her journal, and she has twenty-three! “I got one from each person I danced with. And then I found that Dorian guy and asked him for his.”
I blink. “Every person you danced with was someone you wanted to talk to again?” I got stuck with all the weirdos.
“I can hold a conversation with anyone,” she says. “I even refused a few requests.”
I tell her about how I went back and got Ronan’s, but how he isn’t a match for me.
Too much of a do-gooder, is the excuse I give her.
I also got one from the Stonebound who was sticking food in his pocket.
Orrick is his name. He traded me his fingerprint for a piece of bacon.
I’m pretty sure he is just here for the food.
Still, oddly, I could see myself talking to him again.
“Did they say when the elimination will be?” I ask.
“In a few hours, before dinner. Everyone who survives the cut will have dinner together over there.” She points at decorated tables on the far end of the courtyard with a picturesque view of the island.
A Citadel official draws our attention to the front, trailing through the throng of contestants with balls and wooden sticks in her hands.
“Line up here, everyone, with a partner.” The sticks are handed out, and what proceeds is the strangest game I’ve ever played.
We take turns, blindfolded, trying to follow their instructions to strike the ball, which is somewhere on the ground.
It’s supposed to build trust, they said, and explore if we have a natural connection.
But all it accomplishes is me getting frustrated by my teammate’s poor instructions and swinging my stick so hard I end up bashing someone in the shin.
My stick is taken away. My partner still offers me their thumbprint.
I take it because I’m desperate, but I have no intention of talking to Hershel or whatever his name is again.
More games with the sticks and balls follow.
Along with more bruises.
I manage to break someone’s spectacles by accident.
He refuses to give me his fingerprint. I can’t blame him.
My feet are stepped on so many times, I lose feeling in my toes.
I haven’t made many more friends or prospects.
I’m not sure if it’s because I find all this forced fun to meet and greet one another pathetic or if fate isn’t on my side and I am doomed to fail.
When Caelus finally joins the group he is promptly swarmed with people. I expected no less.
As the sun dips in the afternoon sky, the announcement comes. “Eliminations in twenty minutes!”
The crowd erupts in commotion. I thumb through my journal.
I need one more print. One. For a minute I’m stuck there wondering if asking Caelus is worth the risk.
No. I shouldn’t. We have to steer clear of each other.
I shift on my feet, trying to decide who to approach.
My shoulders are in a knot when I walk up to a contestant with burnished skin cracked from sun, lingering alone, watching some of the others play.
I clear my throat. He turns to look at me.
He doesn’t mention anything disgusting in the first few moments, nor does he smell. So far, this is going well.
“I’m Axira. Saltblood. A stick and a ball is so fun.” I’ve learned quickly that leading with my name and a statement instead of a question is a safe bet. It’s less pressure for them to respond if they’re nervous.
“Not interested,” he says before turning his back on me.
Okay, I take it all back. I’ve learned nothing from the humiliating last two hours of screwups and rejection.
I can scale the walls of a palace and rob someone under their nose, but I can’t convince someone to have a conversation with me.
This is going to end terribly. I tighten my fists, forcing myself to exhale.
Then, I approach someone else. A Stonebound.
“Hi—”
“I’m in the middle of a conversation,” he says. “Can’t you see that?”
No one is standing with him…literally no one. The closest person is dozens of paces away. I back away slowly. When I spot the black-bearded fellow whose glasses I shattered, I grab my chance. He at least played a game with me, before I became known as the person to avoid. Maybe I can salvage it.
“Hi, I’m really sorry about your glasses, Stephen.”
“It’s Sylvan.” He stuffs his calloused hands into his pockets.
“Sylvan!” My cheeks heat. His nose is bandaged. “A-and your nose.” I hit him harder than I realized. “I just, uh, wanted to see if you’d like to talk more? Before my stick caught you in the face, we were doing pretty well.”
To my relief, Sylvan smirks and rubs his nose. “Still hurts. But they have a salve that should heal it by morning. I’ll be alright.”
“I’m so glad.” I am. I really am. “Maybe we could sit together at dinner?” Maybe you can sign my journal and we never have to talk again? I can’t break his nose and betray him.
“How many prints do you still need?” he asks.
“One.”
His mouth tugs sideways. “Open up.”
I hand him my journal and watch with bated breath as he presses the finger that was just on his bandaged nose to my paper, just as the Citadel official calls for us to gather around.
We are lined up in rows and asked to present our journal.
Mercyenforcers look at the page and jab a thumb in either direction, muttering, “go” or “stay.” Like they’re choosing what trash to throw out and what to keep.
Dreth is back, managing the swelling group of those cut.
Some try to plead with the Mercyenforcer, explaining unconvincingly that they only needed a few more minutes or that there was someone else who was going to give them their fingerprint for sure, they just had to find them in the crowd.
But the guards don’t even entertain the protests with a response.
The contestants who are cut are now being put into restraints, their hands tied behind them.
“Wait, what’s happening?” Mae says beside me.
“I’m not sure. They didn’t commit any crimes.”
“Maybe they’re just trying to ensure they exit the palace in a civilized manner,” she says.
“Restrained?”
“I mean—” she says hesitantly. “People could get angry, right?”
But people are already angry. Shoving has started.
Someone falls to the ground and the others stumble over them, kicking them out of their way, arguing over one another, pointing blame.
Dreth and his men jab stingers at them to shut them up as Mae and I shuffle forward in line.
I know I have the required number, but I still show my journal with shaking hands when it’s my turn.
When he nudges me toward the contestants staying, I exhale.
Mae joins me, followed by Kade, the angry blond Talia, Stick Boy Orrick, and several others I recall from breakfast. When the mysterious Saltblood with a staring problem, Rhythe, stumbles through the line, the Mercyenforcer quirks a brow at his journal page.
But he hands it back to him and waves him through to our group.
When they are done, half of the contestants are gone. Half. Just like that.
And the first trial hasn’t even started.
Elimination wraps, and we’re ushered toward a long table that stretches the length of the stone courtyard, its linen cloth rippling like a pale tide beneath tall-stemmed silver glasses and dripping candles.
Bowls of stewed plums and roasted meats gleam beside green garlands and soft pink roses, their fragrance tangling like salt in the wind.
The sea unfurls in the distance, restless, like I feel.
I still can’t loosen my grip on my journal.
I have to pick someone to betray, and I’m no closer to figuring out who that should be.
We eat. Most of us. Kade doesn’t touch his plate. And Rhythe skips dinner, opting to go back to his room. Talia eats with her frenemy Lira. They whisper together over giant bowls of noodles, sitting directly across from me.
“Those two will have each other’s back,” Mae says beside me, scooping her soup into her mouth.
“We can have each other’s back,” I say.
“Not if you want the prince.” She shows me her journal where his thumbprint is.
“Why would I want the prince?”
“His father spared you. There’s a reason for that. Everybody’s been whispering about it all day.” Her brows bounce.
“The reason wasn’t Caelus.”
“Mm-hmm. I saw you leave the reception earlier, right before he left.” She slides a bite of food into her mouth, and I lose feeling in my hands. We have to be more careful, even sneaking around.
“Are you alright?” Mae asks.
“I’m fine. You’re just wrong about the prince.”
“Well, regardless, things have changed. He’s the prince.”
“If you want to win, pick someone else, Mae. Trust me.” I hope she can sense my earnestness. Betting on falling in true love with Caelus is a waste of her time. She will end up without a match or failing her trials and dead. “You deserve a real match. A good match.”
I massage my temples, the rough fabric of my gloves sliding against my face.
“You can tell me if you’re scoping the prince out for yourself.” She flips to a new page where we can take notes beside a long list of characteristics about each person we’re interested in exploring more one-on-one time with.
“Is that a joke?” I set mine aside.
“I’d understand. Can’t say I won’t go after him myself.
I might be more his type. But you can tell me.
You can always tell me.” She squeezes my arm.
There is a kindness in it. I don’t move away this time.
“Everyone expects you to be stiff competition,” she adds, fixing her chain at her mouth, which got caught on a bit of lettuce.
“I’m so ready to take this off, aren’t you? ”
“Sure.”
“Is there anyone you wanted to talk to but didn’t get a chance to?”
I could claw my eyes out at her persistence. “The veteran guy, maybe. Kade.” He’s the first person I see as I scan the room. He’s sitting alone, well out of earshot. Mae seems satisfied with the lie, finishing her food in silence.
By the time dinner is over, thanks to some well-positioned eavesdropping, it appears Talia and Lira are both here planning to find a match and try to win. I’d add Dorian to that list too, if he wasn’t drawing pictures in his journal.
Orrick, who still looks like he could use one more scrub, is sitting with Ronan and Finn.
Somehow his clothes have become disheveled and his hair looks like there could be branches and leaves growing in it.
Instead of writing in his journal as he eats dinner, he is ripping out the pages, folding them into different shapes.
But occasionally, he steals glances at the notes Finn and Ronan are making.
“Groups are forming,” I say.
“Looks like it.” Mae nudges me with her elbow playfully. “I was just giving you a hard time about the prince, by the way.”
“I’m being honest with you, Mae. I don’t want him. And neither should you.”
Her mouth puckers like I’ve just shared the juiciest gossip. “What do you know?”
“Nothing. I know nothing.” I like her, but the nicest thing I can do is keep her in the dark. My plate is hardly touched when the call for bedtime comes. The room rises, funneling toward the exit.
Wraith Girl Ivy passes behind me, watching me like a shadow, like she wants to say something to me.
I didn’t see her during the reception. I can’t read why she is here.
I’m not even sure how she got the required fingerprints.
Mae and I rise from the table and join the crowd filing out.
It’s time for our last sleep before the trials begin.
“Jace Gravemore,” a Citadel official shouts. “You’re needed up front, now.”
“Excuse me,” a grisly, bald Stonebound with boulders for arms snakes through the exit line. “Can I get through?”
Some move out of his way. Some watch him, scribbling in their notebooks.
“Tighten it up,” a Mercyenforcer urges, pushing the rear of the line to squeeze in, stand closer. “Not three feet. Not anymore.”
It’s as if the room forgets to breathe, the crowd shoving in tighter in a frantic tangle of limbs.
“I hope you sleep well,” Mae says as I lose her in the throng of contestants thinning at the mouth of the doors.
“You too.”
A body shifts on my right. I can feel them staring. I don’t have to look to know who it is. He moves closer.
“You won’t survive the first trial alone,” Rhythe says under his breath. “Find me, and the other Saltblood, when the first trial opens.”
I don’t respond. I don’t even look at him. But the walk to my room is haunted by his words. I’m not even close to picking someone to betray. Rhythe seems to think he knows what he’s doing.
Maybe it’s smart to start with some kind of alliance.